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poison A perfectly roasted chicken taunts her carving knife, its meaty breast thrust forward. Ready to die at battle, though it was already dead. She knew it was poison. Of this she was sure. She scrapes it into the trash, mashes it into breakfast’s coffee grounds and eggshells, so it won’t be confused with something edible. Bundles it downstairs and shoves it deep in a trashcan, safely away. She runs from one neighbor to the next, bangs her fist on each door. Begs for a chicken through tears. Do you have a chicken I can borrow? I poisoned mine by mistake/I didn’t mean to/ Really/Oh no, I threw it away. She cries on the stairway. How would she feed them? Sounds of sirens get closer, and closer until they fall silent. And then the lights, strobing. Red then blue. Red. Blue. Red. Blue. She used to watch her mother when they sat for supper. Held her fork poised above her meal, waiting for her mother to swallow a bite of each thing on her plate before she swallowed her own. Chicken, potatoes, salad. Tests to be sure that tonight’s meal wasn’t her last. Wasn’t spiced with only freedom in mind. castaway Help me escape this island, this cold cold island. She writes urgent messages to send in bottles. But there are no bottles, and no ocean to send them on. So. She tapes them to walls and hopes, wild-eyed, for deliverance. The devil lives under the big rock in the backyard. Dinner is poison. Do not eat it out of the trash. Something is wrong with my knuckles. I need to cut them out. I am speaking Portuguese. Can you hear me? I am afraid I will push you out of the bedroom window. Did you leave a note in my pocket with no words on it? I need black crayons. The dishes in the sink need to stay dirty. If you come home and cannot see me, this means the curse has taken hold. The dog next door barks in code. I turned off the electricity. All of it. Our mouths are holy and unclean. I cannot feel myself. God will not talk to me. Don’t try to help me. You are in danger. Only I can protect you. goddess Crabgrass breaks through the driveway in some random lattice, the green of its crawl stark against last year’s topcoat. The garage door, rust-locked at an angle, a veneer of dirt pocked by raindrop fossils. Lifeless yews in strict formation hold tight to their tempered needles. Their coats of quills. Pellets of pearlite freckle around stems of crisped begonias and shattered mums. They stand silent, leaves still bold enough to crackle if you get close enough to listen. Mud wasps land gently and pulse on bags of topsoil, open and smeared on the walkway. Aphids blow bubbles in flowering grasses. A rusted trowel with a splintered handle of once-blue, marks holes, undug. Dear ___, Everything’s great here. The garage door is fixed and I finished the gardening. Would love to see you and ____ for the holidays! (I keep your teeth in a windowless white envelope. The scab from our cord, cushioned by cotton in a small paper box. Sometimes I suck on it, afraid to chew.) today in exile It’s been snowing steadily for days/weeks/months. Gusts of wind rush to fill in the feeble path she dug from the door. A fish in a tank, open-mouthed, as the white of it eclipses the windows. She longs to sleep until it ends. But not even sleep could temper this cold. On this _th day, snow clouds yield to a weak blue sun. She hears the rattle of an engine above the tops of the trees. Hears the whine of the plane as it circles, a heavy thump as a box hits the ground and splits, spilling its contents into the drifts. She runs out barefooted, shovel in hand. Sees the pilot tip his cap with a nod, and the plane fades from view. Beth Balousek is a poet and teacher in New York. Their chapbook, Aphasia, was published by BlazeVOX books. Poems/flash have appeared in Raw Art Review among other online/print journals.

INT. HOUSE - DAY MOM Then how are you going to reproduce? Photosynthesis? You can only blink at your mother. A few times fast so the world flickers like quick jump cuts in a horror movie. VIV What? You let the trailer you were cutting yourself slip into the final suspenseful scene before the title drop. Photosynthesis could make an interesting premise for a horror movie. Something about a foreign object or a stray spaceship carrying some sort of cargo crashing into the sun and changing its composition. Then the plants start releasing strange gasses instead of oxygen, gasses that turn people or animals into monsters. It would probably be more of a thriller than a horror, but the line of distinction between the two is virtually invisible anyway. Someone would probably pick it up. They’ve picked up weirder concepts before; you have a talent for making some of the strangest stories sound like future box office successes. You would just need to find someone to take it and make it good. MOM How do you plan on having children? Photosynthesis? VIV Mitosis. You’re thinking of mitosis. MOM What’s the difference? You sigh, wishing you could erase the past few minutes and crawl back into the closet. Sure, it was dark and a little cramped, but it was safe. There was no one shining a bright light in your face and prodding at everything you’re still trying to understand yourself. VIV Photosynthesis is how plants turn sunlight into energy and oxygen. Mitosis is how cells reproduce. They copy their DNA and duplicate themselves. It’s what you’re thinking of. Photosynthesis isn’t a reproduction process. Mitosis is, and it doesn’t involve sex. She flinches. MOM How can you say that so...so easily? VIV What? Mitosis? It’s not that hard to pronounce. I have a harder time pronouncing paraphernalia. (Pronounces “paraphernalia” wrong) Par-a-pher-nal-i-a. (Still wrong. Accepts defeat.) MOM No, not that. She lowers her voice to a whisper and leans close, glancing around like she’s about to tell you a classified secret right before rival spies break down your door. MOM (CONT’D) Sex. VIV Well, that’s easy to pronounce. It’s only one syllable. Your smile drops when the joke