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A freshly cut rose stood between the smiling couple, droplets of water clinging to its rigid stem. They reached across the corner table and held hands under candlelight. Jazz floated through the restaurant as if blown by a breeze. Windows yawned open. Curtains billowed. Smiles filled the room.  The host looked on. How long this couple had been together was unclear. He and colleagues had grown fond of gauging patrons’ affection – imagining the relationships of diners as they gazed, smiled, talked, and chewed. It was a romantic scene, and this couple fit right in. As the date progressed from stuffed grape leaves to risottos and wine, their affection grew. Eye contact, made. Gazes, caught. Smiles, shared. Kisses, given – more than once. The host watched all this closely, closer than he ever had before.  The couple wore clothes that suggested uncertainty around what the other would end up wearing. Formal yet fun. Sexy yet safe. A giddy, carefree romance surrounded them – the kind the host felt was common early in relationships. That puppy love. That thrill. He sighed, smiling then frowning, ashamed of having written off their affection as new. Could it simply be mature? Thriving? Enduring? True? The host couldn’t say but believed one thing: these two were eager to find love and were not yet sure they had done so.  They were the perfect target.  The date progressed to after-dinner drinks. For her, an espresso martini. For him, a negroni. Watching them, the host saw excitement, passion, ritual, hope. He saw the never-ending journey of courtship and the insurmountable cliff of desire. His judgment had by now, four kisses into this date, been made. He nodded to a colleague nearby who was already moving into position. On the couple’s way out, the host and colleague made their moves; him to the man, his colleague to the woman.  “Sorry, sir? Yes, can I pull you aside? I will just be a minute of your time.” The host smiled with an upturned palm that glided across his body – a perfectly executed gentle beckon.  The two men moved to a hanging pair of velvet curtains while the woman followed the colleague to a seating area near the bar. “Thanks. I know you’re just leaving,” said the host. “We appreciate you joining us tonight. Did you enjoy your time?”  “Yes, yes, a nice evening. Thanks.” said the man.  “That’s fantastic. It seemed that way. I want to let you know about a new, confidential service we’re offering to a select group of customers. After seeing your date tonight, I knew you had to hear about it.”  “I appreciate it, but we really do need to g-“ “Kissing, sir. Kissing.” The host spoke in a tone both matter of fact and firm. “It is kissing that triggers the system.”  The man had begun to turn away and stopped mid-turn. This left him in an awkward stance like an action figure with its upper body twisted to the side. “Sorry, what about…what system?” The host smiled and leaned forward. His eyes darted slyly from left to right.  “This room is equipped with a state-of-the-art camera system,” whispered the host. “The highest tech out there. Ostensibly for security purposes, our cameras kick on whenever two unique pairs of human lips touch. We have nine cameras strategically positioned around the dining area to ensure all context is captured.”  The man glanced over his shoulder and turned back, looking hard into the eyes of the host. “Sir, I…is this a joke? I really should be go-“    “Instant replay. Post-date analysis. For a modest fee, we can provide access to all…” the host checked the iPad on the lectern “Four kisses from your date tonight.” He grinned. The jazz continued, surrounding them. “Our recordings include the 10 seconds before and after. How did you get there, and where did it take you? Our footage can tell you. Think of it like a rollercoaster cam.”  “I…um. You recorded us? I don’t know,” said the man. He looked across the room at his date, who seemed in deep concentration as another staff member spoke, gesturing at something unseen.  “And how could you?” said the host. “You haven’t seen the footage. That’s the point. Once you see, you’ll know.” The host clasped his hands in front of his belly. The man looked ready to leave.  “You’re in a hurry,” said the host. “How about this: think on it. Take this card and enjoy your evening. If the mood strikes you, call the number. We can talk details.” A wide smile. A raised set of eyebrows. “And one more thing; let’s keep this conversation between us.” *** The host’s phone rang at around 3 p.m. the following afternoon.  “Hi, yes, I believe you gave me a card last night on the way out of dinner?”  The host leaned back and smiled. “Say no more. I’m glad you called.” “I just…oh, sorry.”  “What?”  “You said say no more.”  “Oh. That was figurative. Say more.”   “…More” “What?”  “…What?”  “Oh… I mean, speak freely.”  “Oh, sorry. Well, I don’t understand exactly what it is you’re offering me. I actually don’t know why I called,” the man trailed off.  “I know exactly why you called. To know. To analyze . The opportunity to see your past moments of desire, examine them, celebrate them, and improve upon them? It doesn’t come around every day. Think of pro athletes watching game tape. This is exactly the same.”  “I see...”   “I can tell that you do. Analysis of past performance is the foundation on which excellence stands! We’re extending that strategy toward relationships and romance. It’s a logical step towards being sure. Will you take it with us?”  