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During my time producing a TV series years ago, I became far too familiar with a term I'd previously heard used only in passing:  stage mothers.  These were moms – and sometimes dads – who not only lived vicariously through their acting offspring, but worse, used them as a primary means of financial support. It was only after my first-born son fell in love with baseball that I learned there was a correlative of sorts:  baseball dads.  What they share with stage mothers and fathers is the vicarious thrill and the excessive focus, but with no immediate monetary payoff.  Instead the goal is aspirational:  that their future star will become a future Clayton Kershaw, Aaron Judge, or Shohei Ohtani, earning millions en route to the Hall of Fame.  These fathers – and occasionally mothers – spend countless hours not merely playing catch or pitching batting practice, but also scraping together the bucks for instructors, nutritionists, and gear.  In some cases that goes so far as to underwrite the costs of travel teams designed to showcase their kids as shortstop, centerfielder, or pitcher. Though I played high school baseball and attended an occasional game – the Yankees before I left the East Coast, the Dodgers when I came to LA – I'd assumed my kinship to the sport was largely ancient history. That began to change when Jonas, still in preschool, was recruited by the older kids to play wiffle ball and catch on our quiet street in the Hollywood Hills.  The love affair was cemented when my wife and I took him to his first Dodger game, then enriched even more when, in full Dodger gear, he won a Best Halloween Costume award at the local rec center. As he was about to start kindergarten, in search of a neighborhood with flat streets we moved to Santa Monica.  No surprise that when baseball season neared, I tried to sign Jonas up for t-ball.  To my dismay, I was told that because he was not yet 6, he'd have to wait a year.  “But he can hit pitching,” I stated, only to have the Little League president say, “I doubt that.” Undaunted, I found a park league eager to accept him.  There he exulted first in t-ball, then in what's known as 5-Pitch, where each team's coach does the pitching. When that season ended, Jonas wanted to move up to something more competitive:  real baseball.  Fortuitously, a friend told me about Fall Ball in the San Fernando Valley.  Though neighbors were stunned that I would make the trek “over the hill” early on Saturday mornings, the experience was great.  Above and beyond being able to hit live pitching – and take to the mound himself – he was thrilled to be among kids who prized baseball over video games and ski trips.  The irony is that after baseball, Jonas would change into his soccer uniform as we sped back to Santa Monica, then score a couple of goals while other kids complained about being hot, thirsty, or tired. Despite the joy from playing, there was something that made him self-conscious:  he was short for his age.  Recognizing his distress, I asked him which kid had the kind of height he'd like to have.  When he pointed toward a chubby kid named Joseph, I made him a promise.  “In a few years, you'll be able to use the top of his head as an armrest.”  That became a running joke between us until one day Jonas finally asked how and why I could say that.  Gesturing toward Joseph, who was standing nearby with his parents, I asked, “What do you notice about the dad?” “He's tiny.” “And the mom?” “Tinier.” “And what do you notice about Joseph?” “Tell me.” “He's got the beginning of a mustache, which means he's not going to grow much more.  Understand now?” Jonas nodded, still wishing he were taller. There are turning points in everyone's life.  For Jonas, an important one was going to the UCLA baseball camp.  Clearly he made an impression on the head coach, who invited him to be a guest bat boy for a game the following Spring.  What started as a one-time opportunity soon led to additional invitations, then an offer to do the job whenever there was no conflict with school or his own baseball schedule. Since we had no family on the west coast, in addition to providing exposure to baseball at a high level, it also meant the players became surrogate older cousins.  As a result, during school vacations, we would use the UCLA schedule as an excuse to travel to the Bay Area to see the team play against Stanford or Berkeley. Being the bat boy also allowed Jonas to make use of his other great love:  art.  Hesitantly at first, then with increasing zeal, he started drawing his choice as player of the game whenever UCLA won, with the results hanging on the clubhouse wall. Another turning point came when Manny Adams, the switch-hitting second baseman – and nephew of the head coach – approached me one day after a game.  “How would you feel,” he asked, “if I teach Jonas how to switch-hit?”   “If he's up for it,” I replied, “fine with me.” That turned out to be a benefit long before having to deal with curveballs or sliders.  Scheduled to play “up” on a tournament team with kids a year or two older, Jonas thought his chance was over when he broke his left arm playing basketball.  Stuck in a cast, he was stunned when his coach showed up unexpectedly at our house.  “If I can get a waiver,” he asked, “will you pitch and hit?”  Jonas, not surprisingly, turned to me.   “If the doctor says it's okay,” I stated, “it's fine with me.” That was trial by fire for Jonas batting left-handed, and he acquitted himself both hitting and pitching.  Thanks to the discovery of batting cages in Culver City before the area became gentrified, Jonas found himself among a new group of kindred spirits – kids for whom baseball was far more than a participation or seasonal sport.  It was there that he bonded with another young switch-hitter – Covelli Crisp – who was three grades ahead of him in school. When the owner of the cages, an ex-minor-leaguer named John Slack, initiated an invitation-only eight-week program for kids moving up to varsity in high school, an exception was made for Jonas, who was still in eighth grade. Each Sunday, John and a couple of his ballplayer pals put them through rigorous drills – fielding, hitting, bunting, running the bases, and stealing – dividing the focus between fundamentals and game situations.  Then they would finish with some baseball lore. The youngest, and easily the shortest, of those on the field, Jonas surprised me – and perhaps himself – by holding his own among guys, including his friend Covelli, who were high school studs. I, meanwhile, got my first serious taste of baseball dads and their chatter.  It was during those afternoons that I encountered what seemed almost like an obscure vocabulary:  scouts, showcases, Area Code games, hitting gurus, and the like.  For the most part, I kept to myself with one exception, a friendly guy named Loyce who was Covelli's dad. On week eight, instead of training, I got a look at a whole other universe when John's proteges played a double-header against a travel team composed of high-schoolers from Westchester, Inglewood, and Compton. Because pride was at stake, not merely for the guys who'd been training with John, but also for John himself, I hoped that Jonas would carry his weight.  He did more than that, getting a double batting lefty in game one, plus two singles from the right side in game two, as well as pitching a scoreless inning in relief. As the teams were shaking hands in the aftermath, I watched the opposing coach put his arm around Jonas, then walk with him toward me.  Introducing himself as Anthony Anderson, he allowed Jonas to speak. “He'd like me to join his travel team,” Jonas announced to me. “Okay if I ask what's involved?” “One, sometimes two, practices a week,” said Anthony. “And since we don't have enough fields to host a tournament, weekends away once in a while.” Having attended an urban high school, I had a happy sense of deja vu seeing Jonas become one of only two white kids on a predominantly Black team. Traveling to tournaments in towns like Fontana and Poway that had previously been only names on a map, I got an even greater sense of the hopes and dreams of the baseball dads, as well as the pressure faced by their sons. Every game, every at-bat, every stint on the mound was tantamount to do-or-die for many of them.  On top of that was the dissatisfaction if their kid was playing second base instead of shortstop, left field instead of center, or batting 8th or 9th instead of 3rd or 4th.  Or worse, sitting on the bench.  More troubling than the grumbling about coaching decisions that might impair their sons' futures, was the sense, never fully articulated, that it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if one of the anointed players sprained an ankle or developed arm trouble. But Jonas was having fun, and that's what mattered to me. That ended when problems with personalities and finances caused the team to implode. Fearing that his travel days were over, Jonas got a bail-out by a call from the coach of a team he'd played against.   “Dad,” he said after asking the coach to hold, “can I play for the Channel Island Mariners?” Taking the phone, I thanked the coach for the offer, but mentioned that while weekend games and tournaments weren't a problem, it would be next to impossible to get Jonas to practices in Ventura County. Happily, a solution was found.  Jonas would be on the honor system, promising to hit at the batting cage at least once a week, as well as throwing what's called a bullpen session by having me catch him at one of the local parks. This quickly became a different kind of experience.  First, the roster was almost entirely Latino, yielding friendships that carried on through high school and beyond.  Also, it was far better organized and funded, which made for a higher level of tournaments, including periodic trips to Las Vegas. But with the uptick came even more pressure from the baseball dads and moms.  That was true among the Mariners, but even more so among most of the teams that they faced, some with coaches who were paid significant amounts of money, which commensurately upped the expectations. Then came an offer for Jonas to join a team in a new Spring league.  With no geographical boundaries, and better competition than what was available locally, it sounded promising.  Again Jonas turned to me, since it wasn't only permission that was necessary, but also lots of driving.  That resulted in a conversation with John Torosian, the effusive coach who would have an impact first on my son's life, then later on mine. Entering high school in September, Jonas was asked to play with the varsity in a handful of Saturday games against non-conference opponents.  Since he was the only freshman, the head coach couldn't figure out how, instead of the juniors and seniors getting greetings and hugs from guys on other teams, it was Jonas, thanks to his time on the travel circuit. As those practice games were drawing to an end, Jonas got a phone call while we were having breakfast one Saturday.  Midway through the call he turned to me.  “Covelli wants me to try out for a team.” “Find out where and when,” I replied. Only after he hung up did I learn the “where” was Compton, and the “when” was the following Saturday. Having already agreed, I didn't say no. Thus began a long-term relationship with Compton Baseball Academy Training – CBATS – run by Gerald Pickens, who almost single-handedly kept youth baseball alive in that tough part of Los Angeles County.  In addition to being the only white kid on the team, Pickens, better known as G, later informed me that Jonas was the first white friend for most of the team members.  For them it was a new phenomenon culturally, but not as much as it was for Jonas, who got to experience the racism – sometimes couched, other times explicit – that the team faced when traveling to places where players like Unique Johnson, Marquis Jackson, Avante Rose, and even Covelli were presumed to be gangbangers. Travel they did, using grant money to play in a big tournament in Arizona, then an even more important one in Alaska.  To my son's surprise, I chose not to accompany the team to faraway places.  Because many of the kids were fatherless or had dads who couldn't afford to make such trips, I didn't want the only white kid to be different.  Nor did I want anyone to feel that Jonas was getting special treatment because of my presence.  Most importantly, I didn't want Jonas to have divided loyalties.  Without me, he could more easily be one of the guys. The period of calm we anticipated during the Christmas break vanished when Jonas got an emergency call from Covelli.  He was set to play in a tournament in San Diego for a team called Long Beach Breakers who, due to injuries and illness, found themselves short of manpower. On a roster filled with high school seniors, including two who went on to long careers in Major League baseball – Chase Utley plus Covelli, soon to be known as Coco Crisp – Jonas handled second base as the Breakers played six games in seven days against other future big leaguers including Horacio Ramirez (Braves) and Ryan Garko (Cleveland). At last came Jonas's first official high school season, from which three experiences stand out.  The first, as he was alone in the locker room, changing for practice, came when three Latino gang members burst in and started pushing him around until a metal bat was heard banging against a locker.  Turning, they saw an angry third baseman, Junior Barba, glaring menacingly.  “What the fuck you doing?” Junior demanded. “Messin' with the white motherfucker.” “Ain't no white motherfucker!” snarled Junior, who a few years later would be convicted of  murder.  “That's my teammate.  Mess with him, you mess with me!” The second happened during a rare televised game against El Segundo, then ranked #1 in the country.  With Santa Monica leading by a run, Jonas was moved from second base to the pitcher's mound to seal the victory.  He got the save, with the last out coming when he struck out a 1st team All-American, Alberto Concepcion, who would be drafted a month later by the San Diego Padres. The third came when Dan Kramer, a pitcher from Jonas's bat boy days at UCLA, arrived at a game against Torrance just in time to see Jonas hit his first high school home run.  That resulted in an invitation to be part of a select team Dan was assembling, all of whom went on to play college and/or pro ball, including Skip Schumaker, now the manager of the Texas Rangers. By the time his sophomore year was underway, two things had changed.  Thanks to travel ball, plus a growth spurt that meant he was no longer the shortest guy on the team, Jonas started receiving newfound attention.  First came profiles in both the LA Times Westside Section and the Santa Monica Evening Outlook.  Next, inquiries from college coaches.  Best of all was an invitation from Astros scout Doug Deutsch to play on his Fall Scout Team, on which he was assisted by a Twins scout named Bill Mele.  That meant 18 innings of high level wood bat baseball each Saturday by prospects who were occasionally joined by pros wanting an off-season workout. An even more unexpected surprise came my way thanks to Jonas' old coach John Torosian.  Away from youth baseball, he was a real estate investor transitioning into producing indie films.  His request was for me to look at a script he called a psychological thriller, which put me in an awkward spot since I didn't want to sully a relationship.   The moment I finished reading, the phone rang.  “So?” John asked. “Let me put it mildly,” I answered.  “It's neither psychological nor thrilling.” I heard John gulp.  “Since we've got a start date, any way to save it?” “First,” I offered, “make it about the dad whose daughter was killed years ago, not the killer.” “Okay.  And?” “Instead of a local cop, make the investigator a female FBI officer who shows up in town.” “Because?” “You've got a fish-out-of-water dynamic, plus a love interest.” “When can you start a rewrite?” Though I explained that I was midway through a largely autobiographical screenplay that I didn't want to abandon, John persisted.  “What'll it take to persuade you?” “I'll coin a phrase.  Let me direct.” “Why you?” “I'm presuming this is low budget.  If you get somebody who does this for a living, midway through shooting, he'll be worrying about his next payday.” “But you –?” “Will want it as a calling card.” To my dismay, I went from projects where I was only the writer, merely the writer, and sometimes no longer the writer to being the director.   Nor would this be the only time my involvement with youth baseball led to an unexpected change in my career. Fortunately, at a time when I was too busy rewriting, casting, and scouting locations for chauffeuring duties, Jonas was now old enough to drive.  Searching for a used car that would be fun as well as useful, we found a rebuilt '68 Camaro that tickled his fancy. Then came filming, which meant that I was busier than ever.The word I got from a couple of dads made it sound like while Doug Deutsch and Bill Mele were great, the intensity among many of the parents was at a level I hadn't yet witnessed.  Some of them jockeyed Doug and the opposing coaches, others tried to hobnob with scouts who showed up, and many handed out stat sheets. But Jonas, who played shortstop except for pitching an inning each weekend, seemed happy with the level of play and the camaraderie, which was all I cared about.  When scout ball ended, Jonas rejoined the Channel Island Mariners for a holiday tournament, then took a breather before the high school season. Unbeknownst to his mom and me, more and more of his time was devoted to art, but of a different sort. Surreptitiously, he'd moved into the world of graffiti – which we later learned meant numerous narrow escapes from the law.  Years later, his mother still finds herself wondering if one day the FBI will knock on our door. One evening when we were out for tacos, Jonas turned to me with a smile.  “Know what?  You were right,” he stated. “About?” “Remember the kid I wished I was as big as?” He pointed at Joseph, from soccer years before, who was entering the restaurant with his parents. “Yeah?” I replied. “I probably could use the top of his head as an armrest.” I did my best to schedule post-production on the thriller so that I could attend as many of  Jonas' high school games as possible. While the stands often had parents chirping about their sons' lack of playing time, I quietly wished for the opposite.  Expected to go the distance on the mound on Tuesdays, then play shortstop on Thursdays and Saturdays, part of me wished that Jonas could occasionally save his arm by being the designated hitter. But since he was the guy, that wasn't meant to be. Because he was roped in by his English teacher into working on the school paper, the passive voice was used more often than not in his accounts of the ball games.  Not allowed to mention his own name, articles tended to report that “A one-hitter was pitched,” or “A home run was hit,” without mentioning by whom. That was more than compensated for by the presence of scouts and college recruiters at many of his games, both home and away. But a game at Torrance High left me troubled.  With Santa Monica leading 2-0, their defense fell apart in what should have been the 7th and final inning.  A routine ground ball to the second baseman was booted.  Next the kind of fly ball known as a “can of corn” was misplayed by the centerfielder.  