plops to the ground like a dart without a flight. MOM You really shouldn’t talk about that. It’s uncomfortable. VIV You asked, though. MOM No, I didn’t! VIV You asked when Ethan and I were planning on having kids. You can’t make kids without sex. MOM Well, no, but I wasn’t asking about that. You’ve been married for five years. That seems like enough time to settle down. I was wondering when I can start planning for grandkids. VIV You have two other kids who can give you grandchildren. I don’t have to have them if I don’t want to. MOM But you’ll want kids someday. It’s only natural. VIV I must not be natural then because I don’t want kids. MOM But you will- VIV I might. That’s open to change, of course. If we decide we want kids, then we’ll have kids. We can adopt if we want to. It’s not like there aren’t options outside of sex. Adoption would actually be your most feasible option, but the reason for that is not your secret to share. If something strikes you from above with the intense desire to take responsibility for another life, it wouldn’t come about in any way close to the “natural” method she’s so obsessed with. MOM Are you telling me you two really don’t do anything like that? She emphasizes the word that as if you won’t be able to understand what she’s referring to unless she really sticks the landing. VIV Sometimes, but only because it makes Ethan happy. It’s kind of like how you watch Dad’s softball games. You read a book most of the time, but it makes him happy to have you there. And it makes you happy to make him happy. MOM You read a book? She completely missed the point. Phoosh. Flew right past. VIV No, I usually watch a movie. She gapes. VIV (CONT'D) You know what? Forget I said anything. You get to your feet and check the time on your phone. VIV (CONT'D) I’ll see you later, okay? MOM Okay. She gives you a tentative hug. MOM (CONT'D) Love you, honey. VIV Love you too. INT. VIV’S CAR - DAY You tap the steering wheel as you drive home, the music a dull hum in the background. You knew she wouldn’t understand. To her, the world is simple and straightforward, defined by rules that fit into her definition of natural. This facet of your identity breaks her rules, so she denies its existence. You didn’t have to tell her. You could’ve hidden it for the rest of your life, but you hated hiding it. The closet was safe, but it wasn’t the outside world. The outside world is so much bigger, full of so many possibilities. Unfortunately, plenty of those possibilities are disappointing. Tears blur your vision so that the brake lights of the car in front of you expand and grow lines. You slam on your brakes once you register the red, stopping right before you tap the rear end of the car. Your hands shake, and you pull into the nearest parking lot once the stoplight turns green. You rest your forehead against the top of the steering wheel, your eyes leaking and your chest shivering. How could she watch you open up to her and slam the lid closed on your fingers? It wasn’t even that bad, considering the stories you’ve heard. You haven’t been disowned or killed or sent to someone to fix you. No one got rid of every pair of pants in your closet to try and force you into an incorrect identity. All she did was accuse you of being a plant. So why does it hurt so much? The car is too small. It’s pushing in on you, forcing you to replace the oxygen with carbon dioxide until there’s nothing left to breathe. You stumble out of the shrinking space, taking a deep breath of fresh air. You glance around the island of seclusion you’ve stumbled upon. Pinwheels spin and fountains bubble and wind chimes sing in the green surrounding a greenhouse sitting alone at the edge of a wood. It feels similar to a house made of candy or a witch’s cabin; something about the eccentricity and solitude pulls you into a fairytale setting. Or maybe the name, Mother Thyme, written in crooked, chipped letters on a wooden sign, feels like a piece of a storybook plopped into the real world. The chimes whisper that if you step through the glass door, something magical will change everything. INT. MOTHER THYME'S GREENHOUSE - DAY VIV Plants, of course. You chuckle, perhaps to break the still air. How can the air be so still when everything is so bright and loud? The door creaks when you push it open, but no bell chimes to alert anyone to your presence. You creep inside, gliding between the rows of plants spilling green toward the floor and up to the sun. VIV (CONT’D) Hello? Anyone here? The greenhouse echoes with the thoughts of growing. VIV (CONT’D) This isn’t a private greenhouse, is it? I’m sorry if I’m trespassing. I’ll leave if you want. No answer. No wizened old person appears at your shoulder. No witch starts chanting until you shrink into a frog. The greenhouse is empty but full at the same time. Your fingers brush the chalky leaves of a nearby plant. The air smells of life, surrounding you like a bubble of tranquility and promises. A sign catches your eye. Struggling to have a child? Grow one yourself! You examine one of the packets, the solitary seed hidden behind the plastic. VIV How odd. MOTHER THYME Do you want to have a child? VIV Jesus Christ! You jump at the voice. A woman stands behind you. She looks like someone froze her at each stage of life and fused them all together. Her face is wrinkled and smooth, and her voice creaks like a floorboard and rings like a bell. VIV (CONT’D) Um, I’m not sure. MOTHER THYME Are you unable to have one? VIV I’ve never tried. MOTHER THYME Quite a conundrum you have there. Only the desperate or lost can find this rack. You must be one or the other. She leans in close until your noses nearly touch. MOTHER THYME (CONT’D) Which are you? You tilt away. VIV Both, I guess. MOTHER THYME Interesting. She drops back outside your personal bubble. MOTHER THYME (CONT’D) Take it. There must be some reason you found it. Even if you never use it, it’s nice to have the option, right? She smiles and spins away. You glance between the packet in your hand and