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Conception Things got too hot, you couldn’t stop your dams from breaking. Your swollen rivers, thick and thawed washed over me in white water tides. Then, those frozen tears you hold back out of hard habit melted, at last, and dripped down your round cheekbones to mix and mingle with our sweat that condensed on my chest until we collapsed together sobbing but safe now with nothing left. It really could be like that: Tension, friction, and life-giving release. Tsunamis, floods, hurricanes, pain, passion, volcanic eruption. A seed settling into shuddering stillness, the moment of a new world’s conception. Jade and Other Jewels Back behind an abandoned brothel, half-way between Mina, nowhere, and Tonopah, Nevada, ghosts chase magpies through the mist. Ghosts don’t like the colors of magpie feathers because they reflect the history of this land. Black and blue are the beatings they took. White, the blank space they wish would replace all the green feathers that remind them of the age-old quest for jade and other jewels that killed them. That’s why if you watch magpies eat the dead, they’ll haunt you until you become a hollow bone instead of a soft circle of skin. Skin doesn’t shatter. But life, like water, flows through bones better and flesh, in the end, always rots if it isn’t eaten by magpies before the ghosts in the mist chase them all away. Stillborn Yolk The mockingbird cannot read other people’s poetry. She mimics their songs. But only to prove she can, indeed, sing. It does not matter, she thinks, who sings it better: the poet or her or the wind through the tree she perches in. When her speckled babies crack and stillborn yolk spills out, any sound is better than true silence, empty and dead, or the incessant gnaw of insatiable chainsaws with scrambled egg on their face. Taking Coyotes Seriously I was so lost I found myself out there in the sagebrush taking coyotes seriously. Their instructions involved smoothing the sand out, sifting through the dirt with my fine-toothed hands, searching for bones shattered by cavalry carbine bullets, unspeakable tragedies still unspoken, and stories no one would tell me. I blew on the earth, trying to rekindle the sparks of the desert’s memories. Nothing happened. You cannot get blood from stone, but I hoped desert soil was different. Turns out, when spilled blood soaks into soil, it doesn’t give it back. And why wouldn’t desert soil be a lot like us? Somethings no one ever wants to remember. Silver Spoons Stabbed in the back by silver spoons wielded by those who care more about table manners than the famine. They spoon-feed themselves on what they find in my heart. They take more than that, finally scraping my ribs clean of my last inclination to resist. Flashfloods toss my skeleton like whale bones in a hurricane into slot canyons where the long conversations of tectonic plates grind me into salt to spice the soil. It's only when I sink into earth that I learn betrayal is nothing new under the sun. I feel the knife in each skyscraper, oil well, and open pit mine. I hear each degree Celsius climb the thermometer's mercury ladder to the tune of clinking silver pieces. But the worst pain of all is the way some of her children sell her out to declare her pain, pleasure and her pleasure, pain. They think smog makes the sunset more beautiful. They cut off mountains they decide shouldn't be there. They tell rivers where to go. They capture freely given sunshine, yoke the wind, and divide what should have always been indivisible. They say they are color blind while seeing only in black and white. Their treachery began when they forgot that clean water always quenches your thirst. Now, they hallucinate the queerest of theories: that which can be transgressed must be transgressed. Will Falk is an activist, author, and attorney. The natural world speaks and poetry is how Will listens. His law practice is devoted to helping Native American communities protect their sacred sites and cultural resources. His first full-length collection of poetry When I Set the Sweetgrass Down was published by Homebound Publications' Wayfarer Books in April 2023. You can follow his work at willfalk.org.

When Chloe came home from school she spotted another pile of romance novels by the side of her mother’s chair. She picked one up from the top of the pile. ‘So…  has Nurse Goody-Two-Shoes married Dr Truelove, yet?’ she grinned. Her mother rolled her eyeballs, and continued basting the roast. At dinner time Chloe’s father’s plate resembled Mount Vesuvius. The Yorkshire pudding on top of his pile of mashed potatoes looked ready to explode. After dinner he lay on the sofa, snoring and farting while, against this familiar cacophony, Chloe tried to do her maths homework and her mother tried to read her book. ‘Tell him to go to bed to sleep,’ Chloe whispered. Her mother sighed and turned a page. The next evening as her father pushed away his cleared plate, stood up, belched, farted, loosened his belt and wandered into the living room, preparing to lie down on the sofa, Chloe’s mother called after him, suggesting he go to bed. He’d be so much more comfortable in bed, she said. To Chloe’s surprise, he complied without arguing for once. When he was out of the room Chloe asked her mother what on earth had attracted her to him in the first place. Her mother closed her book and smoothed her hand over the front cover which showed a young doctor and nurse in uniform gazing at each other. ‘He was very slim back then,’ she said. ‘Athletic. Tall. Blond hair and lovely blue eyes. Nice manners.’ ‘So… what happened?’ ‘Not long after we met he left to join his ship to fight in the war.’ She opened her book. ‘I saw him off at the docks. He looked so handsome in his naval uniform. While he was away he wrote the most beautiful love letters. Really romantic. Five years later, when the war ended, he came home and we got married.’ A long pause.  ‘But he was different. Well, that was quite a common occurrence back in those days. The war you know.’ She turned a page. ‘And he found it hard to hold down a job.’ Chloe sat at the table and opened her maths book. She closed her eyes and thought of Sean, Captain of the school rugby team. His flaxen hair. His periwinkle eyes. His square jaw and muscular body. She thought of how he’d asked her this morning to help him with his maths homework and how she’d ended up doing it all for him because he couldn’t understand any of it and she thought of the way he’d winked at her and how it had made her melt all the way down to her toes and she thought of how he’d joked that she could do all his maths homework from now on if she liked and she thought of how the other girls in her class stared at her, jealousy written all over their usually smug faces. She wondered what Sean would look like in a couple of decades. Not that he was likely to go away to war. Would there even be a war in the future? She thought again of his flirty smile. His twinkling eyes. She wondered what kind of job he’d get when he couldn’t even do basic maths. She heard her mother sigh and turn another page. Chloe opened her eyes. She opened them wide. Sandra Arnold’s work includes her two 2023 published books The Bones of the Story, Impspired Books, UK and Where the Wind Blows, Truth Serum Press, Australia and her 2019 books The Ash, the Well and the Bluebell, Mākaro Press, NZ; Soul Etchings, Retreat West Books, UK. Her short fiction has been published internationally and received nominations for The Best Small Fictions, Best Microfictions and The Pushcart Prize. She has a PhD in Creative Writing from Central Queensland University, Australia. www.sandraarnold.co.nz

had this addiction, was shooting pure gold into washed-out veins while i kissed his wife in the back seat, and he kept driving down the same dead-end streets, past the same barren factories kept saying he’d know the truth when he saw it words wrapped in blinding flame and each letter laid down as big as the fist of god John Sweet sends greetings from the rural wastelands of upstate NY. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in compassionate nihilism which, as luck would have it, has all the best bands. His published collections include NO ONE STARVES IN A NATION OF CORPSES (2020 Analog Submission Press) and THERE’S ONLY ONE WAY THIS IS GOING TO END (Cyberwit, 2023).

There is the grind of grief and there is also the rising. Yes he had a mother too, as everyone does. What can it mean to have a mother, to lose a mother, to arrive in probate court with a mustache. When I stand beside a river’s wet bank do I leap in or do I slither. My mother would have asked me to lower my voice, or that’s how I think of her. Really the last thing she asked was through gritted teeth: end it quickly. As always I was helpless and for once I followed the rules. In my dreams she visits I never remember the context only that she was here. Ms. Sultani earned her MA in Library and Information Studies from the University of Wisconsin- Madison. She currently resides in the metro Atlanta area, where she does her best to avoid the freeways. Her poems are included or forthcoming in CERASUS, Delta Poetry Review and Doubly Mad, among others.

He came to in an instant, like someone flipped a breaker. Sitting up, he looked around wondering where he was. This thought led him to question who he was and what he had been doing. He couldn’t remember anything. Upon standing, he realized he was a part of an assembly line within a warehouse or maybe a distribution center. Thousands of square feet spread before him filled with conveyors, sorters, and storage racking. Massive ceiling fans spread the scent of gun oil and raw metal. A cacophony of constant motion filled the space and he could hear the click-clack sounds of parts being snapped together. The pick rack behind him held coffin boxes of rifles. To his left a baker’s rack stored pre-filled ammunition clips. This was a munitions factory. His role, apparently, entailed picking a gun, inserting a clip, and sending it down the conveyor for pack in a palletized wooden box. Further down, forklifts ran, picking up full pallets and delivering empties. His lack of productivity slowed the line but didn’t stop it thanks to others sharing the line. Taking action, he instinctively picked a gun, swiveled, loaded a clip, and dropped it on the conveyor. It felt right. In his disorientation, anything that felt normal relieved him. He grabbed another. Metallic tapping drew his attention above. An armed woman strolled along a catwalk. “Hey, who am I?” No reaction. Catwalk-woman wore orange noise protectors. He moved to the worker next to him. “Hey, who am I?” His line partner did not respond, just continued working without acknowledgement. “WHO AM I?” he screamed surprisingly loud, over the clamoring machinery. No one noticed. Everyone along the line ignored his cry. He used the butt of his gun to tap his counterpart on the shoulder. “Seriously, I’m scared. Was it exhaustion? Did I pass out?” Nothing. He tapped harder, interrupting the picker. “I can’t remember anything. Is there a medical station? Come on. Who am I?” The stranger remained silent, then resettled and went back to work. “Who am I?” he screamed again and swung the gun full force at the picker’s head. With a crunch the head caved in and he toppled backward pulling a rack of clips down in the process. The body remained still as clips covered it and hit the floor with a CLANG. Some released their loads and brass casings rolled across the floor. “I just want to know who I am.” On auto-pilot, he picked up a full clip and slid it home into the gun. He was about to place it on the conveyor when the click-click of catwalk footfalls distracted him. He shouted up, “Who am I?” and shook the gun at the woman above to get her attention. Still wearing noise protection, she hadn’t heard the call, but she saw the figure shaking a gun like an extremist, she ran toward a grey box on a pole further down the catwalk. Seeing her run, he jerked his gun up and fired two three-round bursts. Two rounds found their target. One ripped through her knee tearing patella and bone fragments out the front as it exited in a ragged hole. The other round pierced her back, the impact rupturing a kidney. She fell on her good knee, but reached the box. She reached and pressed a red button in the center of the console. Speakers began blaring “Killer! Killer! Killer!” Sirens wailed. The alarm shrieked over the noise of the warehouse, but the workers did not look up. Each of them remained focused on their assigned task. No reaction at all. Seized by fear he froze for a moment until he saw four more people—guards called by the alarm—running toward him from the far side of the catwalk with weapons drawn. He looked down the aisle of picking racks and spied a door at the end.  He bolted for the door, fleeing like a rabbit. As he reached for the handle it burst open knocking him backward. His legs tangled and he went ass over teakettle landing on his back facing the door, where four guards crowded through at once. He could see fear on their faces mirroring his own. “Wait!” he yelled scrabbling backward. Two guards fired their weapons. He held his arms up, holding out the gun to ward off the shots. They missed wide. He noticed they weren’t bullets—like his gun—but rather odd blue balls of energy that left black marks on the floor and a scent of ozone in the air. He reversed his gun and fired. The bodies were so bunched in the doorway he hit the guards by pure accident. He didn’t want to hurt anyone just wanted to scare them off to escape. In that spirit, he turned and ran down a hall to his left. He passed rows of shelves and pallets of more guns. As he reached a ladder leading up to another catwalk, he saw a far door swing open and more guards pour into the hallway. Trapped. He climbed. Higher and higher toward the raised platform. But he saw more of them up there. “No,” he whispered and fired up toward the opening to clear a path. Bullets whizzed off the metalwork hitting no one. The gun clicked empty. He dropped it. Watching it fall he saw guards ascending after him now. He started climbing again and saw heads poke through the opening above. Then, the heads were replaced by guns. “Please! Don’t shoot.” He looked up and down pleading. “I just want to know who I am.” They fired. Energy from the weapons racked his body with shocking pain. His vision dimmed and he felt himself release the ladder. # Roberto Gonzales—Bobby G—watched the doors slam on the maintenance van. After being an on-site guard for two years he felt like an old pro. “One of ‘em turns killer every now and again,” Bobby said. “I don’t get it man,” Jasmine replied, brow furrowed. “Did you hear what it said? Askin’ who it was, right?” “Yeah, think so.” “Right see. It almost seemed human, talkin’ like that. I’m thinkin’ they’re makin’ these ‘bots too good.” After the repair truck left, they headed back to finish their shift. Brandon Doughty is a writer of lists, notes and fiction. His stories have been seen in publications like Punk Noir, Black Petals, Yellow Mama, Aethlon: Journal of Sports Literature, and the new crime anthology Crimeucopia: Totally Psycho Logical. Brandon lives in Austin, TX with his wife, two children and their dog Ripley.