The man agreed to come by the restaurant and have a look – no commitment required. When he arrived, the host led him down a dark set of stairs into an office with very bright lighting and a wall of nine screens. “Thanks for coming,” said the host. “Let me begin with our pricing.” The host pulled a rose and a red folder from a drawer. He placed the rose in a small vase on an otherwise empty desk.  “A one-date Kiss Review Base Package runs $30 per kiss, $150 max. A Three-Date Package, redeemable over two years, comes in at a discounted $20 per kiss. These both include 30 minutes of video analysis with a staff member per date. And for the add-on Rendezvous Recap option, add $100 total.”  “Rendezvous Recap?”  “That’s right.” The host nodded over his shoulder as he arranged camera angles. “An add-on to the Kiss Review Base Package, the Rendezvous Recap includes analysis by staff currently in loving, romance-filled  relationships who watch date after date after date. Recaps include notes on inflection points, objective reads of body language, and forward-looking advice on things like eating politely, eye contact and flirtatious smiling. These are folks in love  right now, who have an understanding of how to not only build it but retain it.”  “You said the footage covers before and after?” The man’s tone had shifted. Business-like.  “10-seconds on each side,” said the host. “We find that to be more than enough time to understand context; think leans, words, tones of voice, facial expressions… let’s pull up what we have.” He swiveled and pressed a few keys.  The TVs lit up with a black and white video of early in the date on pause. The frozen scene showed the man reaching his hand out to hers and leaning in suggestively. Her eyebrows were raised in a playful manner. The faintest of smiles hid on the edges of her lips.  The man squinted. He looked at the screen deeply. The host gestured with an open hand and spoke in a low, almost revered tone. “Your first kiss.”  The man spoke firmly. “Press play.”  Garrett Berberich is a writer from Schenectady, New York living in Baltimore, Maryland. His work has been published in Flash Fiction Magazine and Idle Ink (forthcoming). Reach him at  https://www.garrettberberich.com/  or on Twitter at @gberberich .

EXSANGUINATE Well Hell, I didn't even know  that sacrifice was expected until my sacrifice was made when it sprang monstrous  and bikini clad from my giant  rebirthday cake with a bunch  of dark barbed wire balloons and shouted, 'SURPRISE!' that made something sharp  and immediate grow pointed inside me like a new tooth  in the mouth of a shark all ready to roll for the  next splash in the water like you know… that cute heart,  the little red one, with the arrow through it? So sweet,  but really you know… there’s gonna be blood. ZODIACAL I'm gonna  go with the  forecast for Leo  because it rings truer  to me than the fish something about  a long tall journey  and a dark handsome  death which sounds ‘round about right  for a Monday. WHODUNNIT A love affair is like a chicken. Neither die from natural causes. And this time it wasn't  the butler. Oh no, this time this time it was you. Lindsay McLeod is an Australian writer who lives quietly on the coast of the great southern penal colony with (yet another ferocious Aussie animal) his adored blue heeler, Mary.

You see the four of them on the deck near the hotel’s main pool, already drinking. Aaron is wearing a blue and purple checked shirt, his sleeves rolled up just high enough to show the Rolex watch his dad gave him when he finished his MBA. He hasn’t shaved in a week, his brownish beard uneven and patchy, and the white fedora with the black ribbon looks ridiculous on him. But you can’t judge him because he’s the groom. In two days, the beard will be neatly trimmed, the too-loud shirt replaced with a white tux, and the hat tossed into the back of his suitcase if he doesn’t lose it first. And he will be the center of attention at a posh wedding at the most upscale resort in Half Moon Bay. Your eyes move to Les and Paul, both wearing crinkled short-sleeved white shirts and sporting facial hair in various stages of evolution. You think they’re imitating Aaron, which they probably are, because they always have, from the first day they were suite mates at Yale. Even ten years later, they laugh at the same time and in the same way, a high-pitched, throaty giggle that sounds so bizarre, even now when you hear it as you walk toward the deck. You, too, are wearing a white shirt, so you have no reason to make fun of the others, except that yours is a repurposed dress shirt missing its second button from the top, something you noticed only after boarding the plane. The only one not wearing white is Dirk, who right now is laughing at the same thing as Les and Paul. But his laughter is different, deep and penetrating, the kind that opens up a room and fills it, drowning out everything else. Dirk is wearing a plum-colored T-shirt, as only Dirk can, its stitched sleeves stretched over his ample biceps. His beard is almost stubble but carefully sculpted, as it’s always been. His brown skin seems golden under the mid-afternoon sun, as it always does. And you fall in love with him all over again, like you always have. It’s been four years since you’ve seen any of them. Blame two years on the pandemic and the rest on inertia and indecision. There are no good excuses because none of you ended up in jobs that consume eighty hours of your week, even MBA-minted Aaron, who turns down promotions if there is the slightest risk of interfering