Then a passed ball by the catcher allowed both runners to advance.  Followed by the sort of dribbler called a “swinging bunt” that allowed the lead runner to score, and the other to reach third.  Finally, a sacrifice fly, and the game was tied. I cringed as I saw the coach approach Jonas, clearly asking if he could keep pitching.  Since he considered himself a gamer, Jonas took the mound in the 8th inning, then the 9th, and again in the 10th after Santa Monica took the lead. That pitchers are only allowed to throw a maximum of ten innings per week does not mean it's wise or healthy to do so in one game, which ups the pitch count significantly. Though I didn't know it then, Jonas would ultimately have to deal with the consequences. The summer before senior year proved to be a whirlwind.  In addition to playing in a Connie Mack league where he was the only member of a team called the Thunder who hadn't played college ball, Jonas had two invitational wood bat showcases looming. First came the Area Code Games, in which every team was sponsored by a Major League team, with Jonas playing for the home town Dodgers, coached by a scout named Artie Harris. Compared to what I'd witnessed before, this was baseball dads on steroids.  With the stands packed with scouts and their superiors – area supervisors, cross-checkers, even members of front offices – plus college coaches galore, and numerous agents, everything was of a different order of magnitude. Dads – and moms – buzzed around, handing out stat sheets, cozying up to everyone of importance they could find, and praying for a great performance from their would-be star. On the Dodgers, Jonas had a rare distinction – the only one who got to play a position, hit, and pitch. To his surprise, he was also approached by younger kids wanting his autograph. Whereas the Area Code games were held at a college ballpark – the home of Cal State Long Beach – Team One upped the ante even higher.  Held at the Miami Marlins stadium, it carried the notion of showcase – and the baseball dad syndrome – to heights I never dreamed possible.  Hoping to adjust to the three-hour time change and the humidity, Jonas and I flew in a couple of days early, spending time at the beach, then at a Marlins game. Also, so as not to be completely overwhelmed by the circus-like atmosphere, we stayed at a hotel far enough to have an escape valve. That proved to be a wise move, enabling us to catch our breath at night. Fall meant more scout ball for the Astros, followed by another holiday tournament. By the time spring practice for the high school season began, the kid who'd been self-conscious about his height stood 6'3”, making him the tallest player on the team. The season flew by in record time.  But despite the highlights, which included Jonas pitching a no-hitter in a Spring tournament where he was named MVP, I was concerned.  In games when he was pitching, I often saw him surreptitiously rotating his shoulder, which seemed to be tightening up.  But when asked, Jonas denied any problem. That was especially not broached with scouts or with college coaches. As his high school career was coming to an end, there were two key questions.  First, was Jonas a switch-hitter who could pitch, or a pitcher who could switch-hit for power?  Second, college or pro ball? Years as the UCLA bat boy, where Jonas experienced all the fun both on and off the field – including two trips to Hawaii – made college life hard to pass up.  That was reinforced on his recruiting trips.  In contrast was what he heard from friends who spent time in the lower rungs of the minor leagues, which sounded punishing:  long bus trips, a dog-eat-dog environment, and rudimentary living situations. College became his choice. With Jonas headed to the East Coast, I assumed I was due for a period of baseball withdrawal.  That was soon compounded by a Hollywood strike that brought scripted production to a halt. As luck would have it, a producer I knew asked if I had something that could get us into production legally.  “How about a documentary?” I responded. “About?” Suddenly an idea popped into my head.  “The Latinization of baseball,” I blurted.  “On the field and in the stands.” “How much?” he asked. “How much you got?” I joked, figuring the cost would depend upon the size of the crew, plus the amount of travel. It was only because of scouts I'd gotten to know thanks to Jonas that I was able to enter the largely hermetically sealed world of baseball.  Artie Harris opened the door not merely with key Dodgers execs and players, but also to their pioneering academy in the Dominican Republic.  Doug Deutsch paved the way with the Astros, both in Houston and at their academy in Venezuela.  Bill Mele facilitated my welcome by the Twins.  From there the opportunities grew exponentially. Together with a cinematographer and sound man, off I went to Cuba, the Dominican, Venezuela, and Puerto Rico, then Spring Training in Arizona, which I assumed would be the end of my travels. That changed when Orlando Cepeda, whom I interviewed thanks to a scout for the Giants, insisted I come to Cooperstown.  He and Juan Marichal were my wranglers for people like Sparky Anderson, Gaylord Perry, and Tony Perez, who were in town for the Hall of Fame inductions. By the time I got to see Jonas play college baseball, he had reinvented himself as a sidearmer.  Though he claimed that changing his delivery made him more effective, I sensed that it owed to the arm trouble I'd feared during his senior year of high school. Sadly, my suspicions proved to be true.  Though Jonas had success both pitching and hitting, inevitably something snapped.  After surgery to repair his torn labrum and rotator cuff, Jonas went through painful rehabilitation, with scouts calling every so often to check on his progress. Then came the slow process of regaining arm strength, followed by a workout in front of several scouts. Despite throwing well that day, Jonas realized that his future would not be in baseball due to the pain that ensued. While painful for me to see his dream end, it was infinitely tougher for Jonas.  Fortunately, baseball was not his only love. Taking a job as a bartender while trying to figure out what to do with the rest of his life, he spent time non-working hours painting canvases, which led one of his paintings being selected for a group art show. When the show ended, the gallery owner returned the painting to Jonas at the bar where he was working.  There, it was spotted by a regular who was intrigued. “Want to try doing a mural?” he asked upon learning that Jonas was the artist.  That's how Jonas painted a wall at the Floyd's Barber Shop in West Los Angeles, which turned into commissions at Floyd's around California and as far away as Denver and Lexington, Kentucky. To mark the passing of SportsCenter's Stuart Scott, Jonas painted a tribute near the Los Angeles Airport, which quickly went viral, leading it to be seen at the ESPY's that year. That led to his iconic “Touch Of Venice” on the street where Orson Welles filmed the astonishing opening sequence of “Touch Of Evil.” Best of all, art led Jonas back into the world of sports.  He was the muralist commissioned by the Dodgers to commemorate the 75th anniversary of Jackie Robinson's Major League debut, and is now the go-to guy for the Dodgers, Lakers, Kings, Chargers, and the LAFC, as well as the Tiger Woods-Genesis Golf Tournament. As a baseball dad who now focuses on documentaries, I couldn't be happier. Alan Swyer is an award-winning filmmaker whose recent documentaries have dealt with Eastern spirituality in the Western world, the criminal justice system, diabetes, boxing, and singer Billy Vera. In the realm of music, among his productions is an album of Ray Charles love songs. His novel 'The Beard' was recently published by Harvard Square Editions.  His newest film is "When Houston Had The Blues."

Seeing the  Station Closed. No Entry  sign put me in a sour mood. The 125th St. station was literally right across from my office, and beyond convenient. I’m normally not one to complain, but with late-night sub-freezing temperatures, I just had no interest in weaving through aimless pedestrians to the 116th St. station. Unfortunately, the alternatives appealed to me even less. I’ve gotten one too many bad reviews on Uber, and they cost way more than I’m willing to spend on a commute. Buses are almost always mired by traffic, and almost every driver I’ve ever encountered was certifiable. The subway, for all its issues, is the most predictable, cheap and consistent in speed. Once I board a car, I can just check out and wait to arrive. Having been too busy to respond sooner, I replied to a text from my girlfriend that I was finally on my way home, and then hugged my coat around myself in a meaningless effort to keep warm before starting off in the direction of 116th Street. The hour was later than expected. She would be mad, but I had no other choice. My legal team had received a massive contract, and found several major discrepancies the other party had either missed or willfully neglected. I’m used to 60+ hour work weeks and well-paid for it, but after the tedium of re-reviewing the entire document with a fine-toothed comb, I wanted nothing more than to go underground and let the train transport me.  Something about being underground has always appealed to me. Barreling through the tunnels and peering into the endless dark always put me in mind of my History and Anthropology studies – the Ancient Greeks’ conception of Hades, to be specific. Most movies depict the Greek underworld as a hellscape, as if Zeus equals God and Hades equals Satan. but if you read the academic literature on the subject, it was a totally different interpretation of the hereafter. Everyone crossed over to Hades after death, regardless of who they were. Judgment was someone else’s job. I likely could have had a career in history or anthropology, but there was a recession on when I graduated, and my loans were through the roof, so a postgraduate law degree it was.  I checked my phone just as a gust of wind belted me in the face, forcing my chilled frown into a grimace. No response from Min to my previous text. A fragment of a recent argument flickered through my memory, but I blocked it out, shoving the device back into my pocket with more force than intended. I reached the stairs of the 116th St. station, and descended, leaving the cacophony of traffic and humanity behind me, trying to push the thoughts of my girlfriend away. I had about ten minutes before the next car came in, and from what I could see, the station was empty. This was a bit of a surprise, but it suited me fine. An invariable aspect of public transit is always feeling like I need to shower whenever I’ve used it. Call me misanthropic, but I’ve seen the numbers. As a general rule, most people in the city are dirty. I had been waiting at the station for about five minutes when I realized I wasn’t actually alone. A gaunt, balding, white man stood far to my left, leaning over a derelict on the floor, slouching against the wall. He dressed in gray and had circular wire-framed glasses with a body and demeanor so frail, I probably wouldn’t have noticed him at all if he hadn’t been stooping over the derelict. Unable to look away or contain my curiosity, I directed my eyes to his feet. He had placed a brown leather briefcase on the floor, and had it opened toward himself in such a way that I could not see the contents. I assumed they were conducting some kind of illegal business when, in one swift movement, he plunged his hand into the derelict’s chest and, after feeling around a bit, extracted a small ball of pulsing white light. He then set the ball down in his briefcase, and closed it.  I realized I was staring when the man in the suit picked up his briefcase and walked toward me. I quickly turned away and looked toward the wall across the tracks.  The man continued his approach until he stood only a few feet away. “Excuse me, do you know if this line goes to Queens?” he asked in a sort of mellifluous English accent. “Uh, no,” I said, without really thinking about his question, “I think you need to get off at 42nd Street and switch lines.” He nodded curtly, as though he didn’t care either way. I suppose I could have given him better directions than that. Queens wasn’t part of my route and my mind was too preoccupied to think critically about where he wanted to go. Without being too blatant, I glanced over at the derelict. He hadn’t moved since I’d last looked at him, and he appeared to have stopped breathing. “Did you—What did you just do to that guy?” “He died,” the man said simply. I didn’t know what to say. I had hardly believed my eyes, but I knew what I saw. The man had pulled a ball of light about the size of his fist from the derelict’s chest, and put it in his briefcase. No blood. No incision. It was as if the dead man had faded from existence. “He died?” I asked. The man nodded to me, “Should we, like, let someone know?” “It’s already been called in. I got here early.” “Right. And that thing was his…” I gestured to his briefcase, trailing off at a loss for words. He looked at me plainly, his face carrying the dispassionate expression of an overqualified craftsman, used to fielding the same questions about his profession day in and day out. “His life,” he said to me. “Always a bit of a shock seeing it, I know, but we’re not allowed to display souls for the purpose of advertising,” I should have left right then and there—just taken the Uber, but the thought of my low customer rating coupled with my curiosity kept me from doing so. The carefree manner in which this man had walked away from the dead vagrant was somehow both vulgar and thrilling, and I found myself drawn to his confidence. The train pulled into the station, and we both got on board. “I’m sorry, so… you stole his life ?” I whispered.  “Oh no, I just collected  it,” he sighed as if this should be obvious. “He’s dead.”  On the surface alone, there were several dozen ontological questions floating around my mind concerning the nature of life outside a physical body and how or why they manifested as balls of light, but I was too consumed with other questions to waste time on these.  “So… does that make you Death?” I asked, following him as he made his way to a seat. “Hm… well, after a fashion, I suppose,” He said, nodding.  Far away from scythes, cloaks and skeletal specters on Swedish shores, this man had all the sterilized vapidity of an auditor in his mid-to-late forties. Still, the prospect that he might actually be Death made me nervous. Why else would I see Death, unless it was my time?  Up until this point, I had suspected that he was playing some kind of bizarre joke on me, but I couldn’t figure out why he would have chosen me as the sole recipient of something so clearly elaborate, particularly when he seemed to treat me with such disinterest. It had occurred to me that he could have been an impressive street magician, but there again, I felt like they typically performed for audiences larger than a single man on the subway. A third option was that the man was just off his rocker. He certainly wouldn’t be the only one in New York, but something about him seemed totally genuine and sane. On top of that, there was the issue of the glowing fistful of light he pulled from the derelict’s chest and put in his briefcase. It was so far beyond convincing, I couldn’t help but take it at face value. We sat down next to each other, and he set his briefcase on his lap. I noticed that the combination locks were jumbled. No chance that I could get in there to take a closer look , I surmised. “What did you mean by that exactly?” I asked, as the doors closed, and the car kicked to life. “I’m sorry?” He asked me. “You said, ‘After a fashion.’” I repeated, “Like, are you Death or not?” He paused to collect his thoughts. I felt good knowing that I could pose such a hard question for Death to answer. I felt that if I were alive during medieval times, my ability to outsmart Death would have branded me as a sort of dark-horse traveler. Unfortunately, the role of dark-horse traveler in modern society was impossible to maintain financially unless you were independently wealthy or a vagrant. “The thing is,” he said to me, “That’s rather a misconception that a lot of people have. I’m only one of many employees, and we’re not just ‘Death’ per se.” “Uh… come again?” I asked. He spoke so fast, I missed the majority of what he said. I felt the advantage of my intelligence slipping away. I had to reconnoiter.  “Well, first of all,” he began, struggling to find the words, “There’s not just one ‘Death’ responsible for closing lives out. I work with many agents—thousands really. Which makes sense. I mean, how else could we be in so many different places at once? You might as well believe in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy—and they’re endlessly more plausible than the notion of a single Grim Reaper or an Angel of Death.” “They are?” I asked. “The number of teeth lost in a day, and presents given on a single night are far exceeded by the number of deaths that occur in a 24-hour period,” He said to me. I saw his point. I could feel my advantage growing again. If he was going to try to take my life, he wasn’t going to get it without a fight. I was a fairly successful lawyer and I wasn’t about to just take death lying down like that derelict. “So how do you become an Angel of Death– or are you a subcontractor or something?” I asked. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. Up close, I could see bags under his eyes and graying stubble that hid in plain sight from a distance. It occurred to me that like myself, the man had been pulling long hours.  “Well again, we’re not so much angels as we are agents ...” he said.  “So you’re an agent  of Death?” “Uh, no. Death collection is just one of our responsibilities…” He muttered, “Let’s see, I suppose I went about this backwards…” He paused to collect himself and held up a brittle hand to clarify. Taking out his wallet, he fished in one of the pockets, extracted a small card and handed it to me. A QR code sat at the top next to a large harp logo, under which minimal text read from top to bottom:   Arlington Hough Account Manager Life Ltd. “I’m an account manager for Life Ltd. I, like many others, manage both lives and  deaths,” he explained. I detected a small shadow of forgotten pride, but paid it little attention. A vague everyday memory clicked into place next to what he was showing me. Somewhere in the back of my memory the name Life Ltd. floated around with terms like death collection and EOL scores, but I had never given them much consideration before. “Life Ltd,” I read aloud, “Are you the ones with the commercials with all those black and white vistas?” Arlington nodded, “‘ We’re ready for you, so you can be ready for what comes next ,’” he intoned before rolling his eyes and shaking his head, “Awful slogan.” “Right,” I said, “I always thought you guys were a life insurance company.”  “You wouldn’t be alone. It’s an industry-wide problem if I’m honest.” “Interesting. And as an account manager, you manage death and life?” I asked. He directed his eyes upward to think.  “Uh… As I said, most people have it all wrong,” he paused, “Each life is an account we’re assigned to manage. An agent is assigned to new lives every day. One of us comes in, opens up the account, and that’s the beginning of the new life. Most lives are grandfathered into policies. If your parents were with Life Ltd, chances are you are too. The same would go if they were with Karmic, RM&A or Spritus. And it’s not just human life either. Life Ltd. has a range of departments, each of which covers different kingdoms or genuses depending on the complexity of the demographic. In the case of myself, I’m in the Primate Department on the negative fifth floor of the New York Branch. But all plantlife falls under a single department on the negative second. And then felines and canines fall under their own departments, on the negative 21st and 22nd, respectively.”   I wasn’t sure what to say, but I was following him, save for the quivering feeling inside me that the very fabric of reality was shifting. “In any case,” he continued, “once accounts are opened, lives pretty much take care of themselves. We’re seldom involved in the general goings on of existence. We basically just keep track of your credit rating, and collect your life upon your time of death. Upon your EOL– or end of a life– whenever that time comes, we close down your life account, and a record of it is stored in a filing cabinet in the sub-basement to be used for reference if need be.” The subway car stopped. I half considered getting off here and just walking the rest of the way home. What this guy was telling me was not the most pleasant news. I thought about the various dramas playing out in my own life, and wondered what the point of it all was if I was just going to be stuck in a filing cabinet after I die. A sudden loneliness came over me. I was well into my twenties. How had I managed to miss this? Was this something everyone else was aware of? I thought about Min and our meager single-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. How would I explain this to her when I got home tonight? I checked my phone again. Still no response. Over the course of the last few months, radio silence on her end had become more and more the norm whenever I worked late. The sex had been getting worse as well and I half suspected her of cheating on me with one of the other editors at the Lightning Rod office. That was the online publication she wrote for. They covered up-and-coming bands throughout the indie music scene, and billed themselves as trendy, hip, and underground. Their Brooklyn office was in a basement with a lot of interior brick, mannequins in vintage clothing, and a kitchenette to help distract from their leaky drop ceiling. They’d been in operation for over ten years and offered the cultural capital associated with writing about more alternative music than Rolling Stone, but in a way that was “more accessible” than Pitchfork.  Really, it was just another place that traded in cultural capital, which is all most publications sell. In some ways, I’ve always envied this. Cultural capital is possibly one of the greatest inventions of modern capitalism. You hardly have to put any work into having it, and it can afford you all kinds of social accolades. On top of that, if you can write well enough, you can convince people you actually know what you're talking about enough to sell words to them. It's an amazing system. The editor Min was salivating over– a guy named Barri (yes, with an “i”) – was a king of cultural capital. I only met him once at a release party she dragged me to, but since we spent the entire evening in his company, I got a pretty good measure of him. He was essentially just a walking, breathing version of their office mannequins, with thoughts and opinions gleaned from a cursory skimming of about a year’s worth of articles on Substack. Not that she noticed. She doted on his every pontification, laughed at all his terrible jokes and melted into a puddle without him having to lift a finger.  As the subway car pressed onward, I envisioned how a mild flirtation might be turning into intercourse at this very minute. His crotch accidentally-on-purpose grinding her bony waist after a few drinks at the bar, followed shortly by their absconding to his apartment, where she would fling off his thick-framed 80’s glasses, unbutton his tight, sweat-enameled flannel shirt, and rub his greasy femme hair, while they scrubbed each other’s faces with their tongues. Were they ahead of the curve? Did they already know about companies like Life Ltd? Or were they too up their own asses to care? In asking myself this, I realized how I might turn this chance meeting with Arlington Hough to my advantage. The one thing stronger than cultural capital—the one thing that can afford you almost anything you want in life is a solid network. I now knew someone who was possibly more powerful than anyone else in my network. I wasn’t sure I had it in me to have Barri killed, let alone my girlfriend, but having a contact that sat in an office that traded life and death could possibly bring certain privileges.  I looked at him again. Up to this point, his tone had wavered between that of an overworked cynic who had all but given up, and a middle manager whose ambition hinged solely on an ingrained corporate mandate to sell whenever the opportunity presented itself. How would he respond to my offer? A few people boarded the car, the doors shut, and we were moving again.  “Well, I work at a corporate law firm, and have a pretty extensive network,” I said, lowering my voice, “maybe we can give each other some business?” “Oh… Unfortunately it doesn’t really work like that.” He groaned, “There’s rather a lot of paperwork you have to go through before EOL can be declared. You have to sign off on various statements to confirm it is the correct  time to close the account, and then you have to sit hours in Circumstance Division’s office just to verify with your supervisor that circumstances are present for you to close the account. If you don’t keep up, you’ll fall behind, and once that happens, you're fired and liable for any credit lost. They don’t waste time with you. If you can’t handle the job, they don’t care.” He sighed, took his glasses off, and again rubbed the bridge of his nose.  “That’s all life is really about when you get down to it: credit,” he continued, returning the glasses to his face. “Once you have cleared circumstance checks, you have to establish a clear credit history. Then you have to verify  the credit history. And believe me, if you think they won’t catch you for a lack of due diligence in verifying a life’s credit, then you are wrong. They will catch you—especially if you close prematurely. The thing is, the company can lose millions  if only a few agents jump the gun. Then, beyond that,  there’s still the role of interest fluctuations, securities, in securities, physical fitness, etcetera, etcetera, all of which have to be filed to establish the correct credit level which itself must happen before you can file an account away. The value of a life, er—your credit, can change quite rapidly in a very short amount of time, especially toward the end, since that’s when people really start thinking about their afterlife.”  “Wait, what about  the afterlife?” I asked. “Oh, well, that’s really most of what our ads are referring to: ensuring you can choose the best afterlife for yourself,” He said, an inquiring look on his brow. “Many people stick with the afterlife their parents went with simply because it’s what’s in front of them and easy, but you absolutely have a choice, unless of course your credit plummets, in which case your place is most certainly not guaranteed.”  He sat up again a bit straighter and forced his intonation to shift to one of sales, “For instance, personally, I am sponsored by the First National Purgatory of America, but that in no way locks in any of my accounts with First National. After your account is closed, the choice is still completely up to you. That said, what I can  do is tell you about the many advantages of going with First National and recommend several good policies to you through their office. “After the whole Bordwell v Greener Pastures  decision of ‘53, life management firms were barred from coordinating directly with afterlives without making customers aware of alternatives,” he added, his cynical inflection returning, “However, I can say that generally speaking, First National Purgatory of America can guarantee you a spot of space in their afterlife that is both stately and affordable.” “Wasn’t purgatory disbanded around 2007 or 8?” I asked him, recalling a news story I’d heard at the time. “Oh, you're thinking of the famous non-discrimination case. First Catholic Purgatory Holdings got slapped with a non-discrimination lawsuit over an admittance policy that had, up until that point, barred the unbaptized from their various subsidiary purgatories.” “What happened?” “Well, as I just said, First Catholic lost.” He said, “Hardly surprising, really. They had the market cornered in post-life dwelling and when you sit at the top for so long, it's only a matter of time until you fall. And of course fall they did. Two years after the court decision, they split up into five smaller purgatories.” He brightened up, “Great news for the small afterlife though.” “So, can I start looking at afterlives now?” I asked. “Absolutely,” he said emphatically, “In fact, I recommend it. So many people wait until the last minute to start looking at afterlives. They get fooled by cheap marketing schemes, make rushed decisions, and end up paying way more for an afterlife with little value. If you plan ahead, you can make much more rational decisions, and reserve yourself a nice place in an afterlife.” “What about Heaven?” I asked. “You mean Heaven Multinational?” he inclined his head. “I guess?” “If you're asking about getting in, well, let’s just say I wouldn’t get my hopes up. With the market like it is right now, and with Heaven in such high demand among Christians and agnostic generalists as the afterlife of their choosing, prices have gone from high to astronomical,” He said with a note of unease. “How many credits do you have?” “Well, I don’t know,” I said. My mind was suddenly racing to figure this out. If this were what lay beyond, I’d need to know how to get into the best afterlife. I began to feel flushed around my collar as various questions about afterlives consumed me. Who offered the best afterlife for the best value? How would I know where to start looking? What if I found an afterlife I liked, but it had no vacancy? Were other people getting into better afterlives ahead of me? I envisioned some lucky bastard who hardly worked a day in his life getting into a nice space of afterlife just because got in when the market was ripe. “I would recommend getting in touch with your life account management agent,” Arlington said, “He manages your account. He’ll know how much your life is worth.” “ You  don’t know?” I asked hopefully. “I’d have to see your account file.” “Can’t you just… divine  how good I am?” I asked. “Like… Isn’t that a job perk of being a life account manager?” It seemed perfectly logical. How did he know what to put in his paperwork when he closed an account? The car stopped again, and a few more people got on. I noticed that Arlington didn’t move. There were only a few more stops before 42nd Street. If he was planning on getting off at that stop, I would need to get the information I needed out of him fast.  “I,   personally, could not,” he said, “Even assuming you’re with us and not one of our competitors, I would need to obtain authorization from the agent assigned to you— who usually works out of the office that opened up your account at birth. That’s an old regulation.” “How can I tell which account provider I’m with?” I asked. “It should be on the back of your driver’s license.” He said. I quickly fished my license out of my wallet, and with a wave of relief found a logo on the back that matched the business card Arlington Hough had given me. Without saying anything, I held it up to show him. “Ah, well, that should certainly make a credit check easier.” He said, “Are you from the city, originally?” “No, I was born in Scranton,” I said. His face contracted. “Oh dear…” he said. “Is that bad?” I asked. “Scranton is one of our worst franchises.” “You mean, all your offices don’t offer the same service?”  “Well, ultimately, yes, we do,” he noted, “but the quality of that service depends on which franchise holds your account.” “And the Scranton Office is bad?” “As bad as our Guiyang office, I’m afraid. We hear about them all the time at meetings.” “Why don’t you guys offer the same service to everyone?” I objected. “We do ,” he said a bit defensively, “but keeping the franchises in competition with one another increases profitability, and keeps regulators off our backs. Just be glad you're not with RM&A.” “Who?”  “Rhadamanthys, Minos and Aiakos,” he said, shaking his head, “Imagine Aspen Dental were a life management firm...”  “Sure,” I said, urgently shifting the subject back to my present situation, “But so, if my account’s still in Scranton, can I transfer?” “It’s rather time-consuming, but yes,” he lamented, “If you get in touch with one of our agents at the New York Office, he can begin the necessary paperwork, do some internal background checking, and get back to you, usually, within the month. Though whether or not you can transfer also depends on your credit rating.” “What do they need to confirm it for? As long as they have my file, can’t  any of the agents in the New York office tell how good I am?” “Well, no,” he said wincing, “and unfortunately it’s not just about how ‘good’ you are. I mean, how good you are does factor into your credit rating slightly, but only insofar that being bad adversely affects it.” “I just want to make sure I get into a good afterlife,” I said, hoping sincerity would get him to help me out. Arlington pinned me down with his stare and took a small breath. “Right. Listen,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but account management firms make almost all our money through service and transfer fees, so it’s really all the same to me: Afterlives make out like they’re run by a merry band of angelic do-gooders. They are not. Most afterlives– particularly the so-called ‘good’ ones– are run by feral rat-bastards who will over-inflate the cost of an afterlife, squeeze you for all your worth and then avoid delivering half the accommodations they promised once you’ve moved in.” “For real?” “Absolutely. As I said, the really nice ones have become quite costly over the last few decades,” he said, “Heaven Multinational, Islamic Paradise United, Greener Pastures. The economic landscape has had a severe impact on the number of people able to get into all of them. And I’ve heard especially mixed reviews about HM’s neighborhoods. The properties seem nice enough, but what often ends up happening is that people pour all their credits into getting in, only to discover they have neighbors they don’t like. Radical Evangelicals living next to Unitarians. Jehovah’s Witnesses living next to Catholics. Rivalries have happened, and they can turn quite ugly.” I thought about this for a moment, as we came to a stop again. He brought up another good point. What if I got stuck with neighbors I didn’t like? I’d already spent years living out of my parents’ house with nasty neighbors that either vehemently forbade you to touch their lawn, or were constantly in competition with you over something. Not only would I have to avoid getting ripped off by one of these guys, I’d have to find a section of an afterlife that didn’t have assholes in it, too.  The car lurched forward again, and we sped onward. 42nd Street was next.   “But yes,” he went on, sitting up in preparation to exit the car, “I would recommend checking out some of the various purgatories or limbos. They’re not half bad.” He paused and reached into his pocket, “You should really get in touch with an agent at the New York office. He can determine how much you're worth. Between your net assets, calorie intake, emotional stability, your total consumption rate, overall maturity, etcetera, etcetera, he’ll be able to tell you what your worth now, and recommend a strategy for future credit growth.” He began writing something on another business card that he extracted from his wallet. I tried to see without being too obvious. “Hopefully he’ll also be able to get you transferred out of Scranton.” He handed me the card. “Here’s the address for our New York Office.” “Oh, okay. Great,” I said. I felt like I was gaining an upper hand again. If I was lucky, I might even be able to reserve a spot ahead of time. “Which contact method is best? Phone or website?” “The website’s chatbot function works, but its responses are limited and it won’t be able to retrieve credit reports. It will eventually reroute you to a contact form, but those are known to take days to process,” he lamented, “Calling our 1-800 number works, but it is frequently bogged down, usually because of people calling in to ask the most idiotic questions. As a third alternative, you may just want to schedule an appointment in person at your nearest convenience. It gets quite busy though, so I recommend you plan in advance.” The subway car stopped at 42nd Street. Arlington Hough stood up to leave. I think he said something to me like, “This is my stop,” but I don’t remember. I was too wrapped in thought, but before he got off, I realized I had one more thing to ask him.  “Wait a second,” I asked, running to catch him at the door, “When is the office open?” “Oh… 24/7,” he said plainly. Then he cocked his head, tipped an imaginary hat. “Death takes no holiday, mind you…”  With that, he left the car. The doors closed, and I was left alone to wait impatiently until the train reached its next stop. When the doors finally swung open again, I rushed out with more zeal and excitement than I’d felt in ages. I texted my girlfriend to let her know something had come up and I was going to be even later than expected, and was unsurprised to see she still had yet to respond to my first text.  Whatever. We’ll see who’s laughing when she sees the kind of afterlife I’ve landed. Forget killing Barri. Defying old lovers and cheating bastards by transcending their success was the sweetest revenge.  I decided to suck it up and called an Uber to the office Arlington Hough directed me to. While inside the vehicle, I took some time to think and I began to piece together exactly how I would attack this whole thing. The truth of it was I wanted to guarantee a place in a good afterlife, but ending it all would undoubtedly impact my credit, and dying prematurely might mean missing out on additional accruals. I’d been fairly successful so far, so it seemed reasonable to assume a credit increase was likely to happen. I would need to mature like fine wine. At the same time, I was well aware of the competition I faced against people who would die before me. I kept thinking of that homeless person getting into a neighborhood in the afterlife I wanted ahead of me simply because he died earlier that day and got in while prices were down.  The Uber arrived at the address Arlington listed, and sped off shortly after I got out. The building was large with a gleaming green logo and dim interior with matching light. Invigorated, I thrust open the door and strode into a vacant lobby with a single receptionist. It was massive, with a high drop ceiling and white, painted concrete floor that reflected the light of another glowing logo that hung over the receptionist’s desk. Every step I took echoed around the room, but the attendant did not acknowledge me until I stood over her. She was very dark-complexioned and youthful—practically looked 16, and wore an all-black fitted suit over a white shirt. “I’m here for a walk-in, please?” She looked up at me from her computer, and cocked her head to the side with a vague wince that bordered on melancholy ennui. After looking me up and down, she nodded wordlessly and shoved a form in front of me to fill out.  “Have a seat and fill this out, please,” she said with a rushed, deadpan voice. I got the impression she didn’t like her job or walk-ins.   The form started with the usual stuff: my name, date of birth, Social Security number, but following that, it began asking me for a whole slew of other information including but not limited to the last time I had had sexual intercourse, my reading interests, willingness to contribute a urine and hair samples, my major regrets in life, and whether I thought I still had time to rectify them. It took me about thirty minutes, but in that time, no new walk-ins had entered, and I started to feel like I’d picked the best time of the day to come to their office.  I finished the paperwork and slid it toward the receptionist. With another pained expression and a sigh, she rolled it up and put it in a pneumatic tube system. I watched as it was sucked away to who knows where. She then handed me a ticket with the number 200343 on it. “Walk to the end of the hall, until you get to the elevator,” she said with a stiff nod to the nearby hallway, “take it down to level -3. You’ll wait there until your number is called,” I forced a smile and headed off in the direction she indicated.  Yeesh… I thought. I realized it was late, but it seemed to me Life Ltd. could really stand to hire a receptionist with better people skills. Wondering briefly whether there would be a customer satisfaction survey after this whole thing was done, I put her out of my mind as I entered the elevator and eyed the buttons for the various floors. All negatives, they stretched as far as -47, beneath which was a single button labeled with the abbreviation Sub . Subduing my curiosity, I pressed the -3 button and descended.  When I reached my floor, I was immediately greeted by another waiting room, only this one was vast, and packed with at least a hundred people. Dismayed, I checked over my shoulder to see if I’d gotten off at the wrong floor. I hadn’t. Signage declaring this floor the Homosapien department was unmistakable. I swerved around again. Modest, and sterile-looking chairs ran in rows all the way to the other end of the room, breaking only occasionally for the odd structural column. At the far side of the room were a set of doors and an enclosed reception window. I continued standing in mild bewilderment until the elevator doors slammed shut behind me, causing several bowed and waiting heads to steal sideways glances at me. I took several urgent steps forward, scanning for an empty chair, but careful not to disturb the delicate atmosphere of silence.  There is something primal about the modern waiting room. Entering one always seems to have a kind of gladiatorial quality, with various patrons sizing up new entrants first with a vague curiosity about where they fit vis-à-vis the established hierarchy of service providers and consumers, but that quickly gives way to veiled hostility. A new person always held the potential of upsetting the balance of time already spent waiting or worse: extending it. In a waiting room this size, that feeling was increased tenfold. After a few more sideways glances from restless clientele, the majority of them looked back down in near synchronicity to return to their cell phones or magazines, as if they were only mildly interested in me in the first place. Maybe they even convinced themselves this was the case, but for that second and a half, they were scared and suspicious. After weaving my way along a row of chairs I finally found a seat next to a large black woman and a glowering white guy with a scar down his cheek. His overall demeanor was unsavory, but I didn’t feel like spending another five minutes looking for a seat. I took out my phone and scrolled through social media until my device ran headlong into a wall of weak underground internet.  I glanced around the room looking for a guest wifi, but found none. A notable absence of magazines had me wondering how often people were called. I thought again about whether there would be a customer satisfaction survey when this was all over.  After a small eternity, a faint voice called out over an intercom.  “199,939 ,” it buzzed out. Shit. I thought. At #200343, I’d likely be stuck in this holding pattern for the next several days . I started to wonder if I could hold onto my number and just come back another day, but when I considered the alternative of missing my appointment and not knowing my credit rating, while these other people found out just by sitting around and waiting, I decided to stay.  I watched as 199,939 (an elderly man in a bowler hat) slowly made his way through the doors at the front of the room. The door made a thunderous bang when it closed. The black woman next to me shook her head slightly. I checked the time: It was nearly 2:00 AM. “How long have you been waiting?” I asked her. “Damned if I know…” she said, “I’m just trying to see if I can transfer some of my credit to my Grandmother– she passed away last year.” I nodded, thought about what she said, and had a small brain wave. Standing up, I approached the enclosed reception office.  “Can I help you?” She asked, with an intonation that bore the weight of a struggle I would likely never understand. Her voice was loud, and she wasn’t much of an improvement from the woman on the main floor. “Uh, yeah,” I said, trying to keep my voice down, partially out of politeness, and also in part out of the discomfort of being overheard by one of the other gladiators waiting behind me. “Are there, like, different number sets for different types of appointments?” “Huh?” she winged, “I’m sorry, sweetie, I can’t hear you.”  I repeated my question louder and within earshot of everyone.  “Are there different number sets for different types of appointments–  “No, listen, I’m sorry, honey,” she said– God, I hate it when they use terms of endearment , “There’s only one set of numbers. You’ll just have to wait your turn like everyone else, m’kay?”  She swirled her chair away, resumed her position and I shuffled back to my seat, averting my eyes from anyone that might be watching. This is not to say anyone actually watched, but I was sure the entire room heard and was now ridiculing my ignorance inside their heads. I resumed my seat next to the large black lady and the guy with the scar. They both ignored me.  God, what is so difficult about this ? I wondered. If there were thousands of agents and account managers, it shouldn’t be a problem to just check your credit and get a number. All these people had to do was go into the sub-basement and retrieve my file. Hell, they had pneumatic tubes. Wasn’t the point to have things running like clockwork? It occurred to me that the New York City office was probably just busier due to its prominence, and they probably have fewer agents on staff at night, but still, how hard was it to run to the sub-basement? The Sub-basement!  I suddenly remembered Arlington Hough saying that the files were kept in the basement. I could just go down and find my file single-handedly. I was a lawyer, and I knew how to read both business and  legal jargon; the file probably wasn’t too hard to interpret. Anyway, it was an account file—it all just came down to numbers. Not only that, but I was already dressed in a suit. Anyone who worked here and saw me would probably think I worked here, too. I could just go down, peek at my file, get an idea of what kind of credits I have, see if I could find a trend, and then book it out of here. It would be simple and painless.  I walked through the plan a few times in my head before standing back up, and a few additional benefits started to take form. If there weren’t too many people around when I went down there, I might even be able to take a picture of my file with my phone and create a duplicate. After some independent research on the different afterlives, I could identify one I really liked, hit up their  office, and maybe get my file in front of some key players. There were a number of ifs and thens about it, but it was a matter of life, death and an eternity. If this was my best opportunity to reserve a spot in a good afterlife without having to dick around with corporate bureaucracy, I had to take it. I glanced around the room to see if anyone was watching me, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized it had actually worked out that I got into it with the lady at the reception desk. Now when people saw me leaving, they would just think I was cracking under the pressure of the waiting room. I leaned into it. I stood up and briskly walked to the elevator, and made a point to tap the up button impatiently and heave a loud sigh before the doors opened up. I laughed to myself once the doors were shut behind me. Idiots.  Little did they all know that I had the leg up on them now.  I let the elevator take me up to the -1st floor, which was thankfully dark and empty. Once the doors shut again, I descended toward level Sub . As an additional stroke of luck, no one else got on the elevator on my way down, a fact which I attributed to the late hour. The agents were probably out collecting lives right now (In New York, definitely). I was lost in this thought when the elevator doors parted, and the enormity of my task came into focus. The sub-basement was endlessly more massive than the waiting room. The filing cabinets themselves were ten drawers high, with ladders on a runner system so the top ones could be reached. Row upon row of cabinets to both my left and right went on further than I could see, and the columns of filing cabinets seemed to extend into an equal distance. I felt like I’d slipped into Bertrand Russell’s daydream.  I looked to my immediate right to find a thick set of binders chained to a lectern with a CRT monitor perched on top of it. The word directory was barely legible under a layer of dust. More disconcerting was the silence. I could hear the occasional click and turn of a page in the distance, but at no point did I see any people. Though this was to my benefit, it gave me a creeping sensation of someone lurking out of sight. I quickly lifted the heavy cover of the binder and sifted through the first few pages. After searching through a sea of various genus and species, I found that primates started at row 43, and humans began at Column 73. Shit… I thought, Arlington wasn’t kidding.   Life Ltd. really did service all these lives. I put this out of mind and started off in the direction of my file at a brisk but dignified walk, avoiding the look of someone in a rush, while still moving quickly. I rounded the corner of row 43, into the primate section. I continued walking, feeling myself begin to breathe harder. Wishing that I’d worked out more often, I pushed on. By the time I reached the Capuchin section, I had broken into a sweat. The sheer length of each column of filing cabinets boggled my mind and I felt the kind of agoraphobia one might associate with being out in the middle of the ocean. I wished they’d installed some kind of rail system or provided a golf cart I could drive around in. It would certainly have saved a lot of trouble. I rewarded myself with a rest by the time I reached the Human section.  Leaning against a filing cabinet, I looked at the first drawer of the section. It was labeled Aaronsen –Aaronson .  Shit, this was going to take a while, too.  Gathering my strength, I pressed on, keeping my eyes on the names of the filing cabinets. Every now and then, I continued to hear faint sounds in the distance, as someone moved between adjacent filing cabinets. Each time I slowed my pace to see if this was someone keeping track of me, and each time their steps faded away, lost in whatever personal task they were busying themselves with. After yet another small eternity, I reached a drawer that had my last name on it. I slid a ladder over to my file, ascended, and pulled the drawer open. It was heavy and screeched open as though it hadn’t been touched in ages. I started sifting through all the files that bore my last name, and was surprised to see how often it came up. A few were family members, but most I’d never heard of. After going through several folders, I suddenly reached a new and different surname. I paged backward. The same thing: I wasn’t in this folder.  Was I in the wrong place? I wondered.  I thought back to what Arlington said, and just about fell off the ladder. “At the end of a life, whenever that time comes, we close down your life account, and a record of it is stored in a filing cabinet in the sub-basement to be used for reference if need be.”   Dammit! These were only records of the deceased!  I realized. No wonder it took me so long to get out here . I had walked through the files of every deceased primate serviced by this office since the beginning of primates. I closed the drawer in frustration and began the long haul back to the elevator. I wondered if I had it in me to endure the waiting room again, or if it would be better to just come back another day when I had more energy. I walked slowly through the empty rows of filing cabinets, considering my options. Upon reaching the elevator, however, I noticed two managerial types blocking my exit. They dressed in dark suits and looked angrier than Arlington. One of them was somewhat plump with muttonchops, and the other had the look of a long, dark undertaker.  “And just what do you think you’re doing here, sir?” said the Plump One. My mind raced. I had been cooking up some excuse in the back of my head in the event of such an occasion, but now the occasion had actually arrived, my mind raced to catch up to my mouth.  “…Oh I um…”  “You do know that insider trading is an illegal offense punishable by up to ten years in prison,” said the Undertaker, “as well as a substantial forfeiture of credits?”  Shit! Shit! Shit! My mind was reeling. “No-no, I’m not– I wasn’t,” I began, “I was just here to meet my agent and I got lost—“ “You accidentally skipped all -47 floors, made it to the sub-basement, and then wandered beyond the rather blatant Employees Only  sign?” Undertaker said to me. I actually had  missed the employees only  sign, but that was because I was in a rush to see my file.  “I wasn’t here to steal anything!” I said, “I just thought if I could see my file–” “You can’t see anyone’s files,” said Plump, “It’s a breach of our client’s privacy.” “It is?” “Not without strict authorization,” Undertaker responded in agreement with Plump, "Sifting through that kind of unredacted information is—well, it’s just unethical.”  I tried to think of something I could tell them that would make them understand. After all, I was just a normal guy trying to ensure that I had enough credit to get into the best afterlife for myself. They couldn’t blame me for that.  “Look, I’m just trying to ensure I get into a good afterlife, okay?” I said, “That’s the whole reason I came to your office. People are dying every day and I’ve worked way too hard to lose out on a good place in an afterlife!” “The afterlife you choose is a decision that is solely up to you, sir,” said Plump, “Life Ltd. agents can offer credit growth plans and recommendations to afterlives, but we make no guarantees on either. This is all part of the standard liability clause in the terms of service agreement appended to your birth certificate.” I looked at both of them as sweat beaded around my temples. Neither of their faces betrayed an underlying emotion. They were here to do a job. I felt two hands gently press against the small of my back, and the two guided me to the opening doors of the elevator.  “Listen, I’m willing to cooperate with you guys to end this all as quickly and painlessly as possible.” I began, trying to weave an escape out of thin air, “I am a rather successful lawyer…” The doors closed, and they said nothing. We began our ascent in silence.  “I'm just saying,” I continued, “Rules are what I do for a living. There has to be something I can do to make this right— without taking too much of a credit hit.” “Well, your credit will ‘take a hit’ whether you like it or not. ‘Rules,’ as you say,” Undertaker replied, “As for your afterlife options, it depends. Are you married or engaged?” “Why?” “While Life Ltd. cannot guarantee your place in an afterlife, for an additional fee, most afterlives do offer union or dependency clauses that allow a spouse to piggyback on their partner’s afterlife policy so they can occupy eternity together.” “Assuming eternity with your spouse is something that appeals to you…” Plump chided.   Versus an eternity in the section 8 circles of Hell? It absolutely appealed to me. Sure, my girlfriend and I were in a spot of trouble. Our work schedules had carved a distance between us, and that was to say nothing of her likely affair with Barri, but it had also not been so long before that we entertained the possibility of marriage. I had no particular feelings on it either way at the time, but hearing the two security guards on the elevator reminded me that marriage was more than a social custom. It was also a legal status, so revered and cherished over time, that it had been baked into how our society measured an individual. So much of our reputation, status and character rested on our ability to find someone we could love enough to spend the rest of our time with. Min and I were strong. Surely we could find our way back to each other and build an eternity together? The elevator dinged as we reached the ground floor, and my captors led me out to the hall and into a drab holding room with a single chair and a table with a phone on it. The moment they exited to fill out some paperwork, I made my move. I reached into my pocket to retrieve my phone when a burst of vibrations signaled a barrage of text messages I’d apparently been too deep underground to receive over the last hour. 6 unread texts. All from Min. Sorry. I fell asleep. What’s going on? Are you still out? Ffs where are you? Ugh. Can you call me when you get this? What the fuck? So you’re just ignoring me now? This is unbelievable. Fuck you. Whatever. I’m done. I didn’t want to break up with you by text, but here we are.  I read through each message at least twice. It certainly complicated the phone call I’d had mapped out in my head, but there was no other way around it. I needed her. With a deep breath, I thumbed my way down to her name and dialed. I had no idea what I was going to say, or how she would respond, but my afterlife depended on it. There was no reason that we couldn’t still behave like adults. The phone rang once, and after what felt like a long pause, a second ring issued from the microphone. Another pause followed this by which point, sweat had collected around my collar. The third ring came and went. I felt my heart sink into my stomach, but held out a flicker of hope. Surely, she would pick up soon. Karl Nykwest spends his time co-running a small film and video production studio by day, and writing by night; usually something in the neighborhood of low fantasy, magical realism, or speculative weird lit. When his face is not buried in a screen, he’s usually enjoying cooking, or being outdoors.