her retreating back. VIV But how- But how does it work? She waves a hand without turning around. MOTHER THYME Instructions on the inside flap. You pull up the flap to find a list of words you don’t take the time to read. VIV How much do I- You scan the rustling leaves, but she is nowhere to be seen. VIV (CONT’D) -owe you. INT. VIV’S HOUSE - DAY You’re suspended in a state of disbelief and surrealism until you somehow find yourself in your house. Ethan jumps off the couch when the door shuts, pocketing his phone that had been pressed to his ear until he saw you. He has that look in his eyes that he gets when his imagination gets the better of him and pulls him into a spiral of irrationality. ETHAN Where were you? You said you’d be home by four, but it’s almost six-thirty. I tried calling you, but you didn’t pick up. So I started picturing you flipped over in a ditch somewhere or in a serial killer’s basement, and I know that’s ridiculous, but- (Beat.) Are you okay? You blink at him. VIV Was there always a greenhouse on the way to my parents’ house? He blinks back. ETHAN Um, yeah, I’m pretty sure. VIV How did I not notice it before? ETHAN Well, you aren’t exactly reliable when it comes to landmarks. VIV But I grew up there. I took that road to school every day. How did I not see it? ETHAN Didn’t you always read or watch something on the bus? And you’re usually pretty busy putting on a personal concert when you’re driving, so I’m sure you just missed it. What’s this about? VIV Yeah, I guess you’re right. ETHAN Viv? I’m still confused here. He gives your shoulders a squeeze to pull you back to earth. The haze that was starting to fade out the world lifts. ETHAN (CONT'D) Did something happen? VIV I came out to my mom. ETHAN Oh, uh, okay. (Beat.) How did that go? VIV She called me a plant. You deflate. You let your heavy head drop on his shoulder. He coughs up in a half-chuckle. ETHAN What? VIV She asked if I plan on using photosynthesis to reproduce. ETHAN Are you sure she didn’t mean mitosis? VIV Probably. I don’t know. I don’t know why I did it. Everything was fine. She never had to know. But she just kept asking and asking about kids and when we were going to have them and why she doesn’t have grandkids yet. I just thought that maybe if I told her, explained it to her, she’d understand and she wouldn’t push so hard. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about disappointing her or making her wait for nothing anymore. And, I don’t know, I guess I thought that maybe if she knew, she’d understand me more and we wouldn’t disagree as much. But that was stupid. I was stupid. She didn’t understand. She just looked so confused and got angry whenever I said sex and sad whenever I said I didn’t want a traditional family that I finally just left. ETHAN Is the greenhouse important? VIV I’m getting to that. Okay, so I couldn’t drive because I couldn’t think straight. So I parked, and I was in front of this really weird greenhouse. I went inside because plants and my mom thinks I’m a plant so I might as well make friends with the plants. And this weird lady gave me this seed that apparently grows a baby in case I decide I want one. ETHAN Wait, what? VIV She gave me a seed that turns into a baby. Keep up. ETHAN And I repeat, wait, what? You sigh and pull the packet from your pocket. You hand it to him. VIV Here. The instructions are on the inside flap. ETHAN (Reading the instructions.) “Swallow with eight ounces of water. Spend at least two hours in the sun and drink thirty-six fluid ounces of water every day for nine months. The perfect way to have an ordinary pregnancy without intercourse.” He looks up. ETHAN (CONT’D) Is this supposed to make a plant baby? VIV I don’t know. The lady just gave it to me and then she disappeared, so I took it. You shrug, feeling stupid and shrinkable. ETHAN Huh. This reminds me of how our parents told us that if we swallowed a watermelon seed we’d grow a watermelon in our stomach. Only with a baby. You know we can try to have a baby, right? Like the way most people do. VIV Um, no, we can’t. ETHAN What do you-? Oh! Right. No, we can’t. Biologically impossible. VIV Mhm. ETHAN Sometimes I forget. VIV Makes sense. Why wouldn’t you? ETHAN I didn’t think I’d ever be able to forget. You kiss him quick because he just looks so happy. He presses his forehead against yours, and you just grin stupidly at each other. ETHAN So back to the plant baby. We can just adopt. Or get a sperm donor. VIV I know! I don’t want a baby! ETHAN I don’t really either, but I’d consider it if you wanted one- VIV I don’t want one. ETHAN Good. I didn’t want to have to worry about that. Right, you made him worry. Again. You promised you’d get better about that, but sometimes you forget. VIV I’m sorry I didn’t answer your calls. I turned the ringer off on my phone because I didn’t want to know if my mom called me. Then I wandered into a greenhouse and lost track of time. I didn’t mean to worry you. ETHAN It’s okay. I kind of went a little overboard with the freaking out. I know it doesn’t make sense, but you know, it doesn’t matter if it makes sense. VIV But I know that. I’m your wife, I should be helping you with it, not making it worse. I’ll call you next time I take a detour, I promise. ETHAN You don’t have to. He waves the seed packet. ETHAN (CONT’D) So...what are you going to do with this? VIV Stick it in the magician’s hat. You take it from him and drop it in the bottomless pit overflowing with receipts, expired coupons, oddly shaped paper clips, and other miscellaneous items that have no clear purpose. ETHAN Never to be seen again. He presses a kiss to your head. Happy shivers run down your spine. ETHAN (CONT’D) We don’t have to have kids to be happy. VIV I know. It just feels like the entire world thinks we do. ETHAN The entire world is wrong. VIV I hope so. INT. VIV’S HOUSE - DAY The seed in its paper and plastic casing sits forgotten in the magician’s hat for months.  