with his weekend tennis matches or trips to the wine country. Plus, he’s marrying a doctor and will probably never have to worry about money again. Even if things between him and Kimberly don’t work out, he still has his Rolex-buying father as a backup plan. Unlike you, who has no wife, no Rolex, and no father. You haven’t seriously considered marrying a woman since your high school junior prom when you spent the night ignoring your date and salivating over all the hot guys in tuxes. Buying a Rolex would mean twelve months of your Yale student loan payments would go unpaid. And you don’t want to talk about the father who left you and your mother behind when you were only five years old. Not ever. And you don’t want to be here, but you have to be. It seems that the five of you believe you’re obligated to perpetuate the brotherly bonds you felt during your four years in New Haven. Except that back then,  you really needed each other because you were all so clueless and insecure and often too drunk to walk back to your rooms alone. You were all terrified of flunking out and looking like losers after all the bragging you did to your high school friends after you were admitted. During your senior year, you awaited arbitrary decisions from grad schools/law schools/B-schools. You couldn’t imagine anything worse than having a Yale diploma but no future, that you had failed even while ostensibly succeeding. You let yourselves cry beneath the elm trees on the New Haven Green, the entrance to Yale’s Old Campus in full view, your rejection letters in hand, a mound of dog shit dangerously close to your feet, the locals thinking – correctly -- you were probably high.  Then you moved on—all of you. MBA Aaron became a regional sales director for a computer parts distributor, not a dream job and not one he wrote about in the Wharton Class Notes, but enough to justify an expensive business degree. Ph.D. Les is a tenured professor at a small liberal arts college in the Midwest, one so little known that you can’t ever remember the name. Still, he’s happy, married to a woman who looks just enough like him to be his cousin, has no kids (probably a wise thing, given the above), and still trying to get his dissertation published somewhere. You think Les has aged the most, his once moppy hair now thinning, his head resembling a partially peeled onion. And Paul is, well, just like Les, as he has always been. Also, a Ph.D. (Philosophy instead of English), also teaching at a liberal arts college (Havisham, which you remember because you’ve read Great Expectations  seven times), not losing any of his sandy brown hair yet, but sporting a paunch that seems to have become more prominent since the last time you saw him. And then there’s Dirk. At thirty-two, still looking fresh out of an ad in  GQ, his black hair short and temple-faded, a diamond stud in his right ear, his chiseled face warmed by the faux-five o’clock shadow. His teeth are even and Colgate-white, his neck and chest thickened from hours spent with dumbbells and Hammer Strength machines, his wrist adorned with a deep blue Lapis lazuli beaded bracelet you once fantasized about buying yourself for Christmas. You know he doesn’t need more than a T and jeans to look like a million bucks, which is how he’s looking right now. “Carzzzzz!” Les calls out like he’s back in a fraternity, very unprofessorial.  “You made it.” You hate the nickname Cars almost as much as your proper name, Carlson. Carlson Deats. A suitable name for someone who runs a small literary press, as you do, but not the kind of name you want to show up with at a swank wedding because it just sounds so damn uncool. “Join us,” Aaron says, the silver band of his Rolex catching the sun and flashing a short burst of light into your eyes. You remember you forgot your Maui Jim sunglasses along with the button on your shirt. “You’ve got to catch up with us,” he adds, raising his glass. Les lifts his beer bottle as if on cue. And Paul just smiles at you like you’re the baby brother who ran away from home years ago and finally returned. Paul always looks at you that way,  his pupils frozen to yours.   You give Aaron, Les, and Paul their bro-hugs and tell them it’s been too long. Then you turn toward Dirk, all smiles as he waits his turn. You are almost afraid to touch him, embarrassed by what might happen if you hold him too close. But you press your lips together as you raise your arms and put your hands on his square back, thankful he isn’t wearing cologne because you just might breathe him in too obviously. “So wonderful to see you,” he says in that beautiful low voice you remember so well. So wonderful. You accept a Corona from the bucket and lie about being a day late because of a meeting you couldn’t reschedule. In fact, the red-eye fare from Chicago was $270 cheaper, and after landing, to avoid surge pricing on Uber, you catnapped at an empty gate at the airport until rush hour was over. You still don’t understand why you feel you can’t be truthful with the four closest friends you’ve ever had, and then another blast of sunlight from Aaron’s watch slaps you in the face, and you remember why. You’ve always been The Poor Kid, the one who never had money and passed on Saturday football games because you needed the extra hours washing dishes in the University dining hall. The one who didn’t go anywhere for winter break and wore the same three-for-the-price-of-two pairs of Levi jeans for four years. The nice thing about Yale was that you could always beg off an expensive outing by saying you needed to study for an exam or had a paper due, and no one questioned it. Luckily no one was counting the number of tests and papers you supposedly had. Or if they did, they never threw it in your face. And you made up your mind not to be The Poor Kid at Aaron’s big-ass wedding, the old college buddy everyone felt sorry for. You would hide it well like you always had. You would play the part of Equal for the next three days. But before you start your performance, you need some more sleep, badly, and wish you hadn’t stumbled into this bachelor party as soon as you arrived. “C’mon, Cars,” Les says.  “The party’s just starting.” Then Dirk chimes in with, “We have so much catching up to do.” And you think to yourself that he hasn’t called you in a year and that there wouldn’t be so much catching up to do if he bothered to pick up his phone once in a while. But you smile at him and stare at the thin silver chain of the tag pendant dangling beneath his plum T. “I’ll be fresh for dinner tonight,” you say. Then you put down your barely-touched beer, pat Aaron on the back, and scramble to your room before there is any further discussion that will make you even more uncomfortable. # You almost sleep through dinner, and by the time you make it downstairs to the private dining room at the back of the restaurant, all the tables are full. The room seems too stiff for celebration, its rows of brass chandeliers decorated with strings of white glass beads, the walls hidden by the thick magenta drapes. You see Aaron standing at the head of the front table, a glass of red wine in his left hand, Kimberly’s shoulder in his right. She is more stunning than in the pics Aaron posted on his Facebook, and you wonder what she sees in a guy like him.  But you know he is charming and funny and wouldn’t embarrass her at the hospital holiday parties, so she probably likes having him around. You see Les with Grace at the next table over, and beside him, Paul without Anne, and wonder if there’s a story there. Your eyes scan the room for an empty place, deciding you will have to be The Stranger, the odd guy out, at the Family and Close Friends Only dinner. Just then, Dirk’s head pops up from the middle of the crowded room, and he waves at you. “I saved you a spot,” he calls out.   So you make your way between the tightly squeezed tables, your eyes drawn to the royal blue shirt that hugs Dirk’s frame. The silver buckle of his stitched belt catches your attention next, and you wonder whether he bought them together and how much he paid. You’re wearing a white shirt, a different one from this afternoon’s (no missing buttons), because you didn’t know what else to put on. Only now do you realize you made a mistake because no one is wearing white, and no one is wearing shit from Gap, either. You decide to put it out of your mind and try to enjoy the evening. Then you see her. She has rich brown hair with just a couple of highlights. Her face is a tad thin but well-proportioned like she ordered it from a catalog, her blue eyes piercing and icy, her lips this side of pink, her neck smooth and slender. Her smile is even more radiant than Kimberly’s, which she probably enjoys, there being so few opportunities to upstage a bride. And her hands … Her fingers are long and delicate; she taps their tips together before brushing a strand of stray hair from the side of her face. Then, as you sit down, you suddenly realize that she and Dirk are together. Dirk confirms as much by introducing her as his “plus-one, Monica,” which makes her giggle. You feel annoyed by the tinny sound coming from her mouth, so poorly matched with the rest of her, like a Miss America contestant who suddenly talks like a parrot.  You shake her hand and realize her fingers are shorter than they originally appeared, and you feel bad that not fifteen seconds after meeting the woman, you are already finding fault with her. But why? You're not even sure how  he is with her. Yes, they are together, and yes, she is his plus one . But are they a couple? Friends? Or is she someone he needed to invite to a wedding so he wouldn't show up alone because Dirk never shows up alone? Then you remember why you care. You remember the night of senior week at Yale when you were both falling-down drunk and clutching each other as you stumbled back to the dorm, him laughing with that deep laugh and you laughing the same way, imitating him and making him laugh some more. You held onto him like you had wanted to do for four years of college and never did. When you got to your room, you felt dizzy and sat on the bed. He sat next to you. He put his arm around you. Then it happened. What you had wanted to happen for four years and never did. And you pulled him close to you, not saying a word. He took off his shirt, and you felt his beautiful skin. And you surprised him by kissing him good night right on those full lips. And though he just stared at you for a moment and said nothing, you felt like he was all yours. Blacked out, but yours. But tonight, he was all hers . You try telling yourself you’re all grown up, and those feelings don’t exist anymore, and even if they did, they don’t matter anymore. So you converse politely with Monica, and with every bit of new information, you judge her more. Sales rep for a pharmaceutical company. Has never read a fucking book in her life. Twelve hundred Instagram pics of herself, half of them with designer beverages from Starbucks. BOR-ing. Nothing better to do with her time. Met Dirk in an airport lounge. Tramp. And