The first house that she cleans they sit on the couch and scan her. She's always hated that. They've hired her but clearly distrust strangers. She wonders if they are high, or enjoy this weird voyeuristic service. She's not that girl but she has the numbers for that kind of thing. She wonders if they are happy. Or if they think she'll take something. It makes her want to take something. When she has a house she'll clean it herself. The second house belongs to a solitary man. He's simple despite his turtlenecks. He asks only that she always dust a few things. Mainly his writing achievements, old scrabble trophies. A picture of his mom that he has centered above his study. He usually doesn't stay and when he leaves the house he makes sure to mention the restaurant he's going to. He has money and pays well. Smiles often. This is a good house. The third house is more of a penthouse. She can see her city. See the four blocks where she grew up. The preschool where she met her first friend. They used to arrange Alphagettis into attempted words or played doctor and nurse. She saw that friend recently, bagging her eggs and oat milk at the local grocer. He still smiles with his eyes, still looks trustworthy, and kind. A few blocks past the preschool is the elementary she attended. She remembers playing red ass, the pinch and then sting of the bright tennis ball on the soft of her bum. She can still feel it now. She has three things she can always recall from around that age, from grade five to seven. The third is a happy memory. Her mother was excited to see her off. It was her first sugar shack and coming from the intense scorch of Trinidadian summers, she was fascinated by how the maple syrup hardened on the snow. She had seen a violin played before but not like this. Not with all the jumping up and down, the hips swaying from side to side. She looked around and saw other kids who were different, like her. She remembered the golden brown's sweet taste, like sugarcane, but also different. It was the first time she was not anxious. The first time she thought that maybe she could belong here. The second memory still burns. Still makes her stomach turn. The boys had chased her into a corner at recess. They teased and pulled at her hair, bounced her off the fence a few times. She had made the mistake of telling Jess she thought of the blonde boy sometimes, not realizing that sometimes Jess did too. Jess shared this publicly and the humiliation began. As her back hit the fence the fourth time she slumped to the ground. Through the slits of her wet hands she could see Jess looking from across the court, not running to tell, or running to help. She had not known cruelty until then. It was that same year but winter. The game was simple. Get on top of the hill. Hold your ground. Then you shall be crowned King of the hill. Queen in her case. She was on fire. Killing it. She had hit a growth spurt and had some size on the other kids. Even bigger than a few of the boys. She had the stretch marks to show for it. But no boy, let alone her mother, would see those for a few years later. After twenty minutes of pushing and tripping and stumbling around, fighting to hold position, she was exhausted. Jess saw this as an opportunity and clocked that she could attack from her blind spot. Knew she could catch her off guard, push her to the ground and take the crown. But it didn't quite go like that. She pretended not to see Jess coming and at the last second she dodged the assault and countered by sticking her leg out, tripping Jess from the top of the hill. She stood over Jess and watched as she cried, gripping her twisted arm. She thought of the day she told her about the crush, how scared she was, how she needed to tell someone. How she didn't understand what she was feeling deep in her stomach. She looked at Jess and felt the wire of the fence in her back again, the humiliation. She got closer, and filled her hands with snow. “Say sorry Jess, you never said sorry.”                                                                                           “No….You bitch.” All that collected snow started to melt and her hands were wet again. She must’ve shot Jess with such a nasty look because Jess got scared, tried to pull away. She grabbed more snow, started dumping it on Jess’s face, throwing it even. Giving Jess a chance to apologize never tamed the guilt or stopped her stomach from turning upside down whenever she thinks of it. She got suspended that day, Jess didn’t. She had never been cruel until then.   ​The last memory is a funny one. She still doesn’t know what to think of it. One of the boys that bullied her asked her to the school dance with a note that read. “I don’t care that you’re different, can we go together?” Not so romantic, but she had never been asked before. ​That night when the chaperones weren’t looking he pulled her in close, she had never been held like that, not with tenderness, not from a boy. He took his shot aimed for her mouth but caught her tooth. Chipped it a little. This is how she remembers her first kiss. When she’s done cleaning the penthouse she busses home. She's greeted by her cat rubbing up against her leg. She grabs a pint of ice cream out of the freezer and slumps down on the couch. She notices a stain on the cushion. She rubs at it. Nothing. She tries again. No luck. She thinks about grabbing a rag, but quickly abandons the idea. Sacha Bissonnette is a reader for Wigleaf TOP 50. His fiction has appeared in Witness, The Baltimore Review, Wigleaf, SmokeLong, ARC poetry, EQMM, Terrain, Ghost Parachute, The No Sleep Podcast and elsewhere. He is currently working on a short fiction collection as well as a comic book adaptation of one of his short stories. His projects are powered by the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council and the City of Ottawa. He has been nominated for several awards including the pushcart prize twice and BSF thrice. He has been selected for the Wigleaf top 50 2023, 2024 and for the 2024 Sundress Publications Residency and is the winner of the 2024 Faulkner Gulf Coast Residency. Find him on X @sjohnb9 or at his website sachajohnbissonnette.com

The great horned owl is depressed. Those dark feathers over his amber eyes may give him an aura of stern anger, but I know his double- whoos  are thick with sadness. Sitting high on an abandoned limb, blending into the grays and browns of the leafless trees that sway together beyond my backyard, he calls out every night. I can hear him as I'm settling into my own warm bed, alone save for the quiet dog at my feet. Whoo-whoo , he cries, as the moon rises full and happy.  The owl aches to be understood. He longs for a friend to share his meaty meals and the twiggy nest he padded with pine straw for comfort. A downy ear to hear his thoughts. Another being who knows what it's like to feel so solitary in a sky full of air.  The owl used to keep tentative company with a gray mouse. Its pink nose twitched with anxiety whenever the owl pressed the side of his feathery face against it, listening to its heartbeat and sighing silently. The mouse misunderstood, and skittered away to hide beneath a rotted log.  For a while, another great horned owl in the woods had occasionally responded to his pleas. Those nights I held my breath in the dark and listened for the reassuring, throaty voice that let my owl know he didn’t suffer alone. I hear you, but I don’t want to be near you , it said, but gave no explanation for its distance. Before long, the replies fell silent, and now his mournful appeals go unanswered.  His melancholy vibrates deep in my bones. I am well-worn with sitting alone in the dark, hearing far-off trains wail, silently soothing others but not yourself. I understand his emptiness. Last night, the owl shook me awake at moon o'clock, his hoots so sorrowful I thought one of my children had awoken from a bad dream and needed the comfort of my embrace. I rose and listened, and heard only contented breathing in still rooms. No one soothes the owl’s sobs. No one comes to ease whatever loss he grieves. His heavy and heartsick whoo-whoos  ring out in the cold woods, night after night.  Next to my house, in a small Japanese maple tree forsaken of leaves, a lonely robin sits – wishing she were an owl.   Megan Hanlon is a podcast producer who sometimes writes. Her words have appeared in The Forge, Gordon Square Review, Reckon Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, Variant Literature, Cowboy Jamboree, and more. Her blog, Sugar Pig, is equal parts tragedy and comedy. She hopes the owl in her backyard returns this winter.

Some Art makes me want to quit.  Poetry gives me a choice  of sooner or later. I believe  sooner to be better if for no  other reason than I forget  stuff like that one time  I plum forgot to sleep— O man was it great. So fucking great. Separation of Powers Change may be constant  but I believe some things should stay the same like the separation of church                           and state. Scripture says                            God watches over us for  signs of sin. That may be true but he doesn’t know                             what Heisenberg knows:                watching is a two-way  street. Seeing follows                               the fall. Absent a net  the wide-angle shot  legitimizes the split. Marc Meierkort is the author of the chapbook Break in Case of Glass  (Bottlecap Press). He is Managing Editor for Allium, A Journal of Poetry & Prose .  A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, his work has appeared in BlazeVOX Journal, Roi Faineant , and The Argyle Literary Magazine , among others. He teaches at Columbia College Chicago.