Nothing quenches the fire in my blood: the way your body moves fans the embers of desire, and your whispered sweetnesses are an irresistible accelerant. For you - or to have you - or if I lost you - I would burn the world to ashes, then watch you rise above, sweet phoenix. Alastair Millar enjoys good books, bad puns, coffee and travelling. Links to his social media and published writing can be found at https://linktr.ee/alastairmillar

Mackinac Island - Week Four - 2004 Sunday The staff dining room walls were the color of cooked egg yolk, the floors a hospital white. Sterile, bland, and unimagined, it was a stark contrast to the parts of the hotel visible to guests with lavender walls, emerald carpets, and floral wallpaper. The building came alive for our customers; admittedly, so did we. Chef stood at the banquet table arranging platters of food. He always prepared the specials for family dinner. If we didn’t eat them, we’d be pulled from the shift. It was partly about control, partly about making sure we could sell the most expensive dishes. I didn’t mind. It was my way of staying well-fed. I reached for a plate just as his dry, calloused hand wrapped around my wrist. I recoiled and yanked my arm back, but he didn’t let go. My skin pulled between his fingers. “Enjoy,” he growled. His lips, pink and chapped, glistened with either sweat or spit beneath his charcoal mustache. He leaned in. He lingered. “Thank you,” I whispered, wriggling free. He returned to the kitchen, and I looked at the group with a shrug. “The fuck?” said Peter. I stared at my wrist. He hadn’t left a mark, but I could still feel his skin on mine. * We savored the coffee until the last of it was poured, then dripped into the dining room for side work. Chef called to me from the bulletin board. “What’d you think of the food?” “Yeah, it was good,” I replied, stopping just beyond his reach. His mustache was freshly trimmed, his teeth polished white, but when he smiled, I could see they were crooked and chipped in the front. He pointed at the schedule on the corkboard, “we’ll continue to see a lot of each other next week.” “Oh yeah?” “Extra shifts. I thought you might like the money. It’ll go up in a couple of days.” “Oh.” I hadn’t realized he made the server schedules. “Right. Thank you for that.” He looked me over with a smirk as he returned to the line, shouting at the cooks to finish prepping the asparagus. I scurried past him to join Peter at the side station. “Chef is so strange,” I moaned. “Bonafide whackjob, but don’t screw this up. Befriend the chef and you’ll have the easiest summer of your life, and so will I…by extension.” He nudged me and giggled before handing me a handful of forks to polish. * Ted’s Place was the only bar off Main Street that didn’t require a reservation, so it filled up quickly and hummed until last call. Small and dimly lit by scattered neon signs, Glam Metal pulsed from the jukebox in the corner, even though we could barely hear it, and intermingling bodies ushered waves of flowery perfume and sandalwood and Coppertone. Rich people never smell like sweat. Ted was pouring us a line of tequila shots when we walked in, and by the time the last person had a glass in hand, Peter had already had at least two. I obliged with the first, but the warmth of my bed summoned, so I waved at Peter as he raised another shot into the air and howled. Outside, the heaviest rain from the day’s storm had ended, but mist continued to spray like the wake of a distant boat, spitting from every direction. I draped the hood of my raincoat over my ponytail, though it did little to keep me dry, and looked down as I hurried my steps. I wasn’t paying attention when I collided with him. “I’m so sorry,” I said quickly, lifting my head. “Leaving so soon?” It was Chef. I stepped back, widening the breadth between us. My heartbeat quickened. “I’m lunch shift tomorrow, so I want to rest up.” “Lunch isn’t breakfast. I was hoping we could talk a little tonight. Get to know each other.” He seemed unbothered by the water pellets forming in his hairline, and he stepped closer. His breath, sour and warm, mingled with the thick, heavy air and wafted against my skin. “I appreciate that. Maybe another night.” “Maybe we need to take you off doubles so you can have more fun at night.” I shivered even though I wasn’t cold. “That’s not necessary. I’m glad to do it. I need the money.” He stepped closer, even as I moved further away, and he leveled his eyes with mine. “With a face like yours, you aren’t going to have any trouble making money.” I pulled the hood over my forehead, almost covering my eyes, and stepped around him. My breathing quickened, and I worried I might vomit. “I really should get going. See you tomorrow,” I said as I started to jog. “Looking forward to it!” My feet moved faster and faster until I was running. I ran as fast as I could up that wet hill, splashing and sliding over the pavement, wondering if I should tell someone. But what was there to tell? Monday Chef shouted my name as I passed through the kitchen. I tightened my grip around my pen, and my fingernails carved into my palm. “You know the specials?” He leaned on his heels like a schoolgirl with a secret, his hands clasped behind his back. “I do.” They were the same as last shift. “Can you describe them?” I tilted my head and pursed my lips. “Of course I can.” He chuckled and removed one hand from behind his back, taking my wrist and holding my hand open. I wondered which one of us was sweating as my palm dampened, and I shifted on my feet. His grip tightened, holding me still before handing me a plum-like object. “That’s a fig. It’s one of the rarest known figs in the world and more expensive than anything you’ve had to eat all day. All week, probably.” I turned it over in my hand, wondering what he wanted me to do with it. “Try it,” he whispered. I knew others were watching us now. I needed to indulge him to end the moment and get into the dining room, to be anywhere but near him. “Just take a bite? Right into it?” He nodded and grabbed my wrist to guide the fig to my lips, but I jerked back and shook his hand away. Clear from his grasp, I bit into its flesh. He stepped forward and placed his hand on my elbow. “These were special ordered, and that one was ordered just for you.” He rubbed my arm and continued, “There’s so much I have to teach you. There’s so much for us to experience together.” I felt sick. The fig tasted bitter as I pulled it from my lips, and he held out his hand to take it from me. “Don’t tell anyone about this. I don’t want anyone to get jealous, but I’ll have more treats for you tomorrow.” He turned to the line and shouted something about the crab, and I was left standing in the middle of the kitchen. Alone. * “The hell was that about?” Peter asked. He leaned against the side station pinching a white linen cloth around the rim of a wine glass. “You saw that?” “Honey. Everyone saw that. You were in the middle of the kitchen.” “Peter, I don’t know. Something isn’t right.” “Tell me you’re not into him.” “You’re kidding.” “I hope so! But I don’t know! You two, all huddled up, whispering sweet nothings…” Bile rose in my throat. “It’s not like that.” “Baby, with that little show you just put on, everyone is talking. And you better get your shit together ‘cause that’s how you make enemies in a place like this. And believe me, you do not want enemies here.” He smacked the cloth against my thigh and left to check the reservations. I jumped, startled to be touched again. * I tried to explain the situation at Ted’s. I told the other servers I wasn’t encouraging it, that I wanted it to stop, but I knew they were skeptical. Chef leered at the rest of them, shouting insults at how they stacked their trays, but he’d offer to load mine. Peter wrapped his arm around me and called me his little hussy before leaving to flirt with a handsome blonde. I hoped that as long as I had him the rest of the staff would come around, but I worried that because Peter and I were so close, they might think his pet name was true. Epithets become titles so effortlessly. Tuesday It was another double shift. The back room and patio had been booked for an all-day reception, and I was assigned to it with Jessica, a tall brunette with plump lips and ice-blue eyes. She didn’t smile much, but she was so beautiful that the guests were grateful to accept their plates from her. We shared every table, all responsibilities, and Chef was on his best behavior. When the last guest had left, Jessica and I observed the dining room. Crayon and chimichurri sauce and some sort of vinaigrette were swirled over the top of the white linen tablecloths like an edible homage to Van Gogh. Wine glasses lay on their sides, and soda glasses were packed with soggy bread, limp French fries and torn pieces of paper. Fragments of food crunched beneath our feet as we surveyed the damage. People can be disgusting. “Salvage what you can,” the manager said. So that’s what we did. We stacked the dishes onto the trays, piling the silverware against the outer rims, and shook the napkins over the plates. The napkins could be saved, but only two of the twelve tablecloths had survived. We created a mound on the laundry room floor and left it to housekeeping to determine how to discard anything unusable. Jessica and I didn’t speak. Speaking required energy, and we were too tired to expend what we had left on conversation; our weary glances and sighs said more than words could, anyway. When we finally finished, we entered the kitchen to gather our things, and Chef stood next to the island with a bowl of pasta in his hands. “Hungry?” I was ravenous. I took it and thanked him, not pausing to think about what he, or Jessica, or anyone would think. “You worked hard today,” he said, following me into the staff dining room. “You should be proud of yourself. What do you have left to do? Why don’t you relax and I’ll finish up.” I smiled and grabbed two forks from the service station. “I’m all finished, but thank you. And thank you for this.” I kicked my shoes onto the floor and folded my legs beneath me, sinking into a chair with a sigh. Jessica passed the doorway, and I shouted for her to join me. Chef appeared just as she sat down. “I made that for you,” he barked. “No, I know,” I said slowly, handing Jessica a fork. “But there’s so much here and we’re both so hungry.” My voice cracked at the end, a betrayal of my nerves. His arms were tense at his sides, and his mouth pulled down in the corners. His eyes were almost impossible to see beneath his caterpillar brow, and he said nothing as he watched Jessica twirl forkfuls of pasta. She oscillated glances between us. “This is really good, Chef,” she offered, breaking the silence. He didn’t reply. He wasn’t looking at her anymore because he was locked on me, and I stared into the food in front of me until he walked away. * Peter was eager to inquire about the pasta when I got to Ted’s. I didn’t bother asking what he’d been told. I already knew. His grin was too wide. His eyes were too delighted. It was too scandalous. “It’s not ideal,” I admitted, “this whole thing. I don’t even know how it started. It’s not like I’m doing anything.” “Just wait until you do,” he laughed. I groaned and pretended to vomit as his eyes turned toward the door. “Heads up,” he said, standing to join a group at the jukebox. Chef was walking toward me. I wanted to ask Peter to stay, but I hadn’t told him how scared I was. I worried he wouldn’t understand. Chef favored me, that much was clear, but he hadn’t threatened me. He hadn’t hurt me. I wondered if I was overreacting. So I let him leave, straightened my back, and stared at the bar top as Chef sat down next to me. “You know, if I wanted to make Jessica dinner, I would have made her a plate.” I nodded. A conversation was unavoidable. “You have next Wednesday off.” “Do I?” I hadn’t checked to see if the new schedule was up. “You do. I made sure of it because I do, too. I thought we’d get off the island for the day and go to the Farmer’s Market. I was there last week, and it’s got some really great stuff. It’s a nice drive, too. A ways out into nothing.” I ran my fingers over the fibers of the coaster. One side was wet and blistered, the other flat and soft like fabric. I turned it to the lumpy side and pressed on the bubbles, keeping my hands busy to hide how intensely they were shaking. It didn’t work. “I think I might be picking up a shift for Toni,” I lied. “She can find someone else. As your boss, I can say when I want you working–and when I don’t. Blame it on me.” “Oh no, I couldn’t do that to her. We already agreed to it.” His stare burned into me, then through me. My heart thumped in my throat. “She won’t mind. I already made the arrangements and told them.” “You told who?! What arrangements?” My voice was shrill. “Everyone at the restaurant. I told them I would be going away on Wednesday night.” I didn’t understand. “Night?” His mouth curled into a crooked, broken-toothed smile. “See…now you get it. It’ll be so nice. Let Toni find someone else.” He leaned in, and I stood and stepped behind my stool. “I can’t do that.” “You can, and you will,” he growled. “Stop being such a pussy and have some fun.” I blinked and steadied myself against the stool. The cells of my skin crawled over and slid around each other. “We seem awfully serious over here,” sang Peter as he stepped up behind me. My throat constricted, and my eyes welled with tears. I wrapped my fingers around his forearm and asked him to pull up a chair. He studied my face as he placed a stool between Chef and me. We were a tight triangle, and I sat back down. I didn’t want to stay. But I was terrified to leave. “How’s it go–.” “We’re in the middle of something,” Chef spat. Peter smiled, continuing to search my face. “There’s always room for one more, right? You were crazy busy today, huh?” Before I could answer, Chef leaned in and snarled, “What don’t you understand? We’re having a conversation that doesn’t concern you. If you don’t get outta here you’re gonna have a real problem.” Peter looked at me. He understood. “You want to come sit with the rest of the group?” “We’re not done here,” Chef said. His elbow was on the bar. The edges of a napkin stuck out from between his fingers. “You know what, I’m really tired,” I said, standing. “I think I’m just gonna go.” Chef pounded his fist on the bar top. “I said we’re not done!” I looked down and saw the napkin he’d been holding crumpled next to his glass. His fingers now wrapped around my arm. My skin between them was white. “Oh, but I think we are, right? Done here?” Peter stood and put his hand beneath my arm. When Chef’s grip broke, we left. Outside, my knees trembled, and sweat matted the hair to the back of my neck. “Maybe he’s just having a bad night,” Peter said. I looked at my feet and kicked the pebbles beneath them. Maybe I was inflating everything in my mind. Peter had just witnessed it but didn’t seem overly concerned. “Yeah, maybe.” “Can I walk you home?” I didn’t want to give Chef a reason to retaliate against him, so I told him I was fine. Peter went back into the bar, and I went home alone. Even the crickets made me jump. Wednesday Early in the afternoon, the sun beckoned eager children to the shore with their parents in tow, and the streets hummed with shoppers. The restaurant was quiet, so I cleaned anything I could find, knowing the guests would arrive