you answer her polite questions with as few words as possible, thinking she’s probably judging you as much as you’re judging her. No, I’m single. Loser. Yes, the steak seems a bit overdone. Carnivorous snob. I run a small literary press. Small? And he went to Yale? Then Dirk starts working the room like he always does. Though Dirk only knows Aaron through college, he seems to know everyone else connected to Aaron’s life. Or is he pretending, like he often does, to be someone he’s not? Yet you can’t begrudge him the opportunity to socialize, because you love to sit back and admire how he is comfortable with strangers in a way you can never be. But he’s left you with her, and you’re pissed at him for it. You can’t think of a single damn thing more to say to her, and she seems to have the same problem. Okay, maybe you can think of things you’d like to ask her. Like, is Dirk fucking her? Are they serious? Or did she come with him just for the free booze? Thankfully Aaron stands up and starts to ramble, breaking the uncomfortable silence between you and Monica. You look around and don’t see Dirk, wondering why he hasn’t returned to your table and is ignoring his plus-one.   Now you want to leave. You wait for a convenient pause in Aaron’s speech, one of those moments where the laughter has started to die down from his last joke, and you tell Monica you have a headache because you avoid red wine and shouldn’t have taken any tonight. You squeeze between the tables as inconspicuously as you can, feeling embarrassed because now Aaron has started a toast, one that you will miss. Finally, you slip out the door and head for the elevator, and as you wait, you see Dirk coming out of the men’s room. He doesn’t see you, and you don’t call out to him because you have no reason to anymore. You change out of your white Gap shirt and J. Crew charcoal gray trousers and sit in your room with the TV on. A woman named Lindsay is reciting the local news. You suddenly want more wine, because wine doesn’t really give you a headache, and you want to be numb enough not to feel bad about how poorly the evening went. But the half-bottle in the mini-bar costs $27, so you settle for the complimentary bottle of water on the desk.  It is lukewarm and unrefreshing, so you grab your room key and scamper down the hall to the ice machine, forgetting you have nothing on but your shorts and a T. You hear the ding of the elevator bell and walk quickly back to your room before anyone sees you. “Carson.” You turn and look at Dirk.  He is near the elevator bank, the sleeves of his royal blue shirt rolled up over his forearms, the silver buckle catching the overhead light like Aaron’s Rolex watch reflected the sun.  He grins, obviously amused by your standing in the hallway in your underwear with a bucket of ice cubes. You might grin, too, except it isn’t funny. And you feel trapped because there’s nowhere to go but your room. And you can’t let him in your room. So you unlock the door and slip inside, waiting for him to follow. You hide your body behind the door and keep it a foot ajar. He stands outside, still grinning, but his black eyes are far more serious than his face. “What the fuck was that about?” he says. “I was – just getting some ice –” “I mean at dinner. You just got up and left without saying a word, right in the middle of Aaron’s toast.” “I didn’t feel well,” you say, and immediately you realize he knows you’re lying. “But –”  He stops. “Look, can I come in?” “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” “Why, you with somebody?” “No, I just –” You stop, unable to look directly at him. “I want to be alone.” “Carson, stop being a fucking baby. Give me five minutes, and then you can be alone.” So you open the door, and he walks inside. He glances around the room, and you know it’s probably half the size of his upgraded suite, and you feel like The Poor Kid again. Then Dirk faces you, the grin erased. “Man, you missed a great speech. Aaron just bared his goddam soul, saying how grateful he was for his family and friends. He gave us, his college buddies, a shout-out, saying how much we meant to him. He called each of us out by name. Only Carson wasn’t there.  Because Carson left.” “Like I said, I didn’t feel well.” “Yeah, that’s what Monica said. Something about red wine. But you were just looking for an excuse to leave, right?” You feel bad now but can’t let it show. So you say nothing and let him finish. “And why were you so rude to her all night?” he asks you. “I wasn’t rude,” you insist, but Dirk shakes his head. He knows you didn’t want her there, but does he know it was because you wanted him for yourself? You are afraid to find out because you don’t know where that conversation will go. The lack of closure hovers over the room as you stand there in your underwear with your bucket of ice, staring at him. “Why were you rude?” he repeats. And there are a dozen reasons you could give him. That she seemed fake; that she talked past you, not to you; that her giggle was annoying; that her nose turned up slightly when you said small press. You could tell him any of those things, and he wouldn’t believe you. “Was it something I did?” he says. His face is no longer full and inviting. His lips are pinched as if those five words left a bad taste on his tongue. You’ve waited ten years to tell him the truth because the few times you’ve seen him in person since graduation were never the  right times. Never just the two of you, never long enough. But now, you have your moment. You have a choice. You can tell him nothing’s wrong, and you’re just tired and depressed, and he will leave you alone tonight, and tomorrow at breakfast, ask if you’re okay and offer you some of his scrambled eggs. Or you can tell him the truth. That you’ve loved him and wanted him for fourteen years and never forgot the night when you held him close and fell asleep in each other’s arms. “Why did you bring her here?” He looks at you, surprised, and cocks his head the way he did in Anthropology 201 during their junior year when Professor Lawrence called on him unexpectedly and asked him about sex role socialization among the !Kung Bushmen. “Monica?  