Even a hangover couldn’t spoil the beauty of the photos from last night. Katie lay on the couch, legs dangling over the end, scrolling through them. She and Alex had gone to a rooftop bar that not only boasted glittering, magnificent drinks with names like “Hibiscus Heaven” and “Lavender Lemonade,” but bloomed with walls upon walls of vertical gardens that were bursting with flowers of every shape, size, and color. The hanging gardens , she thought when she first saw them.  One of the wonders of the ancient world. She was already tipsy enough at this point that the sight really did fill her with awe, even though these were highly artificial gardens—captive flowers, prisoner blooms—instead of the lush verdant splendor of Babylon. She’d asked multiple strangers to take pictures of her and Alex. The two of them had posed between the flower walls, and as it was her birthday night, he hadn’t rolled his eyes, not even a little. Instead, he’d posed affably for the camera, his teeth ice-bright in his smile, his muscular arm a comforting weight as he slung it around Katie’s waist.   Yes, the pictures were beautiful, if you ignored the fact that Katie was in them. She swiped past photo after photo, and her hangover jabbed more fiercely at her brain with each passing moment. In every single picture, something was wrong with her: she was in the midst of a blink, or her pupils had gone red from the flash, or her hair had swung in front of her face, or her hand was a blur of movement as she reached up to adjust the offending hunk of hair.  Alex, though. He was flawless in all the pictures, but this wasn’t a surprise. Alex always looked amazing. Maybe it was the way the light hit his face, reflecting off his features and turning him into a kind of living prism. He had glossy chestnut hair and Mediterranean-blue eyes, full lips, and a nose that could have been cut from marble. His face was so symmetrical that, when the two of them had gone to the Museum of Illusions a few months ago, he hadn’t recognized the reverse mirror for what it was. You know, the mirror that shows you your own face flipped horizontally, the way other people see you? When Katie saw her face in that mirror, she cringed visibly and wanted to back out of the room, out of the museum, out of her entire life. And Alex, her innocent Alex, shielded by his facial symmetry from the cruelty of such inventions—he thought it was just a regular mirror. Katie was about five more swipes from sending a few of the pictures to her best friend and texting her Can you FaceTune me to look like a human being. But just then, she found the picture she’d been waiting for. The picture where she looked not just decent, not just okay, but beautiful. She and Alex were standing close together. The flower walls were like vivid living waterfalls on either side of them. She’d rotated her body slightly to the side, the way she knew she needed to in order to get a decent shot—why had she kept forgetting to do this during the twenty previous photos? Had she been that drunk already?—and she was angled in towards Alex. Her face, too, was turned at just the right angle. Next to her, Alex stood half a head taller. His body was turned more towards the camera than to her, which allowed the viewer to clock the breadth of his shoulders, the vein running down the thick slab of his bicep, the narrowness of his waist. His smile, in this picture, was one of those that could light up even the darkest corners of her heart. His eyes were heavy-lidded, almost sleepy-looking, but she knew they were relaxed with happiness. “Hey Alex,” Katie called. He was in the kitchen, preparing one of his post-workout shakes. “Can I post this picture of us on Insta?” “Lemme see.” He came over and glanced at the phone for a few seconds, not bothering to examine it closely. “Yeah, sure. You look beautiful, Katie.” He kissed her on the forehead.  Katie didn’t mess around with filters and only added a few flower emojis as a caption. She was too excited to put much thought into it anyway. As she posted it, she felt a delicious swoop in her stomach. She imagined that scattering of old high school classmates who still followed her on Instagram—girls who’d mocked her, who’d smirked whenever she spoke in class—scrolling down their newsfeeds and pausing on this picture. They’d frown in confusion. Is this really Cringey Katie? They’d scan Alex—his sharp and beautiful face, his hard athlete’s body—and want him. But they couldn’t have him, because he was Katie’s. And at this thought, Katie allowed herself a quick sunflash of a grin, brilliant as a shimmer of light across water. ~ When Alex came back from his workout, Katie was still on the couch, reading a book. It was nonfiction, written over two hundred years ago, and she had to concentrate to understand it. Reading it gave her the feeling that she was undergoing some type of purification of the intellect, or the soul. She was so deep in concentration that she didn’t register Alex kicking off his shoes by the door, nor the heavy slap of his wallet on the table. She did, however, register the tenor of his voice when he demanded, still in the other room: “What the fuck were you thinking, posting that picture of me?” That tone: it was coiling darkness. It was fear thudding in Katie’s head, kicking the hangover back into being, calling up nausea from the pit of her stomach. It was neural lightning that branched red through her brain, making her sit up convulsively, speeding up her heart and her breathing, sharpening her vision so that she could see, when Alex stormed into the living room, how his pupils had blown. The black swallowing up nearly all the blue seas of the iris. Something she’d read once flashed back to her, nonsensical in this instant: People’s pupils enlarge when they are looking at someone they love.  “What picture?” she asked, trying to modulate her tone, as though Alex would follow her example. But her calmness only seemed to anger him further. “ What picture? ” he repeated in a horrible, sarcastic voice. “The one you posted on Instagram a couple hours ago. I just saw it when I was at the gym.”  “What—what’s wrong with it?”  He sat on the couch, the cheap fake-leather cushions squeaking beneath his weight. She could feel the heat radiating off his body. He smelled corrosive, like sweat and rusted metal. He shoved his phone under her nose, almost too close for her to focus on it—yes, there was that beautiful picture of the two of them. Forty-two likes already. More than most of her pictures got.  “You don’t see anything wrong with it?” he asked. That sarcasm was back in his voice again, pinched and tight, like something ready to strike. “Look closely. Reallllly closely.” He moved the picture even closer to her face.  “No!” “My eyes,” he pronounced. “They’re half shut, that’s what’s fucking wrong with it. I look dopey .” “You—you don’t look dopey. You look sweet. That’s what I thought when I posted it.” She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. “And anyway, I asked you if I could post it, and you said yes.” “For fuck’s sake, Katie. I was getting ready for my workout. I didn’t look at it closely enough. You should’ve asked again. To make sure I’d actually looked at it!”   From dating Alex for two years, Katie had had this logic embedded in her marrow: My boyfriend is a man of his word. What he says, he means. So there’s no sense in questioning it, in asking “Are you sure” about anything. That will only make him mad. And beyond that, Alex was a grown man. Since when was it Katie’s responsibility to make sure he had looked at a picture closely enough?  “You tricked me. You showed me the picture when I was distracted, then you posted it. Great trick. Really nice, Katie.”  This was so unfair that for a few moments, Katie couldn’t even speak. She could only splutter, and this brought back to her altercations in the hallways of her high school, times girls had regarded her like she was prey and lobbed words at her, things like: We think you’re really beautiful, you’ve got a kind of unique gorgeousness (giggling behind their hands) or Why do you talk like that? or  Did you really fuck Josh for fifty dollars and a hit off his blunt? The whole time she stammered, trying to find her words, Alex regarded her with his black-hole eyes. The rest of what she’d read about pupils finally made its way back to her: Pupil dilation can be a sign of stimulation of the sympathetic nervous system, aka the “fight or flight” response.      Oh yes, Alex wanted a fight. An hour of pushing hundreds of pounds of steel around in the air-conditioned gym, and he still hadn’t exhausted whatever rage he still had simmering inside of him.  “I—I didn’t trick you,” she finally managed. “I didn’t. I really liked that picture. I thought you did too.” “Give me your phone.”  After only a moment’s hesitation, she handed it over. So he was going to delete the photo from Instagram. Fine. She sighed to herself as she watched him click the requisite buttons. It was a bit dramatic, but at least she could keep the memory, and maybe put another, better picture up instead— But he wasn’t done. He’d exited Instagram, but instead of handing her phone back to her, he was now scrolling through her camera roll. What was he doing? Katie’s stomach began a slow, gradual drop. Not a plummet, but a heavy and disbelieving descent.  He got to a row of pictures of just Katie, ones he had taken. He scanned them with his fight-or-flight eyes until he found one, nodded slightly. “Okay, this one.” He handed the phone back to her, and despite herself, she sucked in a breath at what was on the screen. She looked ridiculous. Her eyes were closed in a blink, and her mouth was open in a laugh. The movement gave her a double chin, a semi-sneer. Her thighs looked enormous in her jeans. Her arms were hanging awkwardly: one reaching out for the wall of flowers but not quite touching it, the other on her waist, but her wrist turned backwards, so it looked like she had no hand.  She couldn’t have taken a worse photo if she had tried.  “Post that one.” His voice was like granite. “Why?” She hated how the word wobbled as it came out of her mouth.  “So that you’ll know what it’s like to have everybody laughing at you. See how you like it.” He stood up.  “No one was laughing at you.” She looked up at this athlete, this six-foot-two man with golden skin and hair like a figure on a Grecian urn, in disbelief. “But they’re sure as hell going to laugh at me.”  “Post it or no sex for a month.” Tears made her throat thick. She had nothing more to say anyway. So she posted it.  ~ A few hours later, nearly midnight:  “All right, you can delete it,” said Alex. “I think you’ve learned your lesson.” She had. Enough people had seen it, that was for sure. She could see that it had gotten hundreds of views. And how many pity likes? Five. One from her mother, the other four from her best friends.  She deleted the picture but she could still see it. It was branded on the inside of her eyelids, a grotesque afterimage. Her gaping mouth, her squeezed-shut eyes, her distorted body. The image gained vibrance and clarity, like a photo developing in a darkroom. Standing out livid as a scar.  It remained even throughout the night, when she was trying her hardest to sleep, Alex’s body a gently snoring mountain next to her. She drifted off into unconsciousness several times but always woke up, shivering from humiliation, sleep nothing more than a shallow puddle.  And at some point in these black, silent hours, the humiliation began to harden. To turn into rage.  ~   The next day, after work, Katie didn’t come home. She sat on the subway as it took her uptown, then downtown again, then uptown. She went to a bar and drank three whiskeys, one after the next, and avoided eye contact with anyone but the bartender.  By the time the room had become blurry at its edges, she had gathered the strength to take her phone out. She opened the App Store and searched for FaceTune, but after reading the reviews, she realized she’d need to pay way too much money. An expensive subscription, just for one photo? No; there had to be an easier way. She scrolled until she found a similar app, FaceTrue, that seemed to satisfy her two requirements: free and simple. It was an obvious knockoff of FaceTune, but even if it wasn’t as good, it would do for the moment. She downloaded the app, quickly scrolled through the Terms and Conditions (which were rendered in what appeared to be size 6 font), and uploaded one of the pictures she’d taken of Alex by himself in front of the flower walls. And she got to work.  It was so easy. She put the resize tool over Alex’s mouth and thinned his lips out. She gave him a pencil neck. Next came his arms, the ones that hung so muscular at his side. Methodically, she thinned out his muscles, turned his biceps and forearms into those of a malnourished prisoner. Now the popping veins looked like evidence of starvation rather than of musculature. When she got to his hands, she shrank them down to a ridiculous size: baby doll hands. She dragged his shirt out so that a heavy gut now hung over his jeans.   She zoomed in on his face and took stock of the details. Could she thicken his brows? Ah! It seemed that she could. With a few flicks of a brown pen, she gave him a unibrow. She wished she could decorate his face with a healthy spattering of acne, but of course an app that was meant to beautify didn’t have that feature. She settled for dotting big moles all over his face with the brown pen. She even drew a few hairs sprouting from them, courtesy of a cobweb-thin black pencil.  His legs, now. Not as fun as the rest of him, but it was still a treat to shrink them, to thin them out until it seemed incredible that he could stand up at all. After this, she scanned the picture, looking for places she hadn’t yet touched. She dragged his earlobes down until they nearly met his shoulders, the skin dangling like stretched-out gum. She colored his hair gray—not a trendy, platinum shade, but the kind of gray that an old man would have, peppered with streaks of white. Then a mischievous idea occurred to her, and she dragged the Resize tool over to his crotch. She took the size down, and down, and down again, until it appeared that he had a vortex in the seam of his jeans, an absence of mass so great that it sucked in everything around it.  Katie regarded her masterpiece. Alex barely even looked human anymore. She smiled a giddy, drunk smile, and posted it, tagging him and as many of his friends as she could.  ~ By the time she got home, it was past midnight, and all the lights were off. Alex was asleep. She crept into the apartment and closed the door as quietly as she could behind her, then darted to the back room: she rarely used it, but there was a couch in there, and it had a door that locked. She’d crash here out of necessity, and tomorrow she’d start looking for a new place to live.  When she woke, it was with a furry mouth, sore eyes, and the beginnings of yet another hangover. A terrible sound echoed in her ears, although it must have been part of a dream. She had never heard anyone scream like that in real life.  Still groggy, she rolled over on the couch and checked her phone: 7:30 A.M.  She sat up, panic suddenly unspooling inside her. Alex must have left for work by now. Which meant he’d seen the post. Along with all of the friends she’d tagged.  Fuck, she thought. What have I done? She scrambled for her phone, intending to delete the image and leave the apartment as soon as she could— A sudden scream pierced the air. It was coming from Alex’s bedroom—a lurching, wailing cry. Something about it sounded…not quite human. All the hairs on her arms stood straight up and her spine turned icy . What the fuck is that? The screaming died away, and then there was a sharp banging on her door. “Katie! I know you’re in there! Open up!”  But Alex’s voice didn’t sound angry, the way it had all the other times he’d hammered on the locked door of this room. It sounded pained. It sounded….terrified.  “Calm down, Alex, I’ll delete the picture. I’m sorry. I was drunk.” Her voice was shaking. Something else occurred to her. “Why aren’t you at work?” Surely he wasn’t so traumatized from this picture—clearly Photoshopped to the point of absurdity—that he had stayed home from work?  But he had, after all, been screaming. Maybe that was what had woken her a minute ago.  A sarcastic laugh from the other side of the door. “Oh, like this? You think I can go to work like this, you fucking demon?” He screamed the last few words. His words sounded constricted, like someone had their hands around his neck.  “What the fuck?”  She stood up. “It was just a picture.” Anger overtook her fear, and she walked to the door. “It was just like what you did to me, except mine was so clearly Photoshopped, so clearly not you, that nobody could possibly think—” She flipped the lock and swung the door open. Her next words died in her throat. Standing before her— leaning  before her, rather—was a monstrosity. A stick insect with a human head, a bundle of twigs the color of human flesh. The creature’s hideous head wobbled, held up by an impossibly thin neck that bent and swayed like living rubber. It tottered on sticklike legs that seemed incapable of fully holding up its weight: it had to lean on the doorframe to stay upright. In fact, it struggled to even hold onto the doorframe. Its hands were so tiny that its fingers were tiny, barely visible stubs. No , something inside her said. Not “it”. Him.  Because it was Alex. Alex, exactly the way she had changed him. His unibrow, the hairy moles swarming his face, the emaciated limbs, the massive belly sagging towards the ground, the dangling earlobes, the gray hair— His blue eyes were the only things she hadn’t changed. They stared out at her: helpless, panicked, lost. Then his legs wobbled madly, and he collapsed onto the floor with a slap of flesh. Katie felt like she was about to vomit. Slowly, Alex began to hunch over, his huge gray head sagging toward the ground on a thin pink stalk, like a dandelion gone to seed. The gurgles and gasps from his mouth were growing fainter, as though he couldn’t get enough air through the narrow throat she had created.   “What…have you…done?” he moaned, sounding like it was taking all of his effort to speak. “What…what is this? What did you do to me?” “I—I just used FaceTune—”  But no, she realized. That wasn’t true.  She’d used FaceTrue.      Amy DeBellis is the author of the novel ALL OUR TOMORROWS (CLASH Books, 2025) and the novella THE WIDENING GYRE (Lanternfish Press, 2026). Her stories appear in X-R-A-Y, Uncharted, Write or Die, Trampset, and elsewhere. Her writing has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net. Read more at amydebellis.com .

Atlas  Stop telling me of my strength  Instead  Say  That sometimes the world will offer scraps  And glass pieces  And dimly lit bulbs  Tell me that life is tricky  And God’s will imperfect  And brokenness abounding  Tell me that we are all made up of fragments, residual memories and glimpses of agape  Stop telling me of my power  Instead  Say  That things fall apart and unravel  Tell me that my world can stop with a daunting cruelty that sets other worlds in motion  Tell me that I am not atlas  Tell me that I am not atlas (nor should I be)  Tell me that I can still bask in the sun  With eyes sunken  Spirit uneasy  And heart wandering To double dutch when you don’t know how  Is to form arches  Compact  Syncopated  Then drive into earth  Concrete  Let ropes whir  Contract  Close to face  As tension  Caught in the middle  To let the girl  With slicked bun  Be spirit guide  Let me show you  To be in the pocket  To drum  To airbend May 1st Serenade  You siren and I hold breath under water We extinct whatever is anchor and binding Is caught and barnacle, mold and tempest   We live hymnal and free together  Swim to fault plain and epicenter  Meet you there, meet you there   We extinct whatever is rubber and ornate Only the soft can survive  We siren into be-gone barnacle and tempest budding   Track salt and sulfur scent above eventide Swim to fault plain and epicenter  Feel you there, feel you there Jess Grant-Domond (she/her) is a Poet and Community Psychologist based in Chicago, Illinois. First drawn to poetry as a method of survival, her poems are often inspired by the creative wisdom of her Black-Caribbean lineages. Jess is an ISL Alum and published in The Health Promotion Practice Journal and  Black Minds Mag . She has appeared on the BU News Service and the HPP Podcast. She has performed throughout Boston, New York and has facilitated Poetry workshops and panels in partnership with community organizations. She can be found on Instagram @ jessicagrantdomondpoetry .