when their skin was sufficiently baked and their bellies were sufficiently empty. I stood at the service sink when his hand wrapped around my forearm. His skin was rough like sandpaper. I hadn’t heard him come in. “Come with me.” He knocked the cloth from my hand and pulled me into the pantry, shoving me against the wall behind the industrial fan. The blades created a loud, persistent whir that echoed off the cement walls and the metal shelving. All other sounds were erased. He stood in front of me and curled his hands over my shoulders. I lifted my arms to push him off, but he took my wrists and forced them to my sides. I pressed the back of my head against the cinder blocks behind me, praying they’d soften and pull me in, but the wall remained upright, coarse and cold. He leaned in, his chest rose and fell against mine. “Look at me.” His eyes were black and incensed, frenzied with adrenaline, and beads of sweat were forming in the creases of his forehead. I knew he felt my heart pounding against him as his mouth curled into a wicked smile. I wanted to yell, to shriek for help, but my tongue was too heavy. I was paralyzed with fear. “It’s been arranged,” he hissed. “What’s--,” he brought his finger to my lips and shook his head to silence me. “Not until I’m finished.” His breath poured over my skin in putrid waves of onions and sweat. I held my breath. “You’re coming off this island with me next Wednesday. I don’t know if we’re staying overnight. Pack a bag just in case.” “But I–.” “Do I look finished?” He shook my wrists and pressed his body harder against mine, almost as if he wanted to make sure I felt the weight of him. He looked at the open door and then back to me. Bristly ends of his mustache rubbed against my cheek, and his hands tightened around my wrists. My hands tingled. “No one will know about this,” he leveled his eyes with mine. “Do you understand?” I nodded. “Do…you…understand?” “I understand.” I could barely whisper. He smacked his lips and brought his mouth to my ear. “I’m going to treat you like no one’s treated you. And if you tell anyone about this,” he paused and sucked in my scent, “I’ll know. You understand? I’ll know.” Releasing me, he grinned and strode to the door. “Wait to come out until I’ve been out there a while. I don’t want anyone to think we’ve been inappropriate in here.” He whistled as he walked away. I placed my hand over my mouth to stifle any sounds, but I knew, even if I wailed, no one could hear me. I slid down the wall and hugged my legs to my chest. My mind was blank with panic as tears dripped to my knees. After a few minutes, I stood and gathered myself, brushing the dust from my pants and the wetness from my face and worked quickly and quietly for the rest of the night. I was in the kitchen only when absolutely necessary and went back to the apartment when the shift was over, vowing to handle it in the morning. I slept poorly, tossing and turning as I tried to forget the feeling of Chef’s hot breath on my skin, his fingers around my wrists, his body pressed against mine. Thursday I rose with the sun and went to the cafe, but it was closed for another hour. Sitting on the dock, I dangled my feet over the water and stared at my phone. I wanted to call Mom, but I didn’t want to worry her. She’d been through enough and was seven hundred miles away piecing her life back together. It felt selfish to interfere with that. Dad was a four-hour drive. Even if he and I didn’t like one another very much, I was still his daughter. I assumed that meant he’d have to help. The phone rang twice before he sang a happy and familiar hello on the other end. “Dad?” My voice trembled. “Hi, munchkin.” My shoulders relaxed. He sounded pleased to hear my voice. “I...I think I’m in trouble.” “What do you mean, ‘trouble?’” I told him about the advances, the touches, the meals, and the demands. “I don’t know what he wants from me, but I’m afraid of what’s going to happen if I go off this island with him. I’m also afraid of what’s going to happen if I don’t.” There was a long pause before Dad replied, “well, Pumpkin, I don’t really know what it is you want me to do here. You need to be firm, hold your position, and tell him you aren’t going anywhere with him.” His voice was flat, direct. “I tried that, Dad. It didn’t do anything.” He sighed, sounding exhausted and bored. “Well, dear, there comes a time when you need to be an adult and handle your own situations. Don’t be ambiguous about your response. Just tell him no.” “He attacked me in the pantry! It doesn’t feel like I have much of a choice here, Dad…I’m scared.” “Are you sure you’ve been as clear as you think you’ve been? Maybe there’s a chance that you’ve behaved in a way that…well…that made him think he had the go-ahead. You do that, you know. You have a way.” A way. I felt sick. He thought I’d somehow asked for Chef’s behavior. That somehow I had welcomed it. My own father believed me to be naturally wrong, and innately inappropriate. “I’m not some whore.” “Don’t be dramatic. I’m just saying that sometimes you act in ways that project a message I don’t think you intend to send.” I closed my eyes to keep the tears from falling. They snuck out anyway. “I shouldn’t have called.” We didn’t speak again for four months. I felt worthless, like a napkin to be used, crumpled, and discarded, and I hated myself and him and all the Hims who had come before, each one chipping away, molding me into this pathetic thing that couldn’t protect herself. * I met Toni at the bulletin board, and she was happy to swap shifts. I offered her my Friday; a wedding reception was scheduled. “You sure?” she asked. “Yeah. I’d just rather Wednesday.” When I entered the kitchen, Chef stepped in front of me, proud to announce that the new schedule was up. “I know. I saw. I switched with Toni for Wednesday. I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to go.” My breath was slow, my voice strong, and my fists were in my apron pocket, my nails carving half moons into my skin. His eyes narrowed and he straightened his back. “Switch back.” “I can’t do that.” “I’m not canceling our plans. Find someone to fill in.” “I’m not going to do that. Maybe you can find someone else to go with.” I felt sweat in my hairline. His face reddened, and he stepped closer, challenging me to look away. I didn’t, and after a while, he returned to the line. I wondered if maybe Dad had been right. Maybe I just needed to stand my ground. * The shift was unremarkable. The tables were steady; the food was quick, and no one complained. I was in the kitchen sometime in the middle of service when a metallic bang rang out behind me. It reverberated off the hard kitchen walls in swells until there was only silence. The room was stunned and electrified all at once. I spun around to find Chef at the line with a butcher’s knife clenched in his fist and his eyes locked on me. The blade had gone through the center of a butcher block, piercing the steel table beneath it, and his knuckles were white. “If it wasn’t okay…” he heaved, “you shouldn’t have fucking said it was okay!” His voice echoed around the room. The staff stared at me, then at him, then back at me, and the fluorescent light shone down on me like a spotlight. I stood dumbfounded in the center of the kitchen, my mouth drifting open, my body shaking. “Hey, you alright?” Peter touched my arm. I jumped and caught the dessert I was holding just before it toppled. Chef glared at me, his chest rising and falling quickly, and Peter took my hand. “Come on.” I nodded and walked with him, and as we left, Chef yelled at the cooks for being too slow. Peter wrapped his arms around me once we were in the dining room. “What the fuck happened?” “It’s too much. It’s just gone too far,” was all I could say. Everyone was quiet for the rest of the night. No one was unaffected. After clocking out, I went back to my apartment and called Mom. I didn’t want to bother her with it, but I was afraid that if I stayed, I might not make it to her at the end of the summer. “I’m coming,” was all she said. I slept with the lights on. Friday I went to the cafe in the morning and sat at the corner table, tracing my fingers along the sailboat carved into its worn oak top. The grooves of the mast above and the waves below had dulled, their edges smoothed by time and people and things. Fragments of paint hinted at the color that once filled their indentations, and I wondered how long it had taken to wipe the gold from the sun and the blue from the sea. What had it taken to erase the beautiful thing it had been? My phone rang. I splashed my coffee over the carving, and I swore at my clumsiness and my nervousness. And me. “I have a flight. I’ll be there tomorrow morning at eleven. Meet me at the airport,” Mom said. “Okay.” “There’s a lot to do, so I have to run, but be safe. I’ll be there soon.” Maybe I wasn’t overreacting. If she was flying from Connecticut, maybe I was right. Maybe I was in danger. There was one thing left to do. * The receptionist took me into a small room in the back. It was intimate and bright and away from the noise of the comings and goings in the lobby. Four mocha, leather chairs sat around a glass coffee table, and a white vase embraced white roses at its center. Egg white walls were untarnished by pictures or paintings. The room was pure. The three owners glided in shortly after me. Long, delicate, and lean, they looked like they’d been picked straight from the garden; silky, pastel suits draped over their dewy skin. I tugged at a string from a hole in my jeans and tucked the stained edge of my t-shirt into my waistband, acutely aware that I was a smudge, a blemish, on the room. “What can we do for you this morning, Sarah?” I took a deep breath. “I want to say how much I’ve enjoyed it here. What you have is something really special, but some things have happened, some big things, and I need to leave. I’ll have my shifts covered for today, but I leave tomorrow.” “Why do you need to leave?” the youngest asked. She was direct, not unfeeling but not unbothered, either. “I can’t stay. It’s not possible,” I paused, waiting to see if maybe they already knew what I was about to say, but if they did, they offered nothing. They were stoic. “It started out fine, I guess…”. I explained the events of the prior three weeks, and as I spoke, my words got faster and my sentences got longer; I tried to stop and take a breath but couldn’t, and my hands swatted at the air, acting out the words. I accidentally knocked my water bottle off the coffee table, jarring them into movement, but I didn’t slow down. When I finished, I sat back in the chair and took a sip of the water, grateful the lid had been on tight. My hands trembled. I knew they noticed. “Why are you bringing this to us now?” I didn’t have a good response. “I guess I thought I could handle it, or I was worried that you might not believe me. He’s my boss.” They shook their heads and responded in unison, “he is not.” “I’m sorry. I thought he was. He makes the schedule and orders us around. It felt like he was in charge. He even told me he was my boss, that he controlled when we worked and what we did…all of it.” “He is not. And besides, we instructed all of you to come to us with anything on the very first day.” I wanted to tell them I hadn’t seen them in weeks. I wanted to tell them that this conversation was the first we’d had since that very first day, twenty-seven days ago. I wanted to tell them they had no presence at the restaurant, that they didn’t know me, that they knew my name merely because I’d made the appointment. But I didn’t say any of that because I didn’t want to be inappropriate anymore. Instead, I looked down and pulled at a string on my jeans, expanding the hole even further. The youngest leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and clasping her hands over the coffee table. “I’ll tell you what I’m hearing: it seems the situation has thwarted itself. If you want to leave, that’s one thing, but what you’ve described certainly does not sound like it gives rise to quitting,” she paused. “Please don’t misunderstand. This sounds like it was very upsetting for you, but that’s why we’re here, and that’s what I hope you’ve learned this morning. If something happens, you come to us. You tell us. Not only do you work for us, but the chef does, too. Everyone reports to someone.” The mother placed her hand on her daughter’s arm, adding, “As it is, if you leave now, don’t you think that would send the message that he’d won? People like that, who act that way, who do those things, those people are the kind who feed on intimidation. They pick on the weaker prey only because they can. But if you don’t run out of town, if you stay, well, you could show him just how strong you are. Do you like working here?” I nodded and spun my ring around my finger, studying the lines of my knuckles. “Well then, you should never let anyone, a man of all people, run you out of town and away from what you want. You have the right to do whatever you feel is best, but if you ask me, you need to show him that you are stronger than him, that you are better than him. He can’t win. I think you should stay.” “I don’t think this is a matter of win or lose,” I replied hesitantly. “I think this is a matter of feeling threatened, of being threatened. I’m afraid of this man. I’m afraid of what he might do when no one’s watching. Look at what he did when everyone was.” “What can we do to keep you?” I knew they knew the answer. I also knew it didn’t matter. “There’s nothing you can do. I can’t stay while he’s here.” As I stood to leave, I wasn’t upset with them. I knew they didn’t understand, and I don’t condemn them for that. I envy them. It was clear that they had never experienced the kind of fear that wraps around your throat and roots your feet to the floor, the kind that pollutes the air you breathe and terrorizes your sleep. They had never been haunted by the shadow of someone else, that much was clear because once you have, you’ll recognize it anywhere, in anyone. And you’d do anything to stop it. Two Weeks Later - Connecticut I ran my fingers over the embossed flowers adorning a card from Peter. It had just arrived. Inside it read: I wish you’d left your phone number. I didn’t even realize until you’d left that I didn’t have a way to contact you. Thankfully the owners gave me your address. God I miss you. Things got a little out of control after you left. Chef started bothering Sera - you know, from Ted’s - and things got so bad so fast. Two nights ago he went behind the bar and grabbed her by the throat - right in front of us! It was a packed bar! I swear he went crazy. He was screaming he’d kill her if she didn’t leave with him, and I think he probably would have if they’d been alone. It was something about going off the island and staying overnight somewhere. God, Sarah, it was really bad. Ted had to rip him off of her. Anyway, the owners asked me to send you this letter. They fired him yesterday and want you to know your job is waiting. They’d love to have you back. Please come back. I miss you. ~P Sarah DiSilvestro is a writer from Connecticut. She loves the smell of the ocean and the sound of her son's laughter, and you can usually find her overanalyzing whatever human interaction she just awkwardly concluded. Feel free to read her works in Club Plum Literary Journal, Lavender Bones Magazine, Scary Mommy, and nothingisfine.com.