I told you, she’s my plus-one for the wedding.” “Is that all she is?” His eyes widen more, and he shakes his head. “What exactly are you asking me, Carson?” “Is that all she is? Your date for the wedding? Or is she your girlfriend, or your fiancée, or something else?” Dirk shrugs. “I’m not getting this, Carson. She’s my date, and kind of my girlfriend, and no, I’m not planning to marry her anytime soon, but you never know –” “Fucking stop it!” you shout, your voice cracking, and you can’t believe it’s really you saying these words. But you let yourself go on. “Stop it now!” “What the fuck’s gotten into you?” He tries to put his hand on your shoulder. But you withdraw from him, and suddenly your face is burning, making your eyes tear up. You hate him now and wish he would leave, but it’s too late. It’s too late not to say the things you need to tell him. “Ten years,” you say. “The last ten years have gotten into me. Ten goddam years of you pretending I don’t exist.” Dirk looks dumbfounded, a look that does not become him. “Don’t exist? Carson, how many times have we talked on the phone, or e-mailed, or texted? Hundreds? We’re friends, for Christ’s sake.” But he doesn’t see you, does he? Not really. Not as you want him to see you. He’s blocked that night out of his mind. You and he never discussed it, and you never forced the issue. Now, you want to talk about it. You want to remind him that the two of you were that close , if only once.   “You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?” He looks at you as if meeting you for the first time. Trying to figure you out. Trying to understand why you and he are having this conversation, with you standing in your underwear with a bucket of ice in your hand. “What have I forgotten about, Carson?” “Us.”   “Us?” “Senior week? The night we slept together.” Dirk’s eyes widen, his lantern jaw growing slack. “Senior week,” he repeats. “Is that what this is all about?” You hate how he’s so matter-of-fact, his imperious tone trivializing what sometimes seems like one of the few moments in your life that ever mattered. Fighting back the hot tears,  you look away from him and anchor your eyes on the first thing that comes into view. It’s just a hideous lamp on the end table by the queen-sized bed. But you can’t move your eyes away from it because you don’t want to look at him.  Its round base, the color of steamed milk, looks like an albino bowling ball, and you wonder if it’s heavy enough to smash Dirk’s skull and kill him instantly.   “Dude, nothing happened.” The most enduring memory of your adult life is summarized in two words. Nothing happened.   You can’t speak, but he can. And as he continues, you stare at the bowling ball, and your right hand aches as if you’ve already smashed the lamp over his head. Then you realize it’s the ice bucket. You’re squeezing it so hard that the plastic liner has split apart and is pressing into your fingers. “We were just a couple of wasted college students,” he finishes. “Just getting a little too guy-chummy. That’s all.” “That’s all,” you repeat, still unable to raise your eyes. “I can’t believe –” He pauses and turns away just as you summon the courage to look at him. “You’ve carried this around with you all this time. That’s why you were so rude to Monica tonight. You’re jealous of her, aren’t you?” You don’t want to answer the question. He’s made you feel ashamed of yourself, and you hate him for it. So you say nothing and let your silence do the work.   Finally, Dirk looks at you and shakes his head. “I just don’t get you,” he says, and he walks toward the door. Part of you wants to run to him and make him hear you out. But most of you has already conceded defeat. You watch him go and just stand there. The door didn’t shut completely, and you hear the elevator bell. You imagine him stepping inside, punching the button hard to blow off steam. Imagine him walking back to his room, still shaking his head. Imagine him with her. # You stand outside the front of the hotel, your rollaway bag beside you, glancing at your phone every minute to see how far away your Uber is. It feels warm for nine in the morning, and you almost regret deciding to leave today. You didn’t sleep more than a few hours last night, so you feel like shit, but you hope there’s an empty seat next to you on the plane so you can catch some shuteye.   “Cars!” someone calls out. You look up and see Paul. He’s wearing his running shorts and an orange tank top, his white skin drenched in sweat. “You’re leaving?” You nod and don’t feel like you owe him an explanation, though it’s evident from the confused look that he wants one. “I need to go home,” you say, sounding like a two-year-old.   “Home? You just got here!” Paul says. “The wedding isn’t until tomorrow.” “I’m sorry. I need to – go.” Paul shakes his head. “Man, Aaron will be disappointed.” “I know.” “I am, too,” Paul continues. “I mean, I really looked forward to seeing you, Cars. We haven’t had a chance to catch up at all.” “Sorry. We will. I can call you.” “The only one of us you’ve hung out with is Dirk,” Paul says.    