Something is different in my house. I noticed it changing and I’m not sure when it started or how far it goes. Actually, it’s not really correct to say “something,” I think. Probably more accurate to say “some things.” Though if it’s connected – which I’m sure it must be – then it does add up to a single something . I don’t know who is doing it, or why, or what is going to come of it, but I’ve got my eyes open and I need to talk about. I’m paying as close attention as I possibly can. Hopefully it’s enough. I want to make sure I know what’s going on before things get worse, before things are so far that it’s too late. ​I first noticed the vegetable oil – I have a regular bottle of vegetable oil, in the cupboard next to the stove, just like everyone – I noticed it was different one day. It had been swapped for a different bottle. Same brand, same amount of oil inside, as far as I can remember (as far as I can keep track of how much oil I expect to have on a day to day basis). The attention to detail was impressive: not just the brand, but it even had that layer of oil around the outside like the old one. But as soon as I picked it up I could tell it wasn’t the same. The bottle had been swapped for something with a sinister energy. Brushing off the notion, and maybe against my better judgement, I cooked with it anyway and after a few bites could immediately tell something was wrong. The food was wrong. My stomach turned, head started to squeeze and fog. So I dumped the plate but I kept the oil just in case. I didn’t know what was happening, but if someone had done this on purpose I guess I didn’t want them to know I had noticed it yet. ​ After that, two days later, it was the ottoman. Like with the oil, they’d done a very good job, whoever it was doing this. It looked almost exactly the same. It’s possible it had been swapped for several days before I noticed, no way to know for sure. But a few days after the oil was wrong I realized it, too, was different. The fabric did not quite match the chair anymore, the stuffing wasn’t the same, a few of the stitches were rushed, and most telling of all three of the feet had those felt pads on the bottom. Two of mine had been missing for years. There was an extra suddenly. It even smelled a little different. There was a smell of tobacco or something, it almost smelled rotten. I inspected it closely and then stood back, looking at it, looking around the room. It brought with it something vile – quiet, but vile. ​At this point I knew for sure it was happening that I couldn’t define exactly. The next day I realized the same thing had been done with the book I was reading. The printing was wrong: the text on each page was slanted, the kerning was off, the color on the cover wasn’t quite lined up. Just everything was a little bit wrong. I slid the book under the false ottoman. I’m not sure why, I just needed to do something. It showed them I was paying attention now, proved I noticed. It wasn’t happening without my awareness. I locked every window in the house, double checked before going to bed that the front door was locked and deadbolted. Probably a futile effort, but maybe I could simply prevent them from coming in and it would stop. ​ Over the next week I noticed more and more things had been subtly replaced by copies that all had their own kind of darkness about them. Clothes hangers, my sheets, handsoap in the bathroom, the lightswitch at the top of the stairs, the kitchen faucet, multiple cans of beans, most outlets. All replaced by uncanny facsimiles. My home was becoming something different, transforming around me piece by piece. One evening I noticed that a few of the steps had been changed somehow. Looking carefully I could just detect scratches in the wood where the old planks had been pried away to be replaced by imposters. I wrote it all down whenever I noticed it. Date, time, object, and any additional observations, trying my best to describe the spiritual difference present in the new items. ​ So each day began with an inspection of every room, taking inventory of every change I could find. By the end of the second week I had filled an entire notebook and moved on to another. I marked the dates on the completed record and hid it behind some loose panelling in my bedroom closet. The atmosphere in each room had completely shifted. Lightbulbs felt different. Everything was more and more ominous as each familiar piece of home was replaced by a malevolent counterpart. One cloudy morning – after noticing a particularly large number of new objects and feeling a frantic, distressing energy oozing through the house, seeping into my brain through my ears – in a moment of desperation I found a piece of poster board and made a sign. STOP DOING THIS  I scrawled with permanent marker in blocky letters. I placed the sign proudly, boldly, defiantly in the entryway that night. Of course at dawn I found that it, too, had been replaced by an evil lookalike. As time went on the copies weren’t even as exact. The differences were getting more brazen, unconcerned with maintaining the illusion. Completely indifferent to my reaction. Looking at the other houses on my street from the window it was clear some version of this was happening elsewhere. Maybe not every house, but the street itself was starting to feel different. I struggled to get restful sleep, and when the mattress was finally changed I resorted to sleeping on the floor of the living room. This put me in proximity to the front door, so I could be sure nobody was coming in while I slept. I ate only food I’d brought home that day, unable to trust any food in the house. ​The second night on the floor of the living room I lay on my back staring at the dark ceiling. Unable to sleep, something caught my eye just outside. With a tingle running from my neck to my finger tips I turned to see a shadow move past the window. At first I stayed still, I didn’t want them to think I was awake and watching. Shadowed figures, I think three, walking around the house and leaning in to peer through my windows. Without a sound, they left, disappearing into the night leaving nothing behind. When morning came I inspected the yard and found their footprints in the soft dirt near the foundation in a few spots. Smooth bottomed shoes. Not mine, definitely not the boot footprints of a utility worker or anything. ​ One afternoon I left the house, being as conspicuous as I could be doing something so mundane. I locked the door, stood on the sidewalk and looked at my phone for an extra moment to make sure I could be seen, and finally got into my car to drive away. I drove only as far as the parking lot at the end of my block and here I waited. Nothing happened, nothing except the regular here-and-there of the community, for an hour and forty seven minutes. That’s when something did happen. I watched someone approach on foot, carrying a box, toward my street. As they got closer I realized they were wearing something on their face. I strained to try and see what it was, wishing I’d brought binoculars or something – do I even have anything like that? I don’t think so. They walked at a steady, confident pace. Not rushed. Not concerned about being seen. When they’d drawn near enough to be see clearer, a flush of hot, confused, fear burst from stomach as I could finally recognize what it was: they were wearing a crude, rubber mask of my own face. ​ The masked stranger turned the corner and walked to my house. They stepped up to the front door and slung the box casually under one arm, pulling a huge ring of keys from a jacket pocket. They unlocked the door of my house and entered. The stranger was inside for eighteen minutes, according to the clock on my dashboard. After that time, they appeared again, locking the door behind them and going off down the street the other way before disappearing out of my view. After taking a beat to collect my nerves I rushed back into the house to look around. It didn’t take long to spot some changes, but by now I could never be sure I’d seen all of them; the curtains, the cheap old Amazon shoe rack I’d been carrying around since my first apartment after college, bowls in the cupboard, the TV remote. In the basement I found a box of nails leftover from an old project and started nailing down everything that I could. I tried zip tying cupboards shut and gluing things in place, stapled the carpets and couch cushions. They had keys to the front door. They could come and go at will. The only definite way to make sure things were safe would be remain in the house all the time. It would take some preparation, but I could try to do it quickly and then stay put as long as possible. Hopefully in that time I could find a solution or someone else could finally do something about it. Eventually someone would have to. I got a big bag of rice, lots of beans, frozen vegetables, boxes of pasta, the biggest value pack of toilet paper I could find, multipack bars of soap. Shelf stable, cheap, basic. Just enough to keep going. Back inside my home (I noticed some of the zip ties on the cupboards were a different color than they were when I left), I put the frozen food away and left everything else out visible on the counter. I nailed the door shut and glued all of the windows on the first floor. Then I settled in, sank into survival. Numb. Days have passed. Shallow and joyless days, dark and slow. I don’t dare look to see if new perversions have been made around my house despite my constant vigilance. Then one night I’m slowly pulled out of my shallow sleep. There is a smell, a new smell in the house. Familiar but out of place, and as I blink and come to my senses I realize it’s smoke. Stumbling I make it to my feet, looking in every direction and following the smoke throughout the house to find my basement engulfed in flames. The conflagration far spread, swallowing everything it could and reaching up to house above. I grab a bucket of water but know it’s hopeless; the fire is already too advanced. Still I dump the pitiful amount of water into blaze, meaningless. My only hope is to get myself out while I can. Of course, I remembered, the door was nailed shut, the windows all sealed. I’ll need to break out. So grabbing a hammer I make for the closest window and smash it, shattering glass exploding everywhere, cutting my hands. Almost out of breath already I climb out and fell the short drop from the first story to the ground outside. Collecting myself I walk to the sidewalk, unsure what to do next. I see on the street so many people to be out this late. All my neighbors, people whose faces I recognize but whose names I do not know. The street is full. Every house belching black smoke, many houses already illuminated in bright, hideous orange as the entire neighborhood burns around us. No sirens coming to signal help, the only sound is the crackle and shudder of homes buckling and dying. I don’t know what else I could have done. Charlie DeMott Wildey is a writer from Upstate New York. His novel Lightning Bolt is available from NFB Publishing, and his writing can also be found in The Rialto Books Review Vol.020, Roi Fainéant Press, and his Substack “Feed Charlie.”

We wouldn’t be able to undo it if we kissed. That is lust to me -  Something to covet. Even if : You never told anyone I would know, we would know. A decoy To command inclination Sharing breath like ancients. Methanobrevibacter oralis, that old microbe The place where you form words  Close it in language impotency.   Where you eat Where you vomit Where you tell me you don’t love me It would mean something.  Bird Ugly He came home today with Bird Ugly One eye big One eye small This is how he sees the world. It’s beautiful, I say As I try to display it on the bookshelf. I turn him profile  This poster painted Papier mache Primary school object That is my mistake. I show one eye to the world I forget the beauty of both Of difference. Tunnel Vision You’ve made a home for the ghosts, Living in lost peripheral vision. All the things once known: A dead mother who stands in the corner of the room Twenty five years after her death. Nothing is at the end of the tunnel There are no goals to meet  No holidays to book, nothing new   What is no longer behind you is beside you Everything is balanced These ghosts -  They walk with you. The Changing Shape of Me   I am amorphous. I wake unbloated. Changing shape. Expanding. Decreasing. Bigger, smaller. Stretching skin. Thick or thin. Big or small, round as a ball. Wear black to look small. Don’t take up too much space. Don’t wear horizontal stripes Don’t rub self love in their face. That top hides a multitude of sins. Pass the scissors. Cut the label out. Charlotte Cosgrove is a writer and lecturer from Liverpool. She has published two collections of poetry and is the editor of Rough Diamond poetry journal.

The Return Dr. Harris is driving. I sit beside him, watching the streets I am told I’ve driven through a hundred times—houses, strip malls, traffic lights—but none of it feels familiar. This whole process has been… strange. Frustrating. At home, I pass photos of myself—smiling, surrounded by people I don’t recognize—and I don’t feel like the person in them. Sometimes I catch flashes—quick, disjointed things that vanish before I can hold them. I remember walking across a college campus—trees, buildings, footsteps echoing.  Or maybe I dreamed it.  I can’t name the school. I don’t know what I was studying. Dr. Harris explained it all—the accident, the amnesia, the false memories—but it always sounds like he’s describing someone else’s life. Not mine. I trust him—mostly—but sometimes it feels like he knows more than I’ve told him, naming fears I haven’t said out loud, even voicing things I hadn’t yet let myself think. Perhaps that is what all good therapists do. I asked my parents once if we’d known him before. They said no. They did mention that he went to my high school. Years ago. My parents say Dr. Harris is the right one for me. But when they think I’m not listening, I hear it in their voices. The tension. The worry. How long…? What if he doesn’t…? Should we…? “We just want him back ,” they say. Not me. Him. I keep wondering what happens if I never remember. Am I someone new now? And if I do remember… does that make this version of me disappear? I don’t know which one I want to be. I glance at Dr. Harris.  The silence in the car suddenly feels oppressive.  I try to say something—anything—to break it. “How am I this confused?” I ask. “About everything?” He answers without glancing over. “It’s part of the process. Part of what we’re working through.” A beat. “We’re here.” I hesitate. “Are we going in?” “Principal Keller’s expecting you,” he says, motioning toward the gate. “Just head through there.” I pause. “You’re not coming?” He shifts slightly, eyes on the street ahead. “You don’t need me there,” he says. “It’s best this way.” He grips the wheel a little tighter but doesn’t say anything else. I open the door and step out. I glance back. He’s still in the car—hands on the wheel. Like just being here puts him on edge. What’s up with him today? *** Dr. Harris remembers the old campus: long corridors, open soccer fields, tall trees. The layout had been open, loosely structured—easy to move through, easy to slip away from. It gave kids room to push limits, to take risks. He thinks of the halls, the bell, the heat. Laughter. Voices filed away long ago—until now.  He shuts it down. Not now,  he tells himself. His chest tightens—and stays tight. He tells himself some people get second chances. Not everyone. Not always. He blinks. The present returns. The new campus is something else—manicured lawns, evenly spaced trees, gleaming glass façades. It looks imported—from somewhere colder, wealthier. High walls surround the entire compound. You can barely see inside.  He finds himself wondering: What are they trying to keep out? Or in? He imagines a dress code. Pressed collars. Probably sweaters. He’d said as much to his sister, the last time he saw her at her place. Her twins go there now—enrolled at the same school he can barely stand to look at. She didn’t hesitate. “You never see us—and when you do, it’s just to criticize.” “Maybe you should look at your own choices first.” “More structure might’ve helped you too, you know.” A pause. “Sorry, Daniel. That was harsh.” “It’s all right,” he said. He left not long after. He exhales slowly, careful not to let it register. Getting Sam’s parents to agree hadn’t been easy. They asked endless questions, like they were working off a list—trying to sound brave, measured, but not quite managing it. But it was the mother, her voice suddenly tight and brittle, who asked the question at the end: What if he doesn’t come back? What if this doesn’t work? He told them this was their best shot. But memory’s fragile. Nothing’s certain. Sam seems ready for this—whatever comes. But his parents… he’s not so sure. Maybe it’s not just Sam they want back. Maybe it’s before. Back when bad things didn’t just… happen. But they can. And they do. He thought about saying it. Decided not to. Still, he kept pressing—not just for Sam, and not just for his parents. For him too. The School I reach the gate. The guard waves me through without asking anything. I head toward the main building. Inside, a group of kids—nine, maybe ten—race down the hallway, shouting and laughing. There’s something about the sound, the rhythm in their laughter. “Where’s the school store?” The question spills out before I know I’m going to ask it. One kid points. “End of the hall, to the left. Same place it’s always been.” He squints. “Why’re you going there?” I shrug. As I turn away, I hear a whisper—just loud enough to catch. “Weird.” “What?” I snap—too fast. Another kid grins. “It’s just that… that place is weird.” But something about the way he says it—the half-smile, the shrug—I almost laugh. I reach the store, enter, and turn left toward a door with a sign that says Uniforms . I stop for a moment. Like I’ve been here before. Then I push it open. A boy sits behind the counter. An older man—his back to me—is stacking shirts on a shelf. The boy looks up. “Can I help you?” “I think I’m here for uniforms.” The older man turns. His eyes light up. “Hey, kid. Look at you.” He sets down the shirts like they suddenly don’t matter. He grins like he knows me. “How’ve you been? What can we help you with?” His happiness is weirdly contagious.  