Cosimo was looking distractingly handsome. We were celebrating his 75th birthday that day, at the Party Palazzo, and I know he likes that phrase, so I said it aloud. His tanned face—highlighted with bronzer—lit up. I licked his grey stubble. “My sexy demon.” He smiled with Vaselined lips, squaring his shoulders in his lush grape-colored birthday shirt. We’d nearly canceled, due to three local school shootings that week. We keep up with news—we aren’t heartless. But we are celebratory!  Besides, the Palazzo employed two security guards, wearing stormtrooper boots and automatic rifles. The weapons gave our guests pause. I wolf-whistled at the guards, then my party of twenty strutted inside, arm in arm—gays, straights, non-binaries, and singles. At first, we wore face masks, disturbing my cheek blush. I fingered Cosimo’s N-95 strap, reminding him, “There are four pesky new Covid variants around.” One variant, resembling a green French poodle, trotted right past the Palazzo’s downtown-facing window. “We dodged a bullet,” Cosimo chuckled. “And a virus.” Inside the venue, nurses of all genders, sporting optic-white short-shorts, lured us to the Covid testing booth. We slingshotted our masks like thongs across the room, staring at people’s face holes—so naked, so free! Nurses lovingly deep-dived our nostrils with swabs. Soon they cleared us of the virus, and handed out lime-colored virus-dolls. Before us lay the famed venue trampoline. I tugged Cosimo’s large hand, before somersaulting onto the fleshy jumping pad. There we were, two married men (me, decades younger, Cosimo, quite limber!), leaping, trying not to knee or elbow tender spots. The oiled Brazilian couple wearing Speedos—show-offs!—hopped in on sculpted legs, bouncing on and off each other’s bottoms. My niece filmed and posted the entire jump sequence, including our tangled collapse into belly laughs. You see, the Palazzo was the only venue remaining open over these long, opioid-infused, war-ravaged, Pandemic-ed, homicidal years. Outside the venue, the battle raged on, punctuated by explosions and screams. The war was going badly—young people, drafted, grocery shelves, nearly bare, primo foods pulled for troops. Rumor was, the enemy had changed. Meanwhile, no muddy-booted soldiers clomped through the Palazzo, guards barring entrance without invitations. War refugees pressed soiled faces against the thick glass walls. There’s never a perfect time for a party! Always, homeless in tents, reactionaries storming the capital, rebels live-streaming beheadings. And now, workers in hazmat suits, wheeling virus-succumbed bodies into freezer trucks. “Be here now!” Cosimo intoned. Cosimo’s co-workers clapped, including the lithe yogi-architect Sylvie. She entertained us with moving tattoos on her bare arms—parrots traversing the screen of her skin. Sylvie lifted her spiked juice pack, garnished with a cock-shaped celery, toasting Cosimo. “To an artist, a lover,” (she winked at Cos), “a one-man party. Here’s to another near-century!” Our friends kissed Cosimo, tongues darting into his mouth.Next, our guests took turns bowling the neon lanes, bordered by a flowing human-made stream inhabited by graceful dolphins. Cosimo, that clown, grasped me lovingly by my ankles, slinging my body down the bowling lane on my belly—Stimulating! Strike!  I stood, bowing in those cute leather bowling shoes. “That’s nothing, compared to our bedtime ritual!” A small missile burst through the supposedly unbreakable Pyrex wall. Party Palazzo waiters rushed, cleaning shattered glass and debris. Such well-trained young employees! Apparently, they’d avoided fentanyl, extremism, and suicide, to work the party. And they were working it! These young people engender hope—and a well-deserved five-star Yelp review tomorrow. Meanwhile, the DJ cranked up his turntable, grinding with his orangutan assistant, blasting Donna Summers. I leaped across the parked missile, strutting to, “Last Dance”. When the DJ played that husky Pit Bull, Cosimo led us in a conga. Soon, it was time for the Eiffel Tower-shaped birthday cake. Cosimo’s friend Fernando sprang from the cake! Tossing bomboloni pastries at us, the delicacies exploding with cherry jam when they struck. I pressed two treats like breasts against my shirt. “Delicious!” Cosimo chortled, licking the jam. Lightning and rain deluged the glass ceiling as we danced and raged, gulping tequila shots. We expected a freeze later that night. Knew our state electric grid was as flimsy as an old porch screen; our infrastructure, disintegrating. Trees would fall, roads would ice over; asphalt, blister, crack, and likely swallow us up. Still, downtown forest fires blazed dazzling orange behind the Palazzo. But dammit, it was forever since we’d cut loose! Cosimo, that bon vivant, murmured in my ear, “You’ve always been my favorite houseboy.” How his musky scent drugged me! My orifices tightened with pleasure. I lead him by the belt toward the “NUDIES” room. Alas, before we could enter the private room, we were called to a candlelit dinner, to slurp blood-colored spaghetti. A pesky homeless man groaned—somehow, at my elbow—staring at our loaded plates. Liberal guilt wafted off some guests, as two guards lifted and carried him out by the arms. Cosimo sang out like Pavarotti, “We donate leftovers to the indigent!” Through marinara mouths, we cheered, a peaceful carb coma descending like smog. For dessert, Chef Luigi—a shirtless confection, himself—marched out holding a tray of winsome dancing cannoli. Cosimo clambered onto the table, waving cannolis like pistols. “King of the Mountain!” We danced, we played roulettes, till midnight. Behind a velvet curtain, I ushered Cosimo into a patent leather suit, affixing a dismembered monkey tail to his pants seat. Cosimo was now a human projectile clothed in animal skin. He clutched me. “I hate to leave you here, in this world as it is now.” “I shall meet you later,” I answered. “Among the stars.” You see, I had sprung for la piece de resistance! At midnight, I would shoot Cosimo out of a cannon through a mechanical opening in the Palazzo’s magical roof. Yes, there were holes in the ozone layer. Yes, fossil fuel, dwindling. Why blame one individual for every environmental slap? I recycle! Cosimo, that Apollo, couldn’t bear turning ancient, irrelevant, or flabby, on this hostile planet. He would leave tonight. “No live streaming, please!” I announced. While our guests sipped glowing aperitifs, the roof—Cosimo’s design!—opened like lips. I gave my husband one last probing kiss, aquiline noses, touching. “I see you, Cosimo.” He coughed—no more virus tests—mounting the stainless steel cannon, waving, descending. Sylvie climbed the cannon, wrapping her tattooed body around it. “I’ll send him off in a blaze!” She kicked her bare legs, revealing the tangerine slices of her crotch. “Sylvie. Time and place!” I pushed her. “I’ll light his fuse, this last time.” A drum roll. The hostess struck a giant match against the cannon, handing me the flaming stick. Guests waved sparklers, smoke filled the air. Strangers, inside and outside, peered like creatures. Gasping, I lit the fuse, propelling my greatest Love, up up up, into the dark sky. There flew my flaming Italian Love, master of dramatic exits. Combusting, like our world. “He burns at both ends, he will not last the night,” I recited. “Armistice!” a megaphone announced. “The war is over!” Surely not. I focused on Cosimo, shooting like a comet across the wretched sky—for a long time, my neck cramping. I had to turn away soon and close down the party. But “Oh, my friends, he gives a lovely light.” Nicole Brogdon is an Austin TX trauma therapist interested in strugglers and stories, with fiction in Vestal Review, Cleaver, Flash Frontier, Bending Genres, Bright Flash, SoFloPoJo, Cafe Irreal, 101Words, Centifictionist, etc. 2024 Best Microfiction, and Smokelong Microfiction Finalist. Twitter NBrogdonWrites!

30th Street Station - Dunkin’ Todd approached the register clutching his guitar bag. He ordered an iced latte and small hash browns, paid, and slunk to the side with his receipt. An older cashier with stringy hair streaked with gray leaned her elbow over the counter. “They’re doing a shit job,” said a customer, who was younger than the cashier, though much older than Todd’s 17 years. “You should see the men’s room. I’ll spare you the details.” “To some of them,” the cashier said in a North Carolina accent, “work is a four-letter word.” And she nose-motioned over to the payphones where three janitors, two men and one woman, stood in blue uniforms. Todd felt a gleaming inside his eyes as if he were watching a sad scene in a movie. Then a sheen tinted his vision. The muscles in his legs tensed. He was shaking. “Earthquake!” said the woman. “Here?” said the man. Plaster bits snowed around the counter as a rumbling shook the station. Jags of wall fell and sizzled into the fryer. Todd clutched his receipt and, while the ceiling boomed, a black void in the roof formed and then shrank. Todd’s knees and neck wobbled as if on a subway car. Then a yellow comet dropped from the ceiling. The impact of the object striking the floor jolted his knees. The tiles against the coffee stand rocked and the Chinese food sneeze-guard glass shattered into the lo mein pit. Sky and clouds passed through the new hole. Smoke cleared. “Miss, miss! You ok?” The goatee’d customer coughed and then leaped up to bend over the counter. “You alright?” “Leave me alone,” she barked and then grappled around to stand. A choking feeling pushed his throat as Todd turned to examine the object. It had a shiny, elongated, steam shovel-like front. Was it a piece of a crane? Todd crept around the thing with two more customers. His ears rang and he toed away rubble as he walked, trying to swerve around a tall guy to read the writing. It had a plaque cast in gold. Voices murmured behind the payphones. One of the janitors said, “It’s a mop bucket. It’s a big model of our mop bucket.” Todd fled - he didn’t want the cashier to find her name on the structure and know that he’d made it happen with his eyes. Thirteen Months Later Small’s Hardware Store The UPS driver carried a package inside the store, hurrying, since he was double-parked on Walnut Street and blocking a lane; his lower back relaxed as he eased the box down. “Hey,” a man at the counter - Todd’s father, Leon Smalls - shouted. “Dropoff’s in the back.” Leon thrust a finger past an aisle of paint, drills and lightbulbs toward a white door near the breakroom. “Told you guys already,” he said. The driver peered back out the window at his truck. Yesterday, he had gotten a note from the head disciplinarian at Penn Charter: his daughter had been caught smoking again in the parking lot with two boys from the rugby team. He grunted as a green ticketing van slid behind his truck. “Guy on Monday said I could just leave it here - damn,” he groaned as the ticketing van parked. Todd had been watching from the break room doorway - yesterday he’d seen the scene to which the driver was referring. “Well,” said Leon, “he’s not the owner. Hey - move it back there.” And the driver again hoisted the box, jostling it slightly, and stomped to the store’s end. “What’s that sound?” said Leon. “Package just shook a bit,” said the driver. The rumbling amplified. Todd gasped and, from the door, a metallic clang rang out. A smell of burning and black ash hung in the air. A bronze sheet filled the hardware store’s front window, then clanked over. A woman in a violet blouse had been parked in front of Small’s Hardware in her Subaru, and she exited her car once she saw it. Leon and Todd Smalls and now the woman, Dr. Danielle, all stood on one side of the fallen metal mass as it flamed and smoked around its edges. Leon craned his neck to read the embossed lettering. “Is that another damn Civil Rights sign? It’s about us!” Leon shouted to Todd, who paled, peered away, and rubbed his sweaty palms against his shorts. Leon toed the monument with his worn work boot but it wouldn’t budge. “Get Berling out here!” Berling ambled out, grinning and stroking his beard and trying to hide his laughter. “Help me with this goddamn piece,” said Leon. A woman in sunglasses tugged a pomeranian away from the monument. The two men hooked their arms under the hot metal pole, scraped it up off the sidewalk, and dumped it into the street. The top of the sign was a UPS package replica on top of an alloy pole. Leon craned over the sign to read, then twisted to face Todd; sweat rolled down his forehead. “You,” he straightened toward his son. “You’re doing this to me?” Dr. Danielle grabbed Todd’s arm. “Let’s go,” she said. Omar’s Halal The foil crinkled as Todd unwrapped his falafel. Dr. Danielle was already chewing her lamb gyro, dabbing a dot of Tzatziki off her lip. “These past few months. One young man who started a cottage industry of,” she exhaled, “guerrilla memorials.” Todd dropped his sandwich on his tray. “I didn’t mean to start anything. These…things.” He scanned the restaurant. “They just fall from the sky when I’m there.” Todd dug his pita through a hummus container. “It could’ve crushed you. Why didn’t you run away?” “I wanted - I needed to see what happens. What this is all about. It’s a talent you’ve got, especially from a diversity and inclusion perspective. But it’s. I want you to recognize there’s two sides to every story.” Todd asked her what she meant. Dr. Danielle scratched her ankle. “So let’s think about this. You’ve got the one when someone got called a” - she spied around then whispered - “a Black bee on the 21, right?” Todd nodded. That bus had had to pull over; the memorial had exploded its right front wheel and smashed the sliding door. When the offender crawled from out the emergency exit, he’d heaved it into the Schuylkill. “Then - what was it…a bronze statue of a computer to that fight in the library tech lab? That wasn’t the library’s fault. Two fighting, private citizens, right?” She counted on her saucy fingers and stared at one of the ceiling fans. “The giant shaving razor in the firm on Market, dedicated to the guy who almost sued your father? Said he couldn’t keep wasting eighty bucks a week on shape-ups if your dad wasn’t going to promote him?” “That’s Berling.” Berling was Todd’s closest friend at work. Todd could talk to him about his father’s habits, and Todd’s own plans for his future - things he could never tell his dad. “Look - I’m not here to censor you. But, are white people the cause of every oppression? Every statue?” She shrugged. “Black women can be…chauvinists too you know. I’m asking you to use this power of yours more diplomatically. Any more of those statues still standing?” “I think the Library  - their HR installed the big computer in their lobby.” Dr. Danielle leaned forward. “I’m amazed no one’s died yet.” Todd said, “I don’t know what you want me to say. You’ve done your homework. You want me to say I’m sorry?” Todd knew he was special - there were times when, as a kid, living with his mother in suburban Philadelphia, he felt the television used to broadcast to him alone, which is when the gleam in his eye made its debut. But the gleam had never caused this. “You know, if you’re trying to change your dad you can’t confront him like this. People get defensive.” “I know.” “But those signs are forever here. How many have been about your dad?” “This’s the second.” “That must be hard for him. I know he wants you to take over the store.” “How do you know that?” “And I imagine today was quite a surprise for him. Or, for the commuter just trying to get to work.” Todd crushed a napkin. “You’re acting like I know how they get there. I don’t!” He flung it and it biffed against her blouse. She pushed it into a pile on his side. Todd disappeared down Walnut. The loss of the air conditioning relaxed her. Todd had felt bad about lashing out and got the bill. That had been kind of him, she thought. Some women in burkas and hijab walked across 45th Street to the AICP mosque. Cars veered around and honking horns cavalcaded. The monument’s pole had dented. Leon crossed his arms, smirking, while engines screamed around him. “You talk to him?” he said. “I think he’ll go for it,” yeah.” “Good.” Drivers veered around the mangled sign. “It’s just disgusting. What’s he doing this for?” “I know what you mean. Sometimes young people - we act in a way that’s too far left.” He nodded. “See what you’re up against?” She nodded back and asked him for a cash advance - her student loans were still due at the month’s end. NW Corner of Market and 11th Street Dr. Danielle was walking with Todd on the wide concrete sidewalk. Leon had told her to take Todd to one of Berling’s ‘hate-white-people’ rallies. She thought she could catch a gotcha in the logic of whatever was happening with Todd. But, when she thought about it, she wasn’t sure it was Todd’s logic at all. “Why are you doing all this? Taking time with me?” he asked. “Book research,” she said. Figures farther down the sidewalk mulled; six guys with big beards and black bandanas wore leather vests and talitos studded with pyramids and gold gems. They resembled a construction crew, occupying half the space. Yellow signs leaned against their legs, propped in a row against the bank. Todd squinted. Berling stood against the brick. He wore dark sunglasses and shook a sign. Todd listened as the man who appeared to be the leader shouted on about ‘the so-called white race.’ “Oh,” said Todd. “This is what you wanted me to see?” “This is as offensive and ahistorical as anything white people do,” said Dr. Danielle. “How do you know?” “Well, number one, I’m Black. Number two, I’m a woman. I want to make sure we understand each other. That you know where I’m coming from.” The other men in dark leather skirts stood in company formation and stared. A bald demonstrator thrust a poster above the leader’s head. The four or five scattered onlookers in earshot stepped into the streets to get away. Dr. Danielle would usually leave too when she encountered them  - but for the next three months she was under contract. A man in a bright red bandana pointed at Dr. Danielle and Todd and spoke into the microphone: “Why is this Black woman diluting the bloodline?” “Black people can be racist too,” said Dr. Danielle to Todd, though she wanted to say, ‘You think he’s my boyfriend?’ Then the sky turned wet-tissue gray; the shaded concrete enveloped the sidewalk. “It’s happening!” said Todd. “Well, good!” “What if one of those things falls and squishes them? What then?” Dr. Danielle thrust her arm out and Todd’s stomach dented into it. Sweat ran down Todd’s back and his heart throbbed. Then rain pricked the sidewalk. A blotch smelling of cellar broke on Dr. Danielle’s shoulder and then her jacket. In the downpour, the group rubber-banded their signs and folded up the table. Dr. Danielle called, “He’s not my boyfriend!” as they disappeared. Forty Feet Beneath Broad Street, near South Philadelphia Todd sat in the first subway car riding south toward Ellsworth/Federal. He was meeting Berling at Le Tin Can, a bar and cafe on Point Breeze Avenue. Sometimes Todd wished Berling was his dad. Berling had wanted to confess to Todd the day before at work that he’d left the group; he’d just wanted a listening ear against Todd’s father. Two young guys chattered next to Todd. One had amber hair and a baggy, blue Fred Perry shirt. The other wore a denim baseball hat and khaki shorts. He was close enough for Todd to smell his sport deodorant. “What a stereotype,” one said. Todd peered down the subway’s metal chamber. A seated, bald, older man raised a can of grape soda; his lips touched the rim. The boy in front of Todd cackled. Heat pumped into Todd’s chest. Todd’s eyes widened. Todd gripped the railing and heaved himself up, wobbling in front of the two as the train zoomed on. Bronze shot through the front window before Todd could even shout, ‘Stop!’. — He’d been at the Dapas Rec Center, relaxing on a swimming pool’s edge with his legs dangling in. But then the water was bubbling and boiling. Todd came to with a plastic pillow of ice numbing his lower right leg. The monolith had smashed the left headlight and melted the ventilation grill. Two medics in yellow vests clamped an oxygen mask onto an elderly woman - in his state, Todd feared the woman was the Dunkin cashier. Other passengers, cradling their arms or legs, shouted how they were suing the subway agency, how they might never walk again, and how they were calling an accident lawyer. Todd’s leg ached, a hot pain surging to his toes. Looking up, he saw a hole where the memorial had blasted through forty feet of pavement, pipes, and ground soil. Orange safety cones shone and yellow police tape wormed in the wind. Todd limped to where the train expelled acrid, rubber-smelling smoke. The monument hulked past the smoke crimps. It was a massive replica of the can - Crush grape soda - nearly as tall as the train’s front windows. Over his right shoulder, Todd heard a “What the fuck.” The one in the Fred Perry shirt and his friend stood nearby. They squinted to read a bronze plaque fastened to the can. “ Christ!” cried James. “Fuck. What do we do?” His face gleamed with sweat. “ I’m a minor.” 30th Street Station - Food Court Dr. Danielle watched Todd from the oily payphones as he hobbled on crutches with his dad. It was a Sunday afternoon. “Stop!” said Todd, brushing away his dad’s hand every time Leon tried to lay it on his son’s shoulder. Todd was catching the train to band practice in Lancaster. The band rarely let themselves joke anymore in the two years after the emergence of Todd’s talent. Dr. Danielle walked from the shadows. “Leon,” she said. “We need to talk.” “Talk about what?” said Todd. Leon glared away and pointed up at the taped-over hole in the ceiling, the plaster of which was still being fabricated after the blast two years ago. Two men were working around it in hard hats. Leon said, “They’re gonna take over, one day, Todd, if we don’t do nothing.” Todd looked at Dr. Danielle and then at his Father. “What?” A windstorm dashed through the Grand Hallway. The caution tape around the mop bucket slipped off and snapped around. “Jesus!” said Dr. Danielle. “Get back!” Todd said. His eyes gleamed. Lightning boomed outside. The window flashed. Inside the station a crack resounded, knocking over three travelers and a display of sunglasses. Brochure spilled into a corner. Hot grease leapt out of the fryers, splashing, and permeating even the florist’s stand with burger odor. A gold, miniature ranch house, a type local to the borough of Clifton Heights, PA - the kind Leon used to work on before he bought the store in the early ‘90s - appeared in Todd’s father’s place. Tufts of smoke and dust wisped where it met the floor. “My God,” cried Dr. Danielle. Rain sheeted through a new station ceiling gash and down the house’s roof, pattering onto the floor. Embossed paragraphs gleamed over the front door. Rain seeped into the engraved letters. “I tried—” shouted Todd. His ears rang. He tore at his collar and tears stung his eyes. The gleam faded. “I told you no!” Todd shouted first at the monument and then up to the ceiling, where a strawberry sun was pushing through. His knuckles bruised; his fists clanged the structure. Then the etching of the year gave way under Todd’s blows. The statue paled until only his father’s body remained. Rain poured and turned his dad’s flannel collar to dark blue. Rain veined the blood on the floor like a watercolor. Epilogue His Dad’s will named Todd as the inheritor of Small’s Hardware. After three weeks of mourning, Todd promoted Berling to first level supervisor and then to the store's helm. With the last of his inheritance, Todd paid off Dr. Danielle’s student loan debt. As for the doctor’s remaining fourteen years as a Diversity and Inclusion Consultant, she’d never again see a stranger case.