Hanging out  wasn’t how you would describe it, but you let the comment pass. “Fucking Dirk,” Paul continues, and looks at you. For a minute, you are afraid that Dirk told him what happened last night, your humiliation served for breakfast along with the bagels and fresh fruit. “Well, I guess I’ll be the only single one left at the wedding.” “I noticed Anne wasn’t with you,” you say. “We’re finished, Anne and me. I haven’t made a big deal of it.” “I’m sorry,” you say. And you are. You liked Anne, at least from the few times you met her. “She’s in love with someone else,” Paul says. “And it’s okay. I am, too.” You feel like this should be part of a more extended conversation, not a short chat while one of you is waiting for an Uber. “I hope you’re happy, then.” Paul nods. Then he looks at you that way,  the way he always has. “Not as happy as I’d be if you stayed.” Now you’re confused, thinking Paul is just being Paul being nice. The Nice Kid propping up The Poor Kid. But there’s something else there—something about the way he said happy. “I wish I could,” you say. Paul shakes his head. “I’ve always noticed how you look at Dirk, and I wonder sometimes. Why him?” Now you know that what has been your best-kept secret hasn’t been a secret at all. They’ve known all along. They’ve probably even talked about it among themselves for the last ten years and never said anything to you. There you were, believing that you’d been so clever about covering it up, that it was something to be resolved between you and Dirk, and that it would be resolved one day, maybe this week. You think about how foolish you feel now. “Why him?” Paul says again. “Why not me?” Then you can’t speak. You can’t move. You can’t do anything but stare at Paul and hate him. Because suddenly he looks so much like you, his body slumping, his green puppy dog eyes just like you’ve pictured your own, pining away for something that never happened. You can’t look at him anymore without seeing … yourself. “I planned to have this awkward conversation this week, but –" Paul stops. Then the Uber pulls into the circle, and a squatty fellow in a Hawaiian shirt steps out and pops the trunk. “I’m sorry,” you say to Paul.   He nods. “I am, too.”   You check your phone five minutes before the Uber arrives at the terminal, but there are no messages. Not from Dirk. Not from Paul. Not from Aaron, who by now has found out that you’ve ditched his wedding and will probably never speak to you again. It should make you feel sad, but strangely, it doesn’t.   It just makes you feel poor.

monday and then tuesday whole milk french style yogurt at noon the departure of moldy raspberries   my lawyer is calling, i’m napping, do not disturb my nails match my matcha, my mug, my morning i almost reached heaven in a sidecar  riding alongside candlelit prayers  my dad says they pray for me every night i wear sweatpants to sweat beneath the heat the lines on my arms mean i slept well pink vibrator on my yellow nightstand revisionist revising one night stands  pleasure pulsating air to briefly feel alive  dear trazodone, the damage has already been done leftover thai chicken soup but the rice is hard like opening a jagged can of sweet justice  in absence of cruelty in fucked up fantasy  the trash needs taking out  the bed is not yet made unemployment  dark chocolate tahini with sea salt on a perfectly ripe banana my cat’s green bandana her watermelon litter box microwaved coffee that’s too hot the photo of my grandma holding her hand to her cheek on my fridge when i got reiki i was told my ancestors are with me even when i am being unserious gabapentin 3x a day like candy yummmm got plymouth gin delivered & that tree outside my window is finally showing signs of life  i’m looking for split ends in my hair bc i’m bored maybe i’ll cook some leftover spinach & get strong like popeye maybe i’ll listen to brazilian folk jazz to feel cultured this couple i met last night told me they waited to see i love you until two & a half years in now they're getting married i had a dream abt my parent’s garage clutter & wow how beautiful it is to sleep in again and be a romantic again and go on picnics again and appreciate pink tulips again ode to stupid boys my trauma begins in first grade recess; i’m hanging on the monkey bars and a boy named Michael pulls my skirt down like an impulsive thought come to life; and leaves me exposed; i want to be invisibile; bare legs hanging in my days of the week underwear; i think it was the wednesday one; that was the day we had chapel at school; i’m still praying because i’ve never lived that down; i swear i’ve hated boys since then; in fourth grade i left my white training bra inside my open front desk; you know the kind you crammed crumpled papers and books; i used to stuff my training bras in there like hidden treasure; one day Ricardo went digging in my desk and found them and showed the whole class; he struck gold; the irony is not lost on me that my training bra never trained me for that moment; then there was the time i asked Zack to the fifth grade banquet and the teacher intercepted the note; the teacher laughed; the boy said no; i can’t catch a break; in seventh grade science class and i’m walking up to the front of the classroom to turn in an assignment; brand new silver and pink nikes my mom   just bought me at the orlando outlet