Overflowing and eventful months. Months too cramped to fit even the faintest idea of children. Ethan’s sister gets married in Texas, and his grandmother passes away a few weeks later. Your sister breaks up with her latest boyfriend and finds a replacement soon after. Both of your careers take leaps towards the better. Ethan’s hair salon opens a second location that promises to be successful, and you find a new, untouched writer with a fresh voice to help guide you from the slum pile to the movie screens. They think your photosynthesis idea has potential. Life is bursting, on the verge of exploding everywhere in a gush of overbooking and scrambling for spare minutes to breathe. That perfect verge where you’re standing at the edge of the waterfall, water misting your hair, arms spread to hold the sky, one step away from falling. Until, with a shove to the back, you find yourself tumbling. Your plummet from this euphoric perch began as most do; at a family dinner. INT. MOM’S HOUSE - EVENING The conversation was riding smoothly, mostly stories reminisced and friendly jabs exchanged. Until it took a dangerous detour into the territory of controversial topics. Topics you forget are controversial to your family until they randomly decide to express their opinions on them. DAD I just don’t understand how anyone could go through a sex change. You hate that phrase. “Sex change.” It makes it sound like deciding to get a mullet or a regrettable tattoo. Like the person brought this on themselves. Like they chose to have a mind and body that don’t fit together. Ethan meets your eyes across the table. His fist is clenched around his fork, but his forced, close-lipped smile is begging you not to say anything. You tap his foot under the table, and he smiles a little bit for real. Holding hands is too obvious in uncomfortable situations like these, so you hold feet instead, where nobody can see that you’re stuck between wishing you could shrivel up and die and wanting to set the house on fire. You let yourself fall into his eyes, ignoring the mist-coated rocks at the bottom of the waterfall. The conversation fades under the roar of water. Your mother’s voice grabs you by the collar and yanks you behind the waterfall. MOM People get married to have children. What’s the point if they don’t make a family? It feels like you’re being pinned against the hidden face of the waterfall. There isn’t a plot-convenient cave to save you, so the water pummels you from above. It slams against your head and shoulder, flooding into your mouth and ears, drenching you until it feels like you’ve been beaten down to bones. You focus on Ethan’s eyes because you know if you look at your mom she’s going to be looking at you and then you’ll be crying. If you cry, everything will be ruined. You know there are holes in her logic. Plenty of people don’t have traditional families. You grew up watching movies like The Parent Trap, Cheaper by the Dozen, and Yours, Mine, and Ours on repeat. Those certainly weren’t traditional families, and she seems to find them acceptable. No matter how nonsensical you know she’s being, you can’t pull free of the torrent she’s trapped you under. Your facade must be breaking because Ethan sets down his glass. ETHAN We really should get going. I have an early morning tomorrow. MOM Oh, alright. Hugs are exchanged and you escape to the driveway. INT. CAR - NIGHT ETHAN Are you okay? VIV Mhm. Are you? ETHAN It’s not the first time. VIV That’s not what I asked. ETHAN I’m not sure. I will be. I guess. VIV Yeah. Me too. ETHAN I forgot again. I literally thought ‘What’s that?’ Then I remembered, ‘That’s you.’ Stupid. You stare out the window. The odd greenhouse squats on the side of the road. VIV Do you ever wish we were normal? ETHAN (Beat) Sometimes. But then I remember that normal isn’t real. I’d rather be ourselves over something that isn’t even real. VIV Yeah, you’re right. Your eyes are still locked on the greenhouse even after it disappears around the bend. INT. VIV’S HOUSE - DAY You work from home the next day, but you struggle to focus. You try contacting producers for your new writer’s screenplay, but the cursor just blinks at you without creating any words. You play music, make food, play a show in the background, spin in circles. Your thoughts just spin back to what your mom said last night, dragging you down the toilet with it. MOM (V.O.) People get married to have children. What’s the point if they don’t make a family? There are plenty of points to marriage besides children, Mom. Companionship, for one. Now you have someone to rely on and who has promised to rely on you. And there are warm and fuzzy feelings and a constant supply of cuddles and forehead kisses. Not to mention the legal benefits. Falling in love isn’t a transaction. It’s something that just happens, something that you never thought could happen to you. And she wants to diminish this precious thing you found because it doesn’t fit her perfect picture. If she could, she’d photoshop you into what she wants you to be. Maybe she doesn’t love you at all. No, she loves you. You know she does. But there’s a difference between loving someone because you’re obligated to and loving someone because you see their soul and find it beautiful. She’d love you more if she liked what she saw. If you want her to truly love you, she has to like you. You have a way to make her do that. It’s sitting in a drawer a few feet away from you. INT. VIV’S BATHROOM - DAY You push yourself away from the toilet, fumbling for the flush with shaking fingers. ETHAN (O.S.) I’m home! Viv? VIV In here. ETHAN (O.S) Viv? You try to answer him again, but only a sob breaks out of your mouth. You slump back against the bathroom wall and hug your knees to your chest. ETHAN Viv? What are you doing? You feel him kneel in front of you, and his hands tighten around your arms, quivering with panic. ETHAN (CONT’D) Are you okay? Are you sick? You shake your head between your knees. ETHAN (CONT'D) Which one? VIV I think I did something stupid. ETHAN Viv, please, come on. He checks your wrists, the bathroom floor, the