Tell everyone you're fine. Pick yourself up from the bottom of the stairs, climb back up to the kitchen and take the phone from your mom to talk to the 911 operator. Hold your daughter close. Repeat that you are fine. Hold your breath as he brushes past you to leave the house and return to the guest cabin. Lock the door. Too late. It should have been locked before. But too late is still better than leaving it open. It's a way of pretending. Pretending is important. Repeat to the 911 operator that you are fine. Tell her again that you don't need an ambulance. Go to the bathroom and swallow some Advil. Call your friends. Tell them everything’s fine. You just need company. It's Christmas Day after all, and company is a good thing. When your friends come over, tell them that you’re fine. Tell them your daughter needs distraction. When he broke into the house and pushed you down the stairs - she screamed. Now you can’t get that sound out of your head. Be grateful your son was still sleeping. Stay busy in the kitchen. Keep your arm pressed tightly to your side so no one notices that it doesn't seem to be working. Plus holding it still relieves the pressure on your ribs. When the police arrive, tell them that you are fine. The RCMP constable takes one look at you and calls for an ambulance. Tell the paramedics that you are fine. Try not to breathe deeply, it hurts too much. Smile. Ask them about their Christmas dinners in an attempt to distract yourself when they take photos of your body and recommend you go to the hospital. DO NOT GO to the hospital. It's Christmas Day. That would be a huge mistake. Take the turkey from the fridge, brush it with oil, season it, and then, awkwardly, slide it into the oven. It's hard to peel potatoes with one hand pressed against your body. When the police constable gives you a copy of the restraining order, try not to cry, try not to let anyone see how scared you are. When they escort your husband off the property, don't stand in the window and watch. It will only make everything worse. When the police come to tell you they are leaving, tell them you will be fine now. When your friends have to go home to their own Christmas dinners, reassure them that you will be okay. Go to the bathroom and swallow more Advil. When your mom leaves, close the door to your bedroom, lie down and let silent tears fall. Don't let the kids hear you. The day is almost over. You made it. You are going to be fine. Alison Colwell graduated from the BFA program at UVIC and is now the Executive Director of the Galiano Community Food Program, a charity focused on increasing food security on Galiano Island. She is a single working mother of two children with mental health challenges and a survivor of domestic abuse, all of which inform her creative writing. Alison was recently awarded a Canada Council for the Arts Grant to work on a series of interconnected essays that weave fairy tales with memoir. Her creative non-fiction work can be found in the climate-fiction anthology Rising Tides, Folklife Magazine, The Fieldstone Review, the NonBinary Review, The Fourth River, The Humber Literary Review, The Ocotillo Review and is forthcoming in Two Hawks Quarterly and Hippocampus Magazine, and her fiction in Daily Science Fiction, Flash Fiction Magazine, Crow & Cross Keys, Carmina Magazine and Tangled Locks Journal. Website: www.alisoncolwell.com

Alan stepped out of the Land Rover and peered down the long driveway. After jackhammering over three hundred miles of washboard roads, he had hoped for better. It was nearly impossible to reconcile the aggregation of shacks littering the Canadian clear-cut with Frank’s description of the place. For a moment, he wondered whether this was another of his brother-in-law’s malevolent practical jokes. But the delaminating plywood ‘Johnson Outfitters’ sign appeared too weathered to be a recent forgery. Alan panned the landscape through his Leica’s viewfinder. How had Frank described the place—bucolic? If that were true, Cabrini Green had been upscale. The Upper Michigan ghost towns he shot in 2015 looked more accommodating. Icons like Adams or Porter wouldn’t have wasted a single frame on the scene; after all, there's a difference between clutter and squalor. But he had resolved to record the entire adventure. Alan stashed the Leica behind the driver’s seat and grabbed his Hasselblad. Desolation such as this demanded the severity of black and white. He snapped off a few shots and then resumed his drive up the lane. The cluttered yard was hardly reassuring. Half a dozen vehicles in varying stages of decay lay among the buildings. A ’59 Chevy lay in state on naked rims, its cat eye taillights peeking out from a tangle of blackberries. The perforated shell of a vintage Mustang hunkered down beside the skeleton of a Jeep. Oil drums, paper trash, and a toppled satellite dish rounded out the scene. The house, a tarpaper-clad hovel with concrete-block steps and a smudgy stovepipe jutting through the roof appeared just marginally more inhabitable than the other shacks. Alan turned off the engine and felt it rising within him again—that sinking feeling. For decades, he had known the phrase only metaphorically. But his years with Deborah had transformed it into a physical entity—a smothery nausea in the throat that inevitably slid into the gut like the slow-motion initial drop of a roller coaster. As he tried to swallow the sickening swell building behind his Adam’s apple, a skinny dog bolted out from a brush pile. Alan rolled the window down a crack. "Hi, pup." The dog snarled and leaped against the door, its claws raking the rented SUV’s finish. A boy appeared around the corner of a shed. He gave Alan a cursory glance, then squatted in the gravel and began building a small teepee of sticks over a crumpled wad of paper. He rolled the window down a little farther. "Could you call your pooch, son?" The dog leaped up and bit at the side-view mirror. The boy’s only response was to set a match to the paper. Alan gave a short blast on the horn, and the shack's front swung open. An old man stepped onto the concrete block porch. He started down the steps. “Goddamnit, get!” and the dog slunk off toward the weeds. The man snatched a chunk of cinder block, then hurled it along with a second epithet at the retreating beast. Alan shook the trembling from his hands and climbed out of the Land Rover. "Quite a watchdog you have there. What breed is he?” The old man shrugged. “Wolf and something.” "I'm Alan Kurtz.” Alan held out his hand. “You must be Orin Johnson.” Alan felt little enthusiasm in the old man’s grip. "I expected you yesterday." "I had to tie up a few loose ends back in Chicago." "Price is still the same." Johnson's face could have been an Avedon study— weathered and craggy as the surrounding Rockies; ravines etched into his cheeks and forehead, a crooked promontory of a nose. And perhaps it was just the ill-trimmed beard, but his countenance seemed just a bit asymmetrical, as though Mother Nature had carved one side of his face, taken a century-long lunch break, and then finished the remaining side from memory. “You said on the phone you're here just to take pictures?” “I hope to sell a pictorial article to National Geo,” Alan answered. “I mainly want photos of Dall sheep, Bighorn sheep, and goats.” “You’ll see Bighorn and goats,” Johnson said. “Any Dall sheep you see is going to be one lost son-of-a-bitch. Southern edge of their range is a couple hundred miles to the north.” He started across the yard. “We’d better get moving.” On his way to the corral, Johnson stopped beside the boy and nudged him with a toe. When he got no response, Johnson stomped out the fire and yanked him up by an arm. He turned the boy to face Alan. “This is my kid.” The youngster stared past Alan, his flat face a mask of disinterest. Tufts of hair, the color of anemic soil, jutted from beneath his stocking cap. He had his father’s short, bowed legs, but his shoulders were broader and more heavily muscled. Alan offered his hand. “I’m Alan. What’s your name?” “He’s Jerry,” the old man answered. “The strong, silent type?” “He’s pretty much deaf.” An embarrassed burn surged into Alan’s cheeks. “Sorry. Does he sign?” “We do some signs.” Alan spelled out, "Hello, I am Alan," one of the few phrases remembered from an American sign language video. The boy stared at Alan’s gesturing hands. His eyes, a dull pewter, mirrored the overcast sky. He looked at his father. Johnson shrugged. “I guess my signing is rusty,” Alan said. "We got our own signs." Johnson motioned with his head, and the boy began walking toward the corral. “We’ll saddle the horses. You get your things.” “What about the dog—the wolf?” The implicit danger in the word sent a chill through Alan. “Heave a rock at him. He’ll run off,” Johnson called over his shoulder. On his way back to the vehicle, Alan stooped to pick up a baseball-sized rock. He knew he’d never use it. Still, the rock’s heft imparted a certain comfort. As Alan pulled his knapsack and a pair of matching duffel bags from the Land Rover, the dog materialized around the skeleton of a pickup. The creature glanced over at the corral, then trotted toward the SUV. Alan held up the rock. “Stay!” The dog broke into a run. Alan dropped the rock and dived into the back of the SUV. The dog put its front paws on the rear window and stared inside. “Please go away,” Alan called out. “Shoo!” The dog dropped onto all fours and began sniffing Alan’s gear. Johnson reappeared as the dog was lifting his leg on the knapsack. He started into a bowlegged trot, hurling curses at the animal. Alan waited until the dog loped away before crawling from the vehicle. He forced out a smile. "It seems my karma’s a little out of whack today." "I hope you get on better with horses than dogs," Johnson said. He nodded toward Alan’s gear. “Christ, you got enough to save the Donner party.” “I wanted to be ready for anything.” “You gotta cut way back. I only got two pack horses.” Alan spread out his gear onto a scrubby patch of lawn. He knelt among his possessions. “Everything looks so essential.” He looked up at Johnson. “Where do I begin?” “With this.” The outfitter nudged a backpacker’s pillow with his boot. “A couple extra pairs of socks will do you better.” He pointed to the neck of a liquor bottle peeking out from under a pair of Dockers. “Now, that’s essential.” Alan felt a small rush of gratitude that Frank had recommended the pint of Southern Comfort. “Break it out some night,” he had said. “You’ll thank me.” Alan commenced filling the duffel, Johnson hovering close, judging each item with a nod or a derisive grunt. Frank described Johnson as "colorful" and "a character." From Alan's vantage point, that assessment of the old outfitter was generous. When the bag seemed close to bursting, Alan wedged his drum in and forced the zipper closed. “What’s that?” “A Haida drum.” “You’re a Indian?” “No, I’m not Native American.” He hoped the subtle correction would take. "If you’re no Indian, why the drum?" “I incorporate elements of Native American religion into my spiritual life.” He pulled his Mackinaw out of the vehicle. Johnson shot him a skeptical look. “I had one of them once. Froze my ass off.” “But it’s a Filson. Virgin wool. Alaskan prospectors wore them.” “Sure. Along with a pair of long handles and a couple of sweaters. Give me a down ski jacket any day." The boy came out of the corral, towing a string of four tired-looking horses. He grabbed Andrew’s duffel and lashed it between two oversized saddlebags on the lead packhorse. Johnson handed the reins of a swaybacked mare to Alan. "I get to ride Rocinante?" Alan said. "Her name's Rita.” “I meant Rocinante. Don Quixote’s horse.” “I don’t know any Don Coyote,” Johnson said. “I bought her from a guy named Anderson.” “No. Don Quixote. Man of La Mancha?” Johnson stared at him blankly. "Dulcinea? Sancho Panza?” Johnson turned away. “Call her whatever you like, but get on her. We got some hard miles before we make camp. You’ve rode before?” “A little in the past." Alan secured his camera bag to the saddle horn and watched Johnson mount up. He noted the series of moves: left foot into the stirrup, the grasping of the saddle horn, a little bounce, then the arc of his right leg over the horse’s hindquarters. He ran the sequence through his head again before pulling himself into the saddle. The boy hoisted a knapsack onto his back, then took up position between Alan and the packhorses. “Your son doesn’t have a horse?” Alan called out. “Him and horses got issues, you might say.” “I can at least carry his pack on Rocina—on my horse.” Johnson started his mount with a kick in the ribs. “He manages.” Alan shook the reins gently. The old mare sighed and fell in behind the boy. The group set out through the clear-cut, wending their way through a labyrinth of brushy snags and old stumps weathered a tombstone gray. It felt good to be on a horse, the soft set of old leather reins in his hand, the saddle creaking in synch with the nag's rolling gait. How long had it been? A good thirty years. Not since a family visit to Wisconsin. And that had been maybe a dozen barebacked circuits around the cattle pen on an uncle’s geriatric draft horse. “How far is the game preserve?” Alan asked. Johnson pointed to the distant line of mountains, their summits obscured by the marbled ceiling of clouds. “Over that ridge and four more like it.” Despite the overcast, Alan felt a crisp, optimistic bite in the air. Every cool inhalation seemed to purge more of the city’s spiritual and physical toxins from his system—exhaust fumes, the crush of appointments, the venom of competition. Johnson’s son trudged ahead, his gait measured, almost metronomic. How many times, Alan wondered, has the boy walked this trail, his feet landing on the same rocks and earth? And, like the erosive forces of wind and rain, have his repeated footfalls ever slightly reshaped the terrain? Something rustled behind him. He turned and caught sight of the dog slinking behind. “Mr. Johnson. That dog isn’t going to attack me again, is he?” “Only if Rosie’s Auntie bucks your ass off her.” Finally, the chaos of the clear-cut surrendered to a meadow of knee-high grass. The sun eased from behind the cloud bank, sending a swath of light across the valley floor. Alan felt a hitch in his breath. He had been in Chicago's concrete and asphalt confines for so long, existing on the periphery of Deborah’s depressions. It was as though his vision had dialed down to black and white. Surrounded by this rich palette, it felt like the valley displayed every shade of green, gold, and earth tone at the Creator’s disposal. Alan pulled back on the reins and reached for his camera. “I have to catch this on film.” Johnson twisted around. “It’ll still be here when we get back. We gotta make time.” The trail ended at the bank of a shallow river. Johnson gave his horse a kick in the ribs. Horse