I feel it too—just a little. I keep looking at his face, hoping something will click. But I can’t tell. “Yeah,” I say. “I was going to see the principal, but… I wanted to check on the uniforms instead.” “That’s fine,” he says. “But I think it’d be better if you see the principal first.” “Yeah. You’re right.” “Come back after,” he adds. “Or whenever. I’d be glad to help.” I want to stay. But I step into the hallway anyway. Something shifts.  The color of the walls. The echo of footsteps. Running late for class. I’ve done this. I think.  Their faces flash through my mind—blurry but bright, sudden. The blond one. The tall one. The joker. My friends.  A warmth moves through me—quiet, sudden. But it feels fragile. I reach for their names, their voices—but I can’t find them. I want to see them again, so I head toward the 12th-grade classrooms. I stop at the first one. I peek through the door. Students fill the seats. I spot a blond kid near the window—he looks familiar. “Mike!” I say, before I even think. He looks up, confused. Nudges the person next to him. A quiet laugh. He’s not Mike. Not even close. Why did I think he was? I freeze.  What was I thinking? What are they saying? I step back. I shouldn’t be here. I head toward the principal’s office. I feel the floor shift sideways beneath me. I reach for the handle—more to steady myself than to open the door—and pause. God, I hope everyone forgets that. Or maybe that I do. Then I open it. A woman at the reception desk looks up and smiles. “Hi,” I say. “My name is Samuel Becket. I’m… here to see the principal.” Her smile widens. “Of course, Sam. We’ve been expecting you.” Another woman appears—older, sharp-featured, her hair pulled back tight—but her voice surprises me, softer than I expected. “Hello, Sam,” she says. “Please, come in.” We sit, and she takes her time arranging the desk—phone turned face down, folder centered, pen lined up beside it—like she needs everything just right before she speaks. “How are you doing?” she asks. “I don’t know… I guess I’m a little confused. That’s kind of why I’m here. Dr. Harris says I went to school here but never graduated. It feels familiar… but I don’t remember it well.” “Okay. Let’s take a look—maybe this will help clear things up,” she says gently, opening the folder and sliding a photo across the desk. It’s me. And my friends. Mike—the blond one. Jimmy—the tall one. Manuel—the joker. We’re in our jerseys, soaked with sweat. Shouting, mid-jump. And I feel it: the heat, the cling of the jersey, the smell of grass. Someone kicked me—hard. I hit the ground, furious. I rub my leg now, without thinking. “That’s the day we won the state championship,” I say. She hesitates. “That was the championship game, yes.” She looks at me. “You all played your hearts out. But it wasn’t a win that day. Still—no one who saw it will forget that game. We were all proud.” “But we’re all smiling.” “It was your last game. You celebrated anyway.” I nod. But something inside me tightens. How do I know what to trust? She reaches into the folder again. “This is your graduating class.” I take the photo and start scanning. Mike. Jimmy. Manuel. Claire. But not me. My stomach tightens. I press my thumb into the glossy paper, hoping—stupidly—that something might change. Nothing. Principal Keller watches me for a moment. Then softly: “You were part of this place, Sam. We missed you at graduation.” I just stare at the space where I’m not. “I should finish high school.” “Yes,” she says, smiling. “Just a few steps left.” I hesitate. “But… why didn’t I graduate?” Her smile fades—just slightly. “You know what?” she says, soft. “Daniel is waiting for you. Dr. Harris, I mean.” I nod. “Thank you, Principal Keller.” “It’s good to see you, Sam.” She pauses. Her voice catches, just a little. “Really good.” “And say hi to your parents,” she says quickly as I’m stepping outside. My parents. They make me feel safe—always there, always ready to help. I appreciate their attention, but sometimes it feels like they think I’ll break. Like they’re waiting for me to come back—to be who I was before. But I’ve been here the whole time. I take the long way back. The path outside feels clearer than the one through the building. I’ve walked it before. With a girl—Andrea? Her arm brushed mine. She laughed. I want it to be true. The vending machines—buzzing, faintly glowing. Manuel snatched the Coke from my hand before I could open it. “You’re too slow,” he said, already drinking. I shoved him. Hard. He nearly dropped it—then cracked up, head thrown back. For a second, the anger rises—hot, sudden—then fades, like it was never mine to hold. The Road I reach the car.  Dr. Harris is behind the wheel, window down, his arm resting against the frame. He glances over as I open the door. “How did it go?” “You were right,” I say. “I’m starting to remember.” Something in his posture shifts—just slightly. “That’s good,” he says. “Want to head to the park? Eat there?” I nod. “Yeah. That’s the plan. My mom packed sandwiches.” Heller Park isn’t far. We should be there soon. We pull onto the street and drive in silence for a few minutes. Then Dr. Harris starts asking questions—steady, clinical. Like this is routine. “When did the school start to feel familiar?” “What were you doing when you remembered your friends?” “Do the memories feel like yours… or like they belong to someone else?” He asks them one by one. Calm. Measured. And for once, I don’t feel lost answering. I tell him about the uniform store. “Yes. Jimmy used to work there. You, Manuel, and Mike would stop by all the time. You loved making up stories about the old school—scaring the little kids while they waited to get measured. Mr. Olivera said it was like the four of you ran the place.”  He pauses, then adds quietly, “I always liked Mr. Olivera. He used to tease me that I was too loud, talked too much… but he was always asking me to stop by anyway. And I did. Until I couldn’t.” I turn toward him, surprised. “Really? Tell me more.” “I don’t remember much more, Sam,” he says, voice soft. “And honestly… I’m not sure I want to.” I think of asking something else—but stop myself. He slows down—but not like someone being cautious. Like someone deciding whether to keep going. Then, just barely, his foot presses down again. The car creeps forward. That’s when I realize—we’ve been driving too long. The road narrows. Trees press in, blocking the sunlight. Something about it feels off. The seatbelt feels tighter. Up ahead, the road forks. One side is blocked—orange cones, a DETOUR sign leaning to one side. The trees. The curve. It all comes back—before I know why. My chest tightens. I grip the seat. Someone’s yelling. Tires screeching. Then silence. The car slows. I glance over. Dr. Harris’s knuckles are pale. He looks… off. Unfocused. Distressed. “What’s wrong?” I ask, before I can stop myself. “This is where the accident happened,” he says. “You and your friends were lucky.” He pauses. “It’s not always like that.” He says it like it hurts. We both exhale—quiet, almost at the same time. Back there he looked… scared. Not just for me. Now the car is quiet. We’re both here, but it feels like we’ve each gone somewhere else. The Park We pull into the park. Dr. Harris parks beneath a tree. Everything feels quieter here. “Let’s go sit on one of the benches,” he says. We find one in the shade and sit. “Can you tell me what happened?” I know he’s told me before. But this time, it feels like the story is mine. Dr. Harris watches me for a moment before speaking. “You and your friends were on that road. Something went wrong.” The sound comes back first. Engine. Whiplash. Pain. Then Nothing.  My heart races. “It was me,” I whisper. “I was going too fast.” The words spill out—sharp, reckless. And I feel it: the weight of what I did, what I almost did. “It was an accident,” he says—his voice is sharper than before, too fast. I flinch. He notices. Then, softer: “Maybe it was the road. Or the speed. But it’s done now.” He shakes his head, gently. “You hit your head. Coma for weeks. Post-Traumatic Amnesia.” “They said the car overturned several times. It was the trees that finally stopped it” A pause. “We were hoping the school might jog something.” He glances over at me. “Looks like it did. Accidents happen, Sam. Your friends made it through. And you will, too.” He leans back slightly, arms behind him on the bench. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if my friends had been hurt,” I say. I feel it again. The almost. Not just what happened—but what didn’t. Silence. I glance over. Dr. Harris looks pale—like someone pulled the ground out from under him. “What’s the matter?” I ask. He’s quiet for a moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is different—thinner, rougher, like it costs him something. “I had an accident there too.” I sit up. “When?” “When I was your age.” “And what happened?” A long pause. Then his voice shifts—firmer, controlled. Back to normal. “I don’t want this to be about me,” he says. “Come on,” I say. “Tell me.” He shakes his head. “That’s all there is to it.” But he does not look at me. He reaches for the lunch bag and hands me a sandwich. I’ve been open with him—more than with anyone. I know there’s more. He’s just not saying it. I’m tired of being talked around. Why can’t anyone just say what they mean? I unwrap my sandwich and take a bite—slow, automatic. He finishes his in three bites, like it’s something to get through. He reaches for another one. Unwraps it—just as a car pulls in fast, tires catching on the gravel. My parents. They are already out of the car. My dad reaches me first. “We called you! You didn’t answer. We were worried.” “I told you—we were going to the park.” “Why didn’t you answer?” “You know I always put my phone on silent when I’m with Dr. Harris.” “You were supposed to be back by now.” “The road was blocked.” His jaw tightens. “You went through that road? Why would you do that?” His voice rises—angry and afraid at the same time. His hands move fast—frustrated, sharp. Like when the ref made a bad call. Then I realize—he’s not talking to me. He’s talking to Dr. Harris. I feel the blood rush to my head. “Why are you talking like I’m not here?” I say. “I am  here. I’ve been here the whole time.” “Why can’t you see that?” I pause. “I’m not something you need to fix.” I look at my parents. They’re out of breath, faces flushed, stunned—and suddenly I see it: they look older than I remember. Fragile. Like they’re the ones who might break. I turn to Dr. Harris. He’s calm. Silent. “He knows what happened,” Dr. Harris says. His voice is firm—maybe too firm. He finally looks up. “I told you he could handle it.” For a second, he says nothing, then, “He’s remembering.” “Mike, Jimmy, and Manuel. I remember them,” I say. I almost laugh. “Can’t believe those assholes left for college without me.”  “I need to finish high school. I need to catch up with them.” My parents freeze. They glance at each other. I can’t tell if they’re about to laugh or cry. My mom actually laughs—sharp and surprised. But her hands are still clenched, like she does not believe it yet. “You’ll catch up with them soon enough,” she says. “You can give them hell when you do.” The tension softens. Not gone, but loosening. Like everyone’s remembering how to breathe. My dad turns to Dr. Harris. “Sam needs to get to physical therapy. Is it okay if we take him now? I will call you later.” “Yeah, anytime.”  I reach for the lunch bag, but he stops me. “Leave it, Sam. I’ll bring it back next time I see you.” As I walk away with my parents, I start telling them how we used to scare little kids at Mr. Olivera’s. “Of course we know,” my mom says—like it’s something she’s been holding onto for both of us. My dad turns to me. “I’m sorry, Sam,” he says, resting a hand on my shoulder. “When we couldn’t reach you today, we panicked. We drove by the school, but you were already gone. So we came here.” “After the accident… seeing you in the hospital, in a coma—we didn’t know if you’d wake up. It was the hardest thing we’ve ever been through. And now, we just can’t help but worry all the time.” “It’s ok, Dad.” I place my hand over his. My mom rests her hand on my back—gentle, steady. As I climb into the car, I glance back at Dr. Harris—still sitting on the bench. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but he looks like someone who needs help too. He watches us go. *** Dr. Harris tells himself today was a turning point. They’ve suffered enough. This should be the start of something better. Taking Sam down that road was a risk—especially without telling his parents. But it worked. Sam didn’t just remember—he faced it. He remains on the bench, unmoving. I don’t know what I would’ve done if my friends had been hurt. And then—without warning—the memories arrive. Peter and Juan. He sees them here again—this park, these benches. Juan shoving his arm. Peter laughing. Daniel, don’t be a chicken. Ask the girl out. He hadn’t said their names in years. The road comes back—too fast, too narrow, the curve coming up too soon, and then the feeling that everything had tipped, as if the world had spun sideways and couldn’t be put back. He remembers thinking he could handle it. That he was in control. He closes his eyes. Tries to keep it out. But it’s not the crash that stays with him. It’s Sam’s voice. I’m not something you need to fix. The words hit too hard. His breath stutters. Hands tremble. It was an accident.   You didn’t mean to hurt anyone.   It’s done now. That should be enough. It should be. But it isn’t. He glances at his phone. Missed calls. One after another. He doesn’t check them. Just sits. Still watching. Still waiting. The benches in the park stay empty. Luis Chamorro is a writer from Nicaragua, now living in Miami. His fiction and nonfiction explore memory, identity, and the emotional texture of both personal and professional fracture, often blending emotional realism with philosophical inquiry. He holds degrees in Engineering and Business Administration from the University of Texas at Austin and Carnegie Mellon University. Before turning to writing, he led international operations in the coffee industry. The Detour is his first submitted short story.

Half Past a Monkey’s Ass Well it’s half-past a monkey’s ass (or a quarter- past a nightmare) and my skull is a glass jar full of fireflies and all the clouds in the next county over are aflame and the wind is stirring things up a little and there’s a wolf with a wounded bird in its mouth and a dead tree on a hill with nothing but phantom limbs and the frogs are tapping out some kind of Morse Code to each other and there’s an old beer bottle sitting on a fence- post (for who knows how many years) upon which a lone dragonfly is perched trying to tune in his tiny radio. Dark Summer Winds (Tanka) The sky belongs to the bats and crickets at night, but the dark summer  winds smelling of mimosa      and rain belong to the trees.

Alice knew they didn’t want her there, but she didn’t let go of Mark’s hand. Their parents had gone to ask the ICU nurse to make her leave. She’d come to donate blood. They didn’t want it. Mark was still unconscious. She couldn’t stop looking at him. She hadn’t seen him since Dad threw her out of the house years ago. He must have gotten that motorcycle he’d always wanted. The road rash was bad. Mark’s eyes fluttered open, and she squeezed his hand. “Hey, I’m here,” she whispered. She wondered if he’d recognize her with her long hair. With laugh lines. His bloodied lips moved, and she leaned in. These would be the first words he said to her since she came out. Since she decided to live as his sister instead of his brother. His voice was hoarse in the shell of her ear. “Go… away.” Adrienne Rex is an aspiring author from Houston, Texas. Her stories take after their author, meaning they’re usually imaginative and offbeat. When she’s not making her daydreams pay rent (otherwise known as writing), she’s drawing, reading, or being dragged around by her dog on what may charitably be called a walk. Her work has been published by the Moonstone Arts Center, Gabby and Min’s Literary Review, and Dug Up Magazine.