trash can. He pulls out his phone. ETHAN You’ve got to tell me what you took, okay? I’m calling an- You hand him the seed packet, your throat too tight to make words. ETHAN Oh, thank god. You scared me. You hide your face in your legs again. You should’ve realized that he would jump to the worst possible scenario. How could you do that to him? You keep doing that to him. You wish you didn’t. You watch him fold the packet between his fingers through the space between your leg and arm. ETHAN You took the plant baby? I thought you were trying to kill yourself. VIV I’m so stupid. ETHAN Just...just don’t do that again. Don’t scare me like that again. VIV I can’t get it out. ETHAN What? VIV I can’t get it out. I tried, but it’s stuck in me. And it’s going to turn into a baby, and I don’t want a baby. I don’t want to raise a baby if I don’t want it. That’s just cruel to the baby and me. Why did I take it? ETHAN I don’t know. Why did you? He’s trying his best to take you seriously, but you can see that he finds you a little ridiculous. You love him for trying anyway. VIV I want her to love me. If I have a baby, she’ll love me. ETHAN I see. You shouldn’t change yourself so someone will love you. VIV I know. I know. That’s why I’m stupid. I want her to love me. I want it so much. But even if I have a baby, she’ll find something else she doesn’t like. ETHAN I know it’s not the same, but I’ll always love you. You rest your head on his shoulder. VIV Thank you. I love you too. He holds up the packet. ETHAN This says that you have to drink water and be in the sun to make the baby grow. You can’t stop drinking water, so you’ll just have to stay out of the sun for a while. Plants die if they don’t get sunlight. You can stay out of the sun, right? VIV Yeah. ETHAN There, problem solved. VIV If there even was a problem to begin with. ETHAN Better safe than sorry. VIV I’m sorry I scared you. I’ll try not to do it again. ETHAN Please. I don’t like the idea of a world without you. VIV Let’s hopefully never find out, okay? ETHAN Deal. INT. VIV’S HOUSE - NIGHT For the next week, you avoid the sun like your mother. She tries to call, but you cut the conversation to five-minute spurts by making up some urgent excuse. A producer or writer is calling you, you have to meet someone for coffee, Ethan clogged the toilet again. She never has enough time to prod the hole of guilt in your chest. The hole is stabbing at you enough, reaching down into your gut and stirring it around. You and Ethan are eating take-out while watching a thriller when the stabbing crescendos into a coughing fit. You hide it in your hand, but every lump in your chest that you dislodge is replaced by another. Until something wets the palm of your hands and oozes between your fingers. You stare at the mess of bloody leaves in horror. Blood sprays across the screen as someone’s head is forcibly removed, but all you can see is the mix of green and red in your hand. VIV Ethan– Another cough barrages your chest. INT. HOSPITAL - NIGHT Ethan rushes you to the hospital with a plastic bag full of leaves and blood. The doctor mumbles something about the flu or bronchitis and prescribes a bottle of antibiotics. Ethan argues with the entire hospital staff that there’s obviously something else wrong with you until his face is red. You finally squeeze his hand to tell him that you should just leave. They can’t help you. You both know this is something they’ve never seen before, and you can’t blame them for their lack of knowledge. He calms down enough to bring you home. INT. VIV’S HOUSE - NIGHT The movie is sliding into its blood-coated resolution when you open the door. You’ll never know what happened in the middle. Ethan sets you up in your bed and stays up with a bucket all night, petting your head and promising both of you that you’ll be okay. You both know the promise might be empty, but you don’t want to voice any doubt in case it poisons any chance you have. EXT. CAR - MORNING He carries you to the car as the sun peeps its head over the horizon. He doesn’t tell you where you’re going, and any attempt to speak results in another wad of leaves to pool in the bag. INT. CAR - MOTHER THYME'S GREENHOUSE - MORNING He parks askew in the empty parking lot in front of the greenhouse, his brow furrowed as he watches the lot entrance. The moment headlights lead a car into the lot, he jumps out the door.  He catches the ageless woman as she’s stepping out of her car. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but his vehement gestures give enough context. He guides her to your side of the car and pulls open your door. More leaves spurt out of your mouth. MOTHER THYME Oh. She hasn’t gotten enough sun. ETHAN We were avoiding the sun. MOTHER THYME Why? ETHAN She didn’t mean to take it. It was a mistake. MOTHER THYME A mistake? ETHAN Yes, a mistake. MOTHER THYME Why would you make this kind of choice if you can’t take responsibility? ETHAN It was a mistake! MOTHER THYME Mistake or not, it’s been taken. It will either give life or take it. There is no in-between. Those are the rules. ETHAN Where does it say that? Shouldn’t this come with a warning or something? MOTHER THYME It’s in the fine print. ETHAN So, what you’re saying is that if we don’t follow the instructions, she’s going to die? MOTHER THYME Those are the rules. ETHAN The rules are fucking stupid! He looks the closest you’ve ever seen him to punching an old lady, or anyone, for that matter.  