and rider plunged down the incline and straight into the current. The packhorses followed in kind. The boy charted a different course, hopping from one rock to another, some jutting out of the river, others just beneath the surface. He moved carefully but confidently despite his burden—forward, right, left, sometimes even backward, as though negotiating some fractured, subsurface tightrope. Alan shook Rocinante’s reins. She remained motionless. He gave her a gentle prod with his heels. “Giddy up.” The horse held her ground, venturing forward only after the boy passed midstream. She shivered slightly as her front hooves hit the water. The horse kept a constant distance between herself and the boy, stopping when he veered sideways, retreating when he moved back in her direction. Alan could see the two were old partners in this dance. After Rocinante clambered up the bank, Johnson led his party through a narrow slash in the wall of trees and into the forest proper. The thick canopy allowed access to precious little sunlight. Only a single, unimpeded shaft yawned from the trailhead behind them. When their route hooked to the left, even that sliver of light disappeared. The twilight felt unwelcoming, almost hostile. Wind rasped through the treetops. Alan half-wished he still had the dog’s belligerent company. Something exploded from the underbrush, sending a rush of sweat across his torso. “What was that?” “Spruce hen, most likely,” Johnson answered. The trail cut back again, and Jerry disappeared into the forest. Alan marked the boy’s uphill progress by his litany of grunts and snapping branches. As they rounded the next switchback, the boy jumped back onto the trail. He labored a few steps, then plunged back into the wood. "Your son doesn't subscribe to the path of least resistance," Alan said. "He gets in a hurry.” A low branch grabbed at Alan’s hat. He pulled back on the reins. Rocinante coasted to a stop, letting out what sounded like a grateful sigh. Alan pulled out his small tree guide and thumbed through the pages. It was a poor time to regret buying cheap. Judging from the vague illustrations, the surrounding trees could have been either Douglas firs, white pine—or even Sitka spruce, which, according to the book, "is used in the construction of fine, stringed instruments." Alan gazed at the surrounding evergreens, imagining the legion of violins, guitars, and harps lay dormant beneath their rough skins. And he felt a pang of guilt for exiling his Celtic harp to basement storage only two months after its purchase. Alan urged the mare back into motion. Chicago, even Johnson's homestead, felt far distant in terms of distance and time. He could almost sense the souls of the aboriginals and mountain men trudging the trail. "Mr. Johnson, what Native American tribes were indigenous to this area?" "Joe Smiley and his folks live about five miles north of me," Johnson answered. “He’s mostly Cree and a decent sort when he's sober. His wife Janey, I think she's Assiniboine. She’d steal the gold right outta your mouth.” The first few hours, Rocinante's rolling gait had felt comforting, even therapeutic. But as the trail steepened, she began to struggle. Her stride deteriorated into a series of punishing lunges, progressing from irritating to uncomfortable to painful. By the time the trail widened into a small clearing, the ache in his lower back was nearly unbearable. The clearing bore Orin Johnson’s signature. At the far edge, a mound of fire-blackened cans and sundry half-burned trash spilled into the forest. A fire pit monopolized the center of the clearing beside a tall, fire-scarred conifer. Johnson swung down from the saddle and looped the reins around a crude hitching post. The boy set down his burden and then began to unload the packhorses. Alan slid from his mount, clinging to the saddle horn when his knees threatened to buckle. “Guess it’ll take a minute to regain my land legs.” “Happens,” Johnson said. Alan performed a few shallow knee bends. "I'm not the natural horseman Frank is." "Natural horseman?" Johnson snorted. “Every time that jackass dismounted, he waddled like a buggered duck.” Alan pulled his camera case off the saddle horn. “Can I help?” Johnson shook his head. “We got a system.” Alan took a few tentative steps and scanned his surroundings: the ravaged evergreen, the trash heap. He walked to the downhill edge of the clearing. A skein of Canada geese strung out across the eastern sky in a mutating vee. Bloated cumulus clouds, their bellies fire-tipped by the setting sun, hung above the jagged horizon. A haze had descended upon the valley below, melding trees and rocks, blending greens and yellows into a soft blue-gray. The mountains’ progressing shadows oozed over the landscape like warm tar swallowing a Monet. “Dinner’ll be ready in a half hour,” Johnson called out. Alan waved a thank you. Half an hour was barely enough time for his evening ceremony. Worse yet, he didn't see one square foot to avoid Johnson's hypercritical gaze. Alan pulled his small, catlinite pipe and the drum from his bag. He started toward the woods, then paused at the forest edge. “Are there any bears in these parts?” “No, the wolverines keep ‘em away.” Johnson's faint smirk gave Alan hope the old man was joking. Alan stepped into the dense underbrush. Branches pressed against him, resisting his progress, tugging at the drum. After a few minutes, the brush relented at the foot of a giant conifer. The spot seemed far enough from the campsite for privacy yet close enough to hear the faint, reassuring clang of pots, the snorting of horses, and the occasional curse. Alan brushed away a few cones, then settled back against the trunk. This country possessed such diverse and terrifying beauty. Within the borders of the previous six hours, they had passed drop-offs so sheer a single misstep could send a person tumbling into space and through forests so thick a body couldn’t fall over without sincere intent. He tamped a pinch of tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, struck a match, and lit the pipe. Before he could offer smoke to the four directions, something skittered across the forest floor. His scalp prickled. Another creature rustled behind him. Pinpoints of sweat burst from his pores. They’re just squirrels or maybe chipmunks, he told himself. But his deeper self said wolf, bear— wolverine. He snatched the drum and started toward the clearing. A branch clawed his left ear. He glanced off a small tree. A root rose and tripped him. He stumbled into the clearing on a half-run. To his relief, no one appeared to notice his panicked return. Orin Johnson hunched over a portable table. The boy was pulling wood from his knapsack and stacking it into piles. Alan walked over to Johnson, doing his best to look casual. A blue, enameled coffee pot ticked and rumbled on one of the camp stove burners. A stew of some kind simmered on the other. Johnson was tearing wads from a lump of dough and arranging them in a Dutch oven. He glanced up from his work. “Enjoy your walk?” “It helped me work out the kinks.” “You best settle into your tent,” Johnson said. “It'll be dark after supper." He pointed a doughy finger. “That far one is yours.” The tent, an old canvas affair, hardly appeared welcoming. The canvas was an abstraction of irregular patches, and its profile rivaled Rocinante's. Alan crawled inside, dragging his gear in behind him. The interior stank of mildew. Every night, the previous week, he had barely been able to fall asleep, anticipating idyllic nights, snug in his sleeping bag and bathed in the bracing bouquet of pine. This tent reeked like a dirty gym sock. Alan crawled from the tent and tied back the flaps. When he joined Johnson by the camp stove, the old man handed him a steaming bowl. “This’ll put lead in your pencil.” Chunks of meat and vegetables bobbed in a grease-mottled broth. “What is this?” “The best damn venison stew this side of Whitehorse.” “I don’t eat meat. I told you that I’m a vegan.” “Christ,” Johnson said. “I thought vegan was some cult, like a Hindu or Mormon.” That explained why Johnson had replied, "That’s fine. Just don't push it on me," during a previous phone conversation. “Can you just eat the carrots and potatoes?” “I’m afraid not,” Alan said. "The meat has tainted them. “How about some scrambled eggs?” “Nothing animal.” Johnson rummaged through his larder, muttering the occasional "shit" and "goddamn" under his breath. He pulled out a pair of potatoes. “I can fry these up for you.” “That’ll be fine.” Orin hacked up the potatoes and tossed them into a skillet. He dipped his spoon into a jar, then paused. “Bacon grease is a no-go, too?” Alan nodded. “Butter?” “Sorry.” “Jesus H—,” Orin’s tone could have been embarrassment or disgust. "I could throw the spuds in the fire. They'd ready in maybe a half hour." “Don’t bother.” “I got some biscuits and syrup.” “Did you use animal shortening in the biscuits?” “Crisco, whatever the hell that's made of.” “Hydrogenated oil. It’s a potential carcinogen.” Johnson sighed. “Well, hell.” “That’s okay. I brought some snacks along.” Alan hurried back to his tent. As he dug around for the trail mix, the pint of Southern Comfort slid from the knapsack. Despite its seemingly spontaneous appearance, he couldn't consider this a full-blown sign. But, coupled with Frank's cryptic hint: "SoCo is to Johnson’s jaws what WD-40 is to a rusty hinge,” it might have been a little cosmic nudge. Alan stuffed the bottle into a vest pocket, the trail mix into another, and scuttled out of the tent. Johnson sat cross-legged by the fire, ladling the stew into his maw. He held out a plate of biscuits. “Sure you don’t want a couple?” “Thanks, no.” Alan settled down near the fire. The clouds on the horizon now looked cold and pregnant. “Think it’ll snow tonight?” Johnson shook his head. “Frost tonight. Snow tomorrow.” They sat in relative silence, Alan crunching his trail mix and Johnson slurping the stew until Jerry appeared dragging a section of an evergreen. The boy tossed a few branches onto the blaze, causing it to smolder and hiss. A breeze eddied around Alan, wrapping him in a shroud of gray smoke. He swabbed his smarting eyes. “Nothing like the smell of a wood fire.” “The kid likes ‘em,” Johnson said. “But it'll be a cold day in hell before I drag as much as a chopstick halfway across the wilderness to make one." “There must be plenty of wood out here." "I’d bet enough to burn your goddamn Chicago again." Johnson sounded a little embarrassed. Alan pulled the bottle out of his pocket. “Ready for a little digestif?” Johnson brightened. “Don’t know about that, but I wouldn't turn down a drink.” He held out his cup. Alan cracked the seal and tilted the bottleneck into Johnson’s cup. “Say when.” The amber liquid nearly lapped at the rim before Johnson said, “That’ll do.” He frowned as Alan capped the bottle. “You’re not drinking?” “I’m more of an IPA person.” “It would do me pleasure if you had a drink.” There was more insistence than invitation in his voice. Alan poured one lean finger for himself. Johnson clinked his cup against Alan’s. “Here’s to you.” He took a healthy swallow and then gave Alan a look. Alan swirled his cup around. He hated the cloying, syrupy liqueur. But, under Johnson's unwavering stare, there appeared no option. He took a small swallow and shuddered at the alcohol's aromatic burn. He forced a smile. “Good stuff.” "Your boy’s wood stash.” Johnson drizzled syrup over a biscuit. “He’s been playing with fire since he could toddle. Eight years back, we was up here.” He paused to chase down a bite of biscuit with a slug of liquor. “It rained steady from day one. So wet the devil couldn’t have raised a spark. But the kid tried and tried. When I dragged him in the tent, he raised such Cain, I set up a rainfly and let him stay out." The evergreen branches ignited with a woof, their needles crackling like snapping threads. “Anyways, the kid got a bad ear infection. Played hell with his hearing. From then on, he brings wood along." The boy then settled down with his dinner. He ate slowly, his gaze fixed on the blaze. “And his mother?” Alan asked. “Is there a Mrs. Johnson?” The old man slipped the last bite of biscuit into his mouth and looked away. Alan saw he had gone too far. “Will we see sheep tomorrow?” Johnson shook his head. “Day after next. And we’ll be pushing it to do that.” He tossed a pebble at his son and then pointed toward the horses. Jerry let out a plaintive "Aww." Johnson pointed a threatening finger. The boy tilted the bowl to his mouth and sucked it dry. He took a final look at the fire, then sulked into the dusk. “Damn kid should have fed the horses before supper," Johnson muttered. "I'm getting too lax with him." There was a hollow thud, and a horse whinnied. “What was that?” "The boy don't like that mare you're riding. Last fall, she nipped off a piece of his ear." Johnson pulled out a pouch and rolling papers. “You hear anything from that brother-in-law of yours?” “Only that he hopes I enjoy my time here as much as he did." Johnson snorted. "Hell, he bitched sunup to sundown." “That’s odd,” Alan said. "What didn’t he like?” "The weather, the mountains, the food. You name it." "He’s very proud of his trophy." “I got that ram for him.” Johnson spat into the fire. "That jackass couldn't hit a grizzly if he had the rifle stuck up its ass.” Alan shifted position, and his right heel caved in a corner of the fire as Jerry returned. The boy snatched a stick and rapped the sole of Alan’s boot. Alan swung his leg away. “What's your sign for I'm sorry?" “Don’t got one.” Alan mimed, “I’m sorry,” but the boy had already returned to tending the fire. "He's a cheap bastard, too, your brother-in-law is. 'Keep the meat,' he says. 