mall; Leonardo asks if those are grandpa shoes; now grandpa shoes are cool! i never wore them to school again; girls were never mean to me; boys were; stupid boys made me like girls; [unrelenting]  i am a rapid forming hurricane / rising inside you / the way we collided / was accidental / like two destructive storms / addicted to the spin / begging to be restrained / someday you’ll bleed gay / refusing to sink desire / beneath your leather boots / digging / holding / craving / burying / wavering / promising / tasting / yearning / averting / panicking / brimming / with something / hallucinogenic / fighting to love and grieve / and grieve and love / conspiring to take form / like our saturn returns / challenging what we are / mourning every part of you / i never explored / what made me your home / that sunday / we spent all day sharing stories / you told me about that week in vietnam / your crazy roommate / agent orange / you let me / see you / but only at a glance / you hated / when i called you aloof / rearranged your inconsistencies / for me / the failures of our own shame / memories that feel faceless / voicenotes that live in perpetuity / your voice / tucked away in my ears / etched on train rides / first thing in the morning / before sleep / on walks home / after work / when i cooked / as i got ready / and cleaned / you listened / i memorized / the way you spoke / in exalt / experimenting with / the fragility of / distant / hyphen / emotionally / hyphen / unlovable / hyphen / desperately seeking / the way / we fell apart / at the end of july / tiptoeing to conclusions / hiding behind the camouflage / of your pigmented cheeks  Michy Woodward (she/her) is a queer, mixed-race Asian-American Brooklyn based writer and artist. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Queerlings, Lavender Review  and The Amazine . You can find her on instagram @michywoodward .

Rush hour morning traffic on a weekday with the freeway resembling a parking lot. On the passenger seat of a car: a work bag, a lunch bag with a sandwich and half a chocolate cookie (cravings carried over from pregnancy), a bag containing a breast pump, a hands-free pumping bra that doesn’t quite fit but does its job, breast milk storage bags and a photo of a baby who must spend the day away from its mother, just six weeks after entering this world.  In the driver’s seat, the sleepy-eyed mother, her nipples sore and leaking milk, sits in traffic ahead of a long workday, knowing that even a newborn puppy isn’t separated from its mother before eight weeks. She digs her nails into the rubber covering the steering wheel and lets it all out with a scream, imagining her cry against inadequate maternity leave in the USA rippling down the lines of cars, joining other postpartum voices across state borders, entering every lawmaker’s office and corporate headquarters in the nation, only to land on deaf ears.  Trying to shake off her despair, she takes a deep breath. Regaining her composure, she sneaks an awkward look around to check if anyone saw her outburst. The woman in the car to her right is leaning to one side, swiping at her cell phone mounted on the dashboard. The man in the car to her left, who perhaps witnessed her muted outrage behind rolled-up windows, glances away, avoiding eye contact, and looks steadfastly ahead. She sighs, takes a sip of decaffeinated coffee from her travel mug, and inches forward in traffic that’s still crawling at a snail’s pace in the direction of an exit that’s not in sight yet. Deepti Nalavade Mahule is a writer of color living in California with her husband and children. Her website, with links to her selected published work, is: ' https://deeptiwriting.wordpress.com '. A piece in *82 Review was nominated for Best of the Net 2024 and another was shortlisted in Flash Fiction Magazine’s contest in July 2022.

Cinderella left the ball early and snuck into Sleeping Beauty’s chamber. Leaning over, Cinderella kissed Sleeping Beauty on the mouth. At the same moment, Sleeping Beauty was dreaming of how she learned to kiss by moving her lips against pieces of fruit. They kissed again after she woke up. They spent the morning conjuring magic but also acknowledging how satisfying it is to sweep the floor by hand. Neither was wearing shoes. Only socks. Then more kissing. On Friday the kings were laid to rest. On Saturday the queens took over after lunch. Peasant kids played in the sprinkler on the lawn. Royal kids shed their stiff sweaters. Everyone took a drink from the hose. A decree was issued which forbade lives of toil and misery so all the horses ran away across the field. Princes kissed their forbidden loves. Rats kissed mice. Talking dogs kissed talking pigs. A young woman sick with a wasting disease drank an elixir given to her by an apparition in a mirror. Transformed, the young woman set off on a hero’s journey. She returned the next day riding a gray mare and bringing wonderful news–just beyond the hills, apples everywhere. Jeffrey Hermann's poetry and prose has appeared in Okay Donkey, Heavy Feather, Electric Lit, trampset, HAD, and other publications. Though less publicized, he finds his work as a father and husband to be rewarding beyond measure.

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

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

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

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

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

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