The greenhouse owner only blinks at him. MOTHER THYME Don’t forget the water. She turns and walks back to the greenhouse. Ethan deflates as soon as the driver’s side door shuts after him. ETHAN I’m sorry. You squeeze his hand, fitting every word you can’t say in the motion. You try to tell him that he has nothing to apologize for, that you’re the one who’s sorry, that you’ll figure this out together somehow. He gives your hand a squeeze back and starts the car. INT. VIV’S HOUSE - DAY You find a notebook and pen before he can force you back to bed. Then you open the blinds you’ve kept shut for a week. You plop down in the pool of sunlight and gesture for him to sit across from you. He settles down, his brow furrowed. You write in big letters. VIV (WRITING) I have to follow the instructions. You show it to him, tapping the paper with the pen. ETHAN Yeah. Because dying is bad. VIV (WRITING) But we don’t have to keep it. ETHAN This is like magic or something. I don’t think an abortion would be safe. Might break those stupid rules somehow. VIV (WRITING) We can put it up for adoption. Find it parents who can give it the life it deserves. ETHAN I don’t know about deserves. VIV (WRITING) Find a family to love it. It’s not its fault I’m stupid. It didn’t ask to be... (Beat) Grown. ETHAN So we grow it and put it up for adoption. But what about our families? You stare at the paper, tapping your pen as if it will magically hand you a solution. VIV (WRITING) Avoid them? ETHAN Really, Viv? My family, we can manage ‘cause they’re out of state and we don’t talk much anyway. But yours? Do you really think you can just not see them for nine months? VIV (WRITING) We can leave? ETHAN Viv, that’s worse. You can work anywhere, but I have to be here. The second location just opened, and I can’t just up and abandon them. And I’m not going to let you outside of a ten-mile radius of me until I know for a fact you aren’t dying. Not to mention we can’t afford to live somewhere else for nine months. VIV (WRITING) I’ll tell them. ETHAN Do you want me to come with you? VIV (WRITING) I have to do this myself. He kisses your forehead. And you realize you haven’t had to cough for the entire conversation. ETHAN I’m proud of you. VIV (Hoarsely) I love you. ETHAN I love you too. EXT. MOM’S HOUSE - DAY Your leg has been shaking since you left the house. The sun warms the back of your neck as you watch it bounce. You haven’t coughed up leaves for days, but you still dread whatever is growing in your belly. You look up to find your mom watching you from over her glass of water. VIV Mom, I’m pregnant. A smile breaks her face and the glass clinks against the table. MOM Really? VIV We’re not going to keep it. Her smile stays frozen on her face. MOM What? VIV Ethan and I have decided to put the baby up for adoption. We’re not ready for a baby, and I don’t think we ever will be. We’re going to find this baby parents who will love it. It’s the best thing for the baby and for us. She just stares at you, her smile falling into a gaping hole. VIV (CONT’D) I just wanted to tell you so you knew before I started showing and everything. I don’t want to hide it from you. But this is our decision, and nothing you say will change it. You get to your feet, your right leg aching to run a race all on its own. She doesn’t say anything, so you turn to leave. Her chair screeches against the deck boards. MOM How could you? How could you be so heartless? This is a baby. VIV Heartless? It would be heartless to raise a baby I’m not capable of loving, who I resent. It would be heartless to keep it just to please you when it could have a family who will give it all the love and attention it deserves. It would be heartless to pretend to be a mother. MOM You are going to be a mother. VIV No, I’m not! (Beat) Mom, please. I don’t need you to understand or even agree with me. Trust me when I say that this is the best thing I could do for this baby. MOM No. The best thing you can do for this baby is raise him. A baby needs a mother and a father. You and Ethan are his mother and father. VIV A child needs parents who love it. We can’t be that. MOM Yes, you can. It might be hard, but nothing worth having is ever easy. VIV I didn’t come here to ask for your permission. I just wanted you to know because I want to be honest with you. Our relationship is breaking, Mom. I can’t be the only one trying to fix it. You have to want to fix it too. I don’t think you do. Some of the weight you have been hauling around with you floats away on your breath. INT. RESTAURANT - DAY After a series of intense interviews, you and Ethan find a couple five hours away. Gregory is the owner of a small clothing brand and Parker is a lawyer. You only planned to have lunch, but you ended up spending the night in their spare room after the minutes turned into hours without any of you noticing. You and Ethan unanimously decided that they were perfect. They were better than anything you could have hoped for. INT. HOSPITAL - DAY You barely see your parents or your siblings during your pregnancy, and all of them subtly refuse to come to the hospital. Ethan holds your hand and paces. He even takes it when you scream at him for breathing too loud and driving you crazy in stride. Gregory and Parker are waiting when the baby arrives. They hold him first, rocking him in their arms and laughing at every noise he makes. They offer to let you hold him, and you do for a moment. And in that moment, it feels so right that he will grow up with them. He doesn’t fit in your arms the way he does theirs. He’s adorable, but he isn’t yours, not in the way a baby should be someone’s. You hand him back to Parker and smile at Ethan. He doesn’t say anything. He understands. They name him Colin and thank you again and again until Parker whispers to Gregory and they leave you alone. Parker winks at you on his way out before returning to swooning over his son. Ethan climbs into the hospital bed next to you with a groan. You snuggle against him. He kisses your hair. VIV Let’s never do this again, okay? ETHAN Deal. What if we got a cat? VIV A cat would be perfect. ETHAN A normal cat though. VIV No photosynthesis involved, I promise. Odi Welter (they/she/he) is a queer, neurodivergent author currently studying Film and Creative Writing at the University of Wisconsin - Milwaukee. They have been published in several magazine such as Yellow Arrow Vignette, Hamilton Arts and Letters, and Broken Antler Quarterly. When not writing, they are indulging in their borderline unhealthy obsessions with fairy tales, marine life, superheroes, and botany.