'I just want the head.' We get back to my place, and he wants a partial refund because he gave me the meat." Johnson held his empty cup out toward Alan. By the time he said, “When,” the bottle was empty. He raised his cup in a silent toast. "He kept grousing till I agreed to give him fifty bucks for any referral." Alan frowned. That explained Frank’s unbridled enthusiasm for the Canadian Rockies—and Orin Johnson. "He's the best guide in all of Canada," Frank had claimed. “Probably the whole Western fucking Hemisphere.” A pitch pocket exploded, sending a geyser of sparks skyward. The boy's mouth fell open. His eyes followed the ascending sparks until the last one burned out. He whacked the fire with his stick. A second miniature cyclone of sparks swirled into the blackness. As Frank had predicted, the Southern Comfort proved a stellar social lubricant. The first cupful made Johnson increasingly talkative and semi-sociable. But halfway through the second cup, his monolog deteriorated into a barely intelligible smear of syllables, and his chin began a slow, halting descent. The boy reached for another piece of firewood, but Johnson shook his head. He snubbed his cigarette and labored to his feet. “Morning comes early. And we got ground to make up.” He tapped Jerry’s shoulder and placed his palms together. The boy nodded. Johnson patted his shoulder and hobbled off toward his tent. “What did you tell him?” Alan asked. “To say his goddamn prayers.” Alan stood and slapped the dirt from his pants. After the campfire's impression faded from his retina, he shuffled carefully into the darkness. The crescent moon contributed little light for his walk back to the tent. Before crawling into his tent, Alan glanced back to see the boy’s silhouette in the dying fire’s dirty, orange glow. There was a thud, an explosion of sparks, then a curse from Johnson’s tent. “Goddamned kid.” Alan performed a quick strip and dived into his sleeping bag. He retrieved his affirmations book and a flashlight from his knapsack. The day’s meditation on tolerance of incompatible personalities expressed the perfect sentiment for his present situation. He made a quick entry into his journal and then settled deeply into the mummy bag. The thin mattress pad afforded little comfort. More than ever, he missed Deborah’s ample, accommodating warmth. But this time apart might provide the perspective they need to heal their relationship. Lately, he couldn't say anything right. Like his innocent quip at Frank's party the previous weekend: “Any man who believes in male superiority hasn’t tried folding a fitted sheet.” Deborah hadn't uttered a word on the ride home. Then, as they dressed for bed, she said, “So laundry is only a woman’s job?” When he blamed his remark on the glibbing influence of his second hard cider, she countered, "Alcohol always brings out true feelings," before slipping into another of her expansive, punishing silences. Alan rolled up a chamois shirt and slipped it under his head. The weight of the day seemed to hit him at once. He fell asleep quickly despite the jab of a collar button in his cheek. *** First, there was the musty odor. Then, the stiff neck. Finally, Johnson cursing at the packhorse named Bill. Alan cracked open an eye. Sunlight filtering through the canvas bathed the tent's interior in an olive-drab pall. Yesterday had not been a bad dream. "Time to get up, Mr. Kurtz," Johnson called. “We’ve got to make time today.” Alan watched his breath rise in clouds and condense on the tent peak. He curled deeper into his bag, trying to ignore the numbing gloom radiating from his center. Could this be how it is for Deborah? he wondered. Her fits of melancholia, as she called them. Those black holes from which aura work, flower essences, and guided meditation at best provided only temporary respite. Alan pulled his clothing into the sleeping bag. The addition of each clammy article sent a new wave of chills coursing through him. He crawled from the tent. Simply standing was a painful proposition. The subtle but constant strain of riding had taken a toll. His inner thighs felt as though they'd been pounded with a bat. He performed a few shallow knee-bends and then started toward Johnson at the cookstove. The boy, huddling over a small blaze at the fire pit, didn't acknowledge Alan as he passed. Johnson gave Alan a cursory nod. “I’m fixing some flapjacks. But I ain’t frying them in bacon grease.” “Great.” “Just good old Aunt Jemimah, milk, and—” “Milk. That’s dairy.” “Shit.” Johnson jammed his spatula under a flapjack. "I could make some with water, but they'd taste like fucking fry bread.” “I’ll just have some trail mix.” “There’s some leftover biscuits,” Johnson offered. “If you don’t mind the hydrogized Crisco.” Alan paused to consider the impact of a minimal quantity of trans fat. “What the heck. A few grams of the stuff won’t kill me.” Johnson actually chuckled. “Grab some coffee.” Alan poured a steaming cupful and raised it to his lips. “Let ‘er cool a bit,” Johnson warned. "That metal cup'll scald a layer of lip off you.” Alan set down the cup. The nurturing warmth of his regular morning coffee would be one more thing he would miss during this junket. Johnson dropped a trio of biscuits onto a plate and rationed a teaspoon of syrup over each one. "Eat up quick now. We got ground to cover." *** A feeling of snow hung in the raw evening wind as Alan slung the last of his gear over the makeshift clothesline. Of everything in his pack, only the plastic bag of trail mix had remained dry during the fatal river crossing. He felt grateful he had slung the camera bags from Rocinante's saddle horn. Otherwise, they would have suffered the same fate as his journal. He sat on a nearby stump and started peeling apart page after sodden page. Nearly six months' worth of remembrances, sufferings, hopes, and revelations—meticulously laid down with his favorite fountain pen—now bled together in an indigo stain. The day's events would forever be high on his list of major disappointments. From the very outset that morning, Johnson had set a punishing pace. Before the party crested the first ridge, both packhorses had worked up a heavy lather. By the time they'd encountered the river, Rocinante's sides were heaving like a blacksmith's bellows. Then, right in mid-crossing, Old Bill the packhorse stopped. Alan could still see the poor nag swaying drunkenly in the knee-deep water, head down, tail drifting in the current. The poor beast had barely flinched as Johnson scourged his haunches with the lead rope. Then, like some slow-motion extra in a Peckinpah film, the horse sagged forward into the water and rolled onto his side, the current pillowing against his burden. Alan tossed the journal into his tent and joined Johnson beside the camp stove. "Other than my journal, everything should dry out eventually. “Journal?” "It's a diary of sorts. It's completely illegible now. Must be a sign I shouldn't hold onto the past." Johnson slammed his fist into a mound of dough. “It’s a sign I got to buy another goddamn packhorse, is what it is.” His tone seemed to imply Alan was responsible—maybe by arriving one day late, he had killed the horse. But the old man had pushed the pace, not him. Johnson ladled stew into a pair of wide, shallow bowls. He handed Alan an empty plate and a fork. “I got something special for you.” Alan followed him over to the fire ring. This clearing was a near twin to its predecessor, right down to the trash pile and campfire-tortured evergreen. The old man fished a foil packet from the coals and dropped it onto Alan's plate. “Careful. It’s damned hot.” Alan folded back the foil, revealing a steaming mound of vegetables. He speared a chunk of carrot. The grievously-overcooked vegetable had all the structural integrity of pâté and conveyed the acrid bite of scorched herbs. Johnson watched him expectantly. “Well?” Alan could see the situation called for diplomacy. “Very⎯flavorful. Do I taste oregano?” Johnson dropped his gaze as though embarrassed by the non-committal praise. “It’s called I-talian seasoning. Last fall, I guided a group of Dagos from New York. One of them brought the stuff and forgot it.” Under Johnson's periodic scrutiny, Alan labored through the mushy vegetables, bite by pungent bite. By the time he forced down a last unpalatable morsel, his mouth tasted like the aftermath of a brush fire. As Alan pulled the trail mix from a vest pocket, he noticed the boy staring intently. "Is it okay if he has some, Mr. Johnson?" Johnson swabbed his bowl clean with a portion of biscuit. “Suit yourself.” Alan dumped a good portion onto the plate and held it toward the boy. Jerry looked over at his father. Johnson nodded, and the boy snatched Alan's offering. He separated the different ingredients into piles before starting to sample them. Neither the peanuts nor the sunflower seeds produced a discernible response. The raisins brought a smile to his lips. A tentative pinch of coconut elicited a low "Mmmm." He stuffed all the carob chips into his mouth and almost immediately spat them into the fire. “I’ll be damned,” Johnson said. “Last guy who come here gave the kid a chocolate bar, and he about inhaled it.” “Yes, that is funny,” Alan said. Explaining the difference between carob and chocolate hardly seemed worth the effort. Jerry spat on his hands and wiped them on his jeans. He smelled his fingers, then devoured the remaining coconut. Alan stood and stretched. “I better start a fire and dry out my things.” “Might be some paper in the trash pile to help get her started," Johnson said. "Or, you could bring a few things over by this fire." The offer sounded less than heartfelt. "Thanks, but I've already hung them up." Alan scavenged an armload of branches from the clearing’s perimeter. He dropped them near enough to dry the clothes, far enough to avoid igniting them. He fashioned a teepee of sticks over a wad of crumpled paper, then set a match to it. The paper flared up but quickly died. Alan's second try yielded a few smoldering twigs. Before he could make a third attempt, Jerry appeared and knelt beside him. The boy scraped a pile of birch bark shavings from a stick and cupped them in his left palm. He retrieved a glowing twig and cradled it in the nest of shavings. He worked with a mechanical proficiency, easing a few shavings over the ember, nursing it to life with a few soft breaths. A thread of smoke rose from the tinder, followed by a tongue of flame. There seemed a reverence in how the boy eased his tinder bundle into the lopsided pile of kindling. He pulled Alan's sleeve and motioned toward the fire. As Alan blew on the tiny flame, it grew larger, hungrier. A birch limb blistered and burst into flame. The boy added a few more substantial sticks. Alan leaned back on his elbows, head reeling. The boy rummaged around the clearing's perimeter, returning shortly with a pair of long branches. He handed one to Alan and took a seat across the fire. Jerry whacked the fire with his stick. His eyes followed the sparks spiraling into the darkness. He gestured to Alan, who followed suit, sending another glowing shower of sparks skyward. The boy issued a strangled laugh and smiled. Johnson stepped into the ring of light. “Appears the party’s moved over here.” He dropped his saddle between Alan and Jerry. “You don’t happen to have another pint of Comfort, do you?” Alan shook his head. “Sorry.” Johnson felt a few items hanging on the line. “These shirts’ll dry out. But I don’t hold out hope for your bag.” “That’s not good news.” “We can fix you up.” Johnson plunked down on his saddle. “We’ve got four saddle blankets for starters. Well, three, anyway. Old Bill’s is soaked.” He pulled a lumpy, hand-rolled cigarette from his shirt pocket. “Or, I suppose you could use my bag." This offer also lacked the ring of sincerity. Considering Johnson was barely tolerable on a good day, it seemed unwise to risk further deterioration of his demeanor from a bad night's sleep. “The saddle blankets and my jacket should be enough.” Alan nudged the fire with his stick. The boy watched the sparks ascend, then smiled again at Alan. Johnson struck a match and lit his smoke. “You’re from Chicago, then.” “All my life.” “Bulls fan?” “Go Jordan.” “I’m a Celtics fan. Sometimes they have all white guys on the floor." “Imagine that.” “Who was that jackass on the Bulls that dyed his hair and had so much hardware in his mug he looked like he'd fell face down in a tackle box?” "I couldn't say," Alan lied. “Goddamn sports is turning into a—" Alan thumped the fire. Johnson slapped an errant spark from his pant leg. “Jesus Christ! Now he’s got you doing it?” Alan and the boy grinned at each other. It felt good to share a joke with Jerry, a private one beyond the old man’s understanding. Derailing the old man's malevolent train of thought was a bonus. But Johnson's mental railroad had many tracks, each ultimately dead-ending in a rant about some person or institution that screwed him. Everyone from old Bill’s previous owner— “Bastard told me he’d be good for ten years”—to Canada’s current administration occupied his shit list. Alan stared into the shimmering heart of the fire while Johnson droned on, only offering an occasional "Imagine that" or "Really?" Glancing across the fire, he caught the warmth radiating from Jerry's eyes. The connection felt like pure communication—an understanding between two souls, unaided and unhindered by the spoken word. He closed his eyes to drink in and celebrate the feeling. Alan awoke alone, stiff-necked and shivering. The fire was down to a few smoldering coals. The horse blankets lay in a mound beside him. He stood and checked the clothesline. His sleeping bag was a clammy no-go. Alan crawled into the tent, dragging the stinking blankets in behind. He layered them over his legs and torso, then scratched a quick journal entry on a flour bag from the trash pile. "Cold, aching, tired. But all is well. *** For the second consecutive morning, Alan found waking up easier than getting up. It seemed difficult to imagine the same sun created both the harsh sunlight penetrating the tent and the nurturing rays that filtered through their bedroom curtains in Chicago. Alan tried to roll over but found his clothes crudely folded and packed around him. Too groggy to explore the mystery, he slung a forearm across his eyes. He was slipping back into the sweet sanctuary of sleep, when Johnson roared in his dry, congested tenor, “Goddamned fucking bacon anyway!” Alan threw off the blankets and shimmied from the tent onto a thin layer of snow. After a second day in the saddle, he had expected his discomfort would have lessened. If anything, he felt worse. Hamstrings, calves, arches, nearly everything but his eyelashes ached. He performed a trio of shallow knee bends, then limped across the clearing. Johnson was stabbing at a frying pan from an arm's length with a long-handled fork. He greeted Alan with a grunt and a nod. “That bacon. It’ll spit like a bastard.” He reached down, snatched a handful of snow with his handkerchief, and pressed it against his cheek. Alan poured a cup of coffee, then set it on the cook table to cool. “You have a gift for predicting the weather.” “No gift. I checked with the weather service just before you showed up,” Johnson said. “Of course, those bastards being right is a small miracle.” Alan took a tentative sip of coffee and looked over at the boy. As expected, his new friend was feeding a small fire in the fire ring. Johnson motioned to the table. "I cooked up some flapjacks. Of course, I had to do them in hydrolated.” Alan picked up his plate and started toward the campfire, Johnson closely behind. The boy gave Alan a quick smile. His eyes still retained a spark of warmth from the previous night. Alan returned his silent greeting. Jerry pulled Alan down beside himself. "Seems the boy's taken a liking to you." Johnson handed his son a plate, then eased himself down on a stump. "That's a rarity." Alan pulled the trail mix from a vest pocket. "Is it all right if I give this to the boy—to Jerry?" “Suit yourself.” Alan handed the bag to Jerry. The boy stuffed it beneath his sweater, scooted close, and scraped his bacon onto Alan's plate. “Kid’s taken quite a liking to you,” Johnson said. "First, he burns up half his wood drying out your gear last night, and now he gives you his bacon." He issued a dry chuckle. “Seeing as pork ain't hardly a vegetable, you got yourself a problem." Alan prodded one of the fat-ribboned strips with his fork. He hadn’t eaten anything animal for nearly a year and even longer for bacon. But the prospect of rejecting this gift felt so wrong. He broke off a small piece and set it on his tongue. The texture felt unfamiliar, even foreign. But no meat substitute could match its luxurious richness and mouth feel. This evening, he would offer thanks to the pig’s soul. And back home he could mail a check to a local animal shelter. Not an ideal solution, but a sincere compromise. He picked up a slice and took a more substantial bite. “Well, look at you now," Johnson cackled. "Another week with us, and you'd be chewing the backstrap off a mule deer on a dead run.” *** About half an hour into the morning's ride, Alan's stomach had begun to percolate. Bacon, he concluded, isn't the ideal meat for exiting a vegan lifestyle. Bacon as a gateway meat leading to the "harder stuff" like foie gras and veal. Funny, he thought. He ran it through his mind again—gateway meat, foie gras, veal. He wished that Jens or one of his savvy friends were along on the junket. Sharing the witticism would be wasted on his current companions. He imagined trying to explain it to Johnson. "You know, bacon, a gateway meat to veal. Like marijuana is a gateway drug to heroin and cocaine." “You’re saying that bacon leads to drugs?” “No, other meats like veal.” "Veal leads to drugs?" No, it would just be reframing the Rocinante/Don Quixote farce. As the party ascended, trees grew shorter, the stands sparser. Finally, the forest fell away completely. They passed through inclined meadows of pale grasses punctuated with jumbled ridges of rock. An occasional sleepy-eyed marmot chirped in protest of their presence before waddling into its den. A few small birds, perhaps juncos or chickadees, according to Alan's bird book, flitted about. Whenever Alan insisted on stopping to capture the mountain’s severe magnificence on film, Jerry fidgeted, braiding and lighting handfuls of dead grass. At midday, after a light lunch, Johnson grabbed his rifle and a coil of rope. “Now we walk. It’s too rough for the horses from here on.” As Johnson led them onward, the landscape lapsed into a tedious sameness; treacherous expanses of rock rubble, talus Johnson called it, interrupted by meager patches of grass. Alan trudged on, focusing on Jerry’s heels a few yards ahead. His heart hammered, and his head swam in the rarified air. Twice he slipped, sending slabs of rock clattering down the slope. The wind had grown hostile, almost predatory. It pounded the group, sometimes head-on, other times eddying around and ambushing them from behind. Finally, the old man held up his hand and sprawled onto his stomach. "Sheep.” Alan scanned the terrain ahead. “Where?” Johnson pointed at a handful of beige specks near the top of the ridge. Alan unpacked his gear. He pulled his Leica from the case, attached a telephoto lens, then zoomed in on the animals. There they stood, at a distance of nearly three hundred yards, ten sheep in all; three ewes, five young, and a pair of immature rams. The rams were disappointing, horns at best only half curl. Alan snapped off a dozen shots of ewes with their young, a few of the young males clumsily jousting. "I was hoping to see a good ram." Johnson pointed above the other sheep. “Like that one?” Alan stared through the viewfinder again. What was he missing with a 300X lens that the old man saw with his naked eye? He panned the horizon twice before he saw the flash of a horn as ridged as wind-eroded rock. Moments later, the ram crested the ridge. He was an old warrior, thick-bodied with a scarred Roman nose and massive, and slightly-broomed, full-curl horns. Alan locked his tripod and fired off a series of shots. He stopped down the aperture a few clicks, then took more. The ram turned broadside as though consciously posing for him. The creature's muscular, tawny flanks and alabaster rear end appeared etched into the cobalt sky. Alan switched filters and resumed shooting. "You done yet?" Johnson asked. Alan snapped off a final shot. “That’s it.” An explosion fractured the air. A young ram staggered drunkenly. The herd scattered over the ridge. The ram crumpled, then skidded down the mountainside, coming to rest, scissored between a pair of rocks. Alan’s ears rang painfully. “What the hell?” “A little meat till I get my elk.” “But this is a wildlife preserve!” “It ain’t like I shot a goddamn ewe,” Johnson slung the rope over his shoulder and motioned to the boy. He looked at Alan. “You coming?” Alan sagged back against the mountain and shook his head. Johnson and the boy set off. Alan rolled over and began to follow their progress through the camera lens. Father and son spent nearly an hour of crab walking across slides and clinging to steep slopes until they reached a narrow ledge above the dead ram. Johnson cinched a loop of rope around the boy’s chest just below his armpits. Jerry slid over the ledge and began to pick his way down the rock face, jamming his free hand into cracks, taking toe holds on tiny outcrops of rock, his father feeding out the rope one arm length at a time. Finally reaching the ram, he tied the rope around its horns. Johnson began hauling the carcass up. His son hugged the rock face. A rush of vertigo overcame Alan as he watched the boy huddle on the meager outcrop of rock. Johnson hoisted the sheep onto the ledge, then lowered the rope over the lip. The boy tied a loop beneath his armpits. Johnson braced himself, keeping the line taut as Jerry picked his way up the mountain face. A few feet below his destination, the boy's handholds failed. Johnson reared back. His feet stuttered close to the edge. The boy swung against the mountainside, clambering for purchase. Alan’s stomach lurched as Jerry labored hand over hand back onto the ledge. Johnson knelt beside the ram. He slit the animal up the front. The old man castrated the ram in a single stroke and tossed the scrotum over the ledge. He next slit the animal up front, reached into the cavity and severed the windpipe, then pulled the entrails from the body cavity. The viscera oozed over the edge, painted a bloody scar down the rock face, ricocheted off the outcrop, and plunged out of sight. Alan snapped off shot after shot, capturing each step of Johnson's butchering process:  decapitating, skinning, hacking it into quarters. As much as it sickened him, the authorities would appreciate the documentation. After Johnson lashed half of the carcass to the boy and the other to himself, they began picking their way across the mountainside. Alan watched Jerry's progress through his lens. Obviously, Johnson didn't value his son any more than he did the horses. The child deserved so much more from life:  decent clothes, an education, and nurturing parents. He and Deborah could give him these things. And Jerry was precisely what they needed to put their trivial problems in perspective--another soul to focus on. The idea wasn't so crazy. He and the boy had already initiated a warm, sharing relationship in only one evening. Father and son rejoined Alan barely ahead of the mountain's advancing shadow. Alan was on Johnson even before he could shrug off his burden. He waved a trembling finger in the outfitter's face. “You bastard! You goddamned bastard!” Johnson lit up a cigarette. “What crawled up your ass?” “Your boy could have been killed.” Johnson turned away. “Well, he wasn’t.” "Goddamn, you!" Alan grabbed Johnson's shoulder and spun him around. “You don’t deserve to have a child.” A blow from behind dropped Alan to his knees. A following knee drove him face down to the ground. The boy straddled him, and Alan covered the back of his head with his hands as the boy continued pounding him. Alan rolled onto his back and thrust out his hands to divert the blows. The boy bit down. A bolt of pain shot up Alan’s arm. He felt a jarring blow against his left temple. The mountainside tilted, went gray, and then black. *** Orin Johnson tossed Alan’s duffel bag into the back of the Land Rover. “Yeah, that was quite the accident you had,” he said. “You’re lucky to be alive.” Alan recognized the thinly veiled warning beneath Johnson’s words. But the threat wouldn’t hold water when he and his kid were behind bars. Then, as though he had read Alan’s mind, the old man added, “You know, plenty of folks around here would say my kid’s as harmless as mothers’ milk. Unless somebody attacked his dear, old dad, of course.” He slammed the Land Rover’s rear door. “I’d bet for fifty bucks your peckerhead brother-in-law would swear to it.” The raw wind felt abrasive against Alan’s bruised cheek. Lights arced in his right eye as he climbed behind the wheel of the Land Rover. A detached retina, no doubt about it. The journey back to Johnson’s had played out like a nightmare montage: Outsized shadows cast on his tent by the young monster’s nightly fires, Old Bill’s half-eaten carcass lying in the river, snatches of forest and clear-cut valley, then eventually the outfitter’s wolf mix stalking the river’s edge upon their return to the valley—all filtered through the flashing interference in his left eye. Pain had been the one constant on that descent back to the valley:  the dry, grinding ache behind his right eye, a pulsing throb in his mangled middle finger, the rhythmic twinge in his left rib cage dictated by Rocinante’s syncopated gait. Johnson waved his son over to the SUV. He clasped his two hands together and pointed at Alan. The boy shook his head. Johnson cuffed his ear. The kid turned and, slouching obliquely, offered a hand. Alan scrutinized the boy’s dull, belligerent countenance. How he ever imagined the young brute possessed even an ember of humanity was a goddamned Miss Marple mystery. “Mr. Kurtz,” Johnson said, “It’d be bad manners not to say goodbye.” Alan reached out the window and briefly touched the boy's hand. He exerted no pressure and received none in return. Johnson cracked an amber-toothed smile. “It warms my old heart to see you boys parting on such good terms.” He started away from the Land Rover. “Well, that new carburetor won’t install itself. And this is no place to be without wheels.” Alan checked his eye in the rearview mirror. The sliver of sclera peeking out between his swollen lids shone an angry red. He reefed the steering wheel to the left and aimed the Land Rover toward the driveway. Threat or no threat, there'd be hell to pay when he contacted the cops, the Mounties, or whoever the fuck. Within a hundred yards of the highway, a movement in the side mirror caught his eye. The dog had broken from the ditch and was giving chase. Alan eased up on the accelerator. His gaze darted back and forth between the mirror and the driveway. The beast was in an all-out sprint and quickly closed to within a few feet behind the Rover. Alan drifted to the left and slammed on the brakes. His chest snapped forward against the shoulder harness, a shower of light exploding in his eye. There was an abbreviated yelp. Alan looked back to see the dog dragging its hindquarters toward the ditch. Johnson hobbled into view, firing off a volley of indiscernible curses. Alan thrust his bandaged middle finger out the window and pressed down on the accelerator. Michael Propsom is a guitar maker and former Big 10 defensive tackle with a BA in Social Work from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. His work has been published by various magazines including The Saturday Evening Post online, Berkeley Fiction Review, Ponder Review, and Wisconsin Review. He has received two Pushcart Prize nominations.

‘We made a pact,’ the Devil says. He’s here in black and white, like a young Cary Grant. Top hat and tails. Tombstone teeth. Tommy, rat-arsed on Wild Turkey on a pool lounger, shades his eyes and squints into the unrelenting LA sun. Wishes he had fallen asleep wearing something more dignified than orange Speedo’s. ‘I didn’t mean—‘ ‘Not my problem, what you meant, Devil’s in the detail, dontcha know?’ The Devil twirls his walking stick. Smirks. ‘You can’t have Delia,’ Tommy’s daughter, seventeen. A hot mess because having a hellraiser daddy will do that to a kid. She’s seen too much, too young, but she’ll come good, he knows she will, if she has more time. Tommy struggles upright. The shards of reflected swimming pool light assault his brain. Briefly, there are two devils. Tommy reaches for the whisky bottle wedged between his thighs. Empty. ‘You signed the form,’ the Devil sings. A pleasing Tenor, it turns out. ‘You can’t have her.’ ‘What is this Tommy? A third-act redemption? Please. You signed the contract.’ ‘You can have it all back,’ Tommy feels a pang at the idea of letting the Oscars go, though he keeps them in the downstairs loo in his London flat as if they were trinkets. ‘Even your face, Tommy, can I have that?’ Tommy pauses. The moneymaker: dimpled chin, smouldering eyes, chiselled cheekbones. He never tires of the mirror. How could he when he’s been guaranteed a perfect view for the last forty years? ‘Yes,’ he says. Noble. Like the time he played Henry Vth. Sell-out run, as he recalls. ‘Even the face.’ The devil looms above him. ‘I don’t want your face,’ the devil hisses. He’s not debonair now. Teeth sharp. Eyes hungry. ‘I want Delia. Plump and juicy. Like you promised.’ ‘I promised you my first-born but I didn’t know—‘ ‘That you could have children. I get so bored, Tommy,’ the Devil’s breath is old meat, boiled eggs, stale marzipan. He grips Tommy’s cheeks with icy fingers. Tommy can’t avoid the Devil’s blood-black glare, ‘so very bored of people who think they can trick me. Give me your daughter.’ This is the part of the film where the hero rallies, finds his inner strength, fights his demons, saves the girl and walks off into the sunset. Tommy’s played this scene a thousand times, to great acclaim. But there’s always been a director to make sure Tommy looked good, someone to feed him his lines. ‘She’s inside,’ Tommy says. His face is salt-wet: sweat and tears. His crotch piss-damp. That’s how they’ll find him, an hour or two from now. Baked on a sun lounger, empty bottle smashed beside him, soiled. And Delia, his much-loved only child, gone. It makes headlines for weeks which, his agent points out at the memorial service, is what Tommy would have wanted. Jac Morris thinks about writing a lot and sometimes does actual writing. Stories available at Willesden Herald, Retreat West, Roi Faineant, National Flash Fiction Day, Skirting Around and Brilliant Flash Fiction. Forthcoming in Kaleidotrope, Summer 2024.