He told her the answer to her questions would be found in faith and prayer. In the coffee shop next to the Greyhound bus station, he had recognised all of her hunger. At the end of the afternoon, she followed him home, mesmerised by this softly-spoken, dark-eyed man. The memory of the conversation stings like a horsefly as she sits on the hard wooden chair. The congregation settles in, humming with need and expectation like pylons in the storm-ready air. The heat is heavy, oppressive as a hand on the back of her head.  Fans whine in protest at the effort of stirring the damp air around. One of the ladies of the church catches her looking, smiles benignly. She returns the smile like a tennis ball, watches sweat mingle with the powder caked onto the woman’s face, a single mercury bright bead rolling down her cheek before becoming lost in the folds of fat around her neck. Now he stands at the front of the church, olive green boxes on the table beside him, a drive-by memory of holes punched into the sides. He begins to speak, quietly at first, his voice building as relentlessly as the thunderheads outside the white board building. A chorus of amens floats up from the congregation, words picked up and tossed around like dry leaves in the wind. She looks at the family groups, dressed in their Sunday best, little girls in threadbare cotton dresses, faint lines showing where the dresses had been let down. Someone in each group missing a finger or bearing a silver lacework of scars on their arms. A current of ecstasy runs through the onlookers as he reaches into one of the boxes and removes the snake. He passes the diamond back from hand to hand, a steady, coiling flow of scale and muscle. She watches his pale, slim fingers and can feel them on the side of her face again, remembering the moment she lost herself on the path to this church deep in the south. She thinks about the pools of stagnant water at the side of the path, alive with mosquito larvae, the jewel flash of a feeding hummingbird. The people are singing. She puts her hand to her head, pushing back the pale blue head scarf he had picked out for her, letting her hair fall loose. She shifts in her chair, away from the dull ache of the bruises on her back. He lifts the rattler up high, showering ecstasy over the congregation, assuring them that they are chosen, no harm can come to them. The snake’s mouth is a gaping, furious void. It lunges towards the preacher and in that second, she knows that she will leave. She will find her yellow dress, her cowboy boots, and head back to the city where she knows how to handle the serpents.

Monday’s moon shone full and bright over the mountain, illuminating diffuse and unusual white wisps in the sky above. Shari Feinstrom, town ombudsperson, headed out for City Hall, determined to wrangle the town council (five individuals with the acumen and decorum of half-drugged feral cats) into finally prioritizing Volcanoville’s critical action items, including the $3.7M operating deficit. Her heart sank as she approached the entrance. Councilmembers Vondela Crassus and Corky Dupree stood there with at least thirty congregants from VV Baptist, waiting to ambush her about taking down the rainbow flag that marked the start of Pride week. They’d been through this a million times, and the other three council members insisted it fly. There would be blood tonight. Shari drove home later, dejected, for among the issues tabled till the following month were the deficit, the looming garbage strike, cuts to the library budget, and the mysterious steam rising from the sidewalk in front of Pipe Down! (the local tobacconist’s on Ash Street). Tuesday morning, Mindy Zamora, just sweet sixteen, was with her grandmother, heading to the clinic for an abortion. There had been some question of being able to afford it, but at the last minute, right after the government shutdown ended, her off-again boyfriend, Army Specialist Manny Diaz (stationed overseas to intervene in the latest sectarian skirmish), had received his salary, and been able to wire her grandmother the money, getting around Mindy’s evangelical parents. Grandma Rita insisted on driving, and in the course of entering the parking lot, managed to graze a shrieking protester with the front bumper (or had they intentionally run out in front of her?). There resulted in a battle between protesters and counter-protesters as to who had been responsible, causing Mindy to break down and miss her appointment altogether. As the crowd lunged upon each other, nobody noticed the series of small tremors rolling under their busy feet. Down the road at VVU, Professor Ted Tiddlebury was in trouble. He’d risen in the wee hours of Wednesday morning, and gone to his office in the Sociology department to read, for the nineteenth time, threatening emails from sophomore hacker Brendan Bean, who’d somehow retrieved a decade-old, deleted, private Facebook post (in which Tiddlebury had praised the behinds of several coeds), and who was demanding $100,000 in untraceable cryptocurrency to keep it quiet. Together with his recent X (formerly Twitter) post expressing relief at the lifting of the mask mandate: Now I can see your beautiful mouths! (have you ever?), Tiddlebury sensed the ice was thin beneath him. Careers had ended for less. And as he entered the shady website, typing, with shaky hands, the account number provided by his blackmailer, he entirely missed the muffled blasts splitting the mountain air some miles away. Early Friday morning in the faculty lounge at VV Middle School, they were processing a micro-aggression. Mr. McDougall, music and band, had been called a leprechaun by Coach Johnson, and was outraged. First, he was a Scot who had jack-all to do with leprechauns. And second, he was sick of being put down for his height! The powerfully built Johnson countered that no Scotsman could be subject to a micro-aggression because they had never suffered, setting McDougall off on a rant involving British Parliament, William Wallace and Rob Roy. When are we getting the other non-binary staff bathroom?! someone cried, and soon the lounge roiled with the question of who was properly oppressed, with much talk of triggering, and ensuring safe spaces, generally. Kay Stanchion, seventh grade science, was the first to turn away from the melee, desperate for the Advil in her purse. In so doing, she looked out the window and saw dark smoke pouring from the top of the mountain. Without saying a word to the others, she swallowed her pills and stole outside, joining Albert Bellagamba, head custodian of thirty-six years, who was smoking and staring at the flames. She accepted a cigarette from him and they stood companionably, puffing away. I think it’s going pyroclastic, he said. (Thinking back to her November unit on volcanism, Kay could only agree.) Within moments, the fiery flow confirmed this fear. Why does everyone have to be so stupid? was among her final thoughts. And just as the varied and aggrieved voices of Volcanoville went silent for good, there was a searing cry of pity (or was it triumph?) from some high-flying bird. Below, the lava buried it all: the clinic, the university, and Shari’s house. The school, the tobacconist’s, even City Hall was gone (the Pride flag striking a jaunty note, flying high above the destruction). But even before that, Prudence Yu had smelled rotting egg in the air of her garden and she’d had a sense, a sinking feeling. She’d tried to tell her husband, Steve, but he (embroiled in a standing Thursday night Zoom battle with his sisters over their late mother’s estate) had brusquely shooed her away. She’d lifted Baby Grace out of her bassinet, exiting the house through the kitchen to the attached garage. She strapped Grace into her car seat, unplugged the cable from the wall, and drove away, as far as the charge would carry them. When Prudence heard, the following day, what the volcano had done, she was sorry but also felt…vindicated maybe? There’d been some longstanding but unspoken agreement, she thought, to ignore the mountain in favor of smaller, shiny things, things that were easier to comprehend. She would miss her husband, but what else, ultimately, could a mother have done? Was Grace to suffer and stay through something that had nothing to do with her? Steve’s sisters would feel bad about this, Prudence believed, and might finally cough up his full inheritance for the baby. Of course, the insurance company had canceled their homeowners policy years ago, but Steve did have full life. She was already making plans. With Grace, she could go away and start over again…someplace else where it was safe. Heather Pegas lives in Los Angeles, where she writes exceedingly compelling grant proposals for a living. Her essays and creative nonfiction are featured in journals such as Tahoma Literary Review, Tiny Molecules, Longridge Review, Slag Glass City, and Fatal Flaw Literary Magazine. She has extreme climate anxiety.

To Jessica Schwartz, From Your Designated Demon: In 6,000 years of existence, I have never had anyone summon me over 200 times in a single month. My secretary, Joann, can barely handle the requests. Unfortunately, I can’t solve all of your problems. I can’t make Jared love you again. I can’t make you love yourself. I can, however, add Jared to the waitlist for Hell. Don’t expect to hear back quickly. Let's talk about what’s in the cauldron. Why raw hearts? Can’t they at least be medium rare? After 223 raw hearts, you really start to crave some McNuggets. Must you summon me at Interlaken Park? Yellow sac spiders are scary, and it rains 150 days a year in Seattle. The McDonald’s at 3rd and Pine has AC and fewer spiders. No virgins necessary. You can just summon me yourself. I don’t judge, and Bryan already works full-time at the McDonald’s. My services work best in combination with other self-care activities. Try journaling, therapy, eating a McFlurry. My therapist says I need to set firm boundaries. So, I can’t always come when you call. Please contact Joann to schedule in advance. I would appreciate you calling me by name, as I feel like we’ve reached that point in our relationship. It’s Xarthreldoug'grorenunarog, but you may call me Doug. Thank you for your patronage. I really do wish you the best. And yeah, fuck Jared. Katherine Schmidt’s poetry is published in Roi Fainéant Press, Icebreakers Lit, JAKE, Unbroken, and elsewhere. She is a co-founder and EIC of Spark to Flame Journal. Natalie Wolf (https://nwolfmeep.wixsite.com/nmwolf) is an editor for Ambidextrous Bloodhound Press and a former co-editor and co-founder of Spark to Flame Journal. Her short fiction and poetry have appeared in Popshot Quarterly, Right Hand Pointing, Pink Panther Magazine, I-70 Review, and more. Her piece "When I told my cat he couldn't go outside, he:," published in The Hooghly Review, was nominated for Best Microfiction 2024.

A continuous note Played on a violin Suddenly stops For a moment It even looked As if I wouldn’t bleed Then the marionette climbs back up The strings it dangles from To find no one is there On my palm, A scar run through the Heart line Trips and falls, discontinuous & I hear her voice Tell me the moon Is covered in windflowers––– In other words, The sky spread out its veins Ancient into the night, Ancient into the moon: These are the well-tamed Savages––– The wolves are in the other room. Ray Corvi’s work was published or is forthcoming in Brushfire, Chaffin Journal, DASH Literary Journal, Evening Street Review, FictionWeek Literary Review, FRiGG Magazine, Grub Street, Neologism Poetry Journal, OPEN: Journal of Arts & Letters, The Penmen Review, Poetry Super Highway, The Round Magazine, Sage Cigarettes Magazine, The Seattle Star, Sublunary Review, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Triggerfish Critical Review, Whimperbang, and Whistling Shade. I write using the pen name Ray Corvi.

The black-and-white corridor smells of the memory of cigarettes, parables of ash caught above the coating of clorox. each step documents the gaps where the wind and the noise and the darkness seep through: light fixtures installed off-center, the spaces where the windows don’t quite fit. the staircase leans towards the center, some countless odyssey of rises and falls, forgetting marks of progress. this was once a possibility of a home—the dizzying polar curl of tiles, the twist of iron rails, a barely-covered dilapidation pretending at elegance. but what seeps through the cracks is a poison. the rot is crawling through the floor. I remember that time I first saw the madness of parallel mirrors, stopping suddenly in the hallway, staring at the endless iterations of myself curving into an infinity. the puzzle of everything that could have been, had one or two or two-thousand things gone differently. even to this day I am still standing there, watching the slight delay as some happier self steps out of the frame. Megan Busbice is a poet and fiction writer currently living in Chicago. She is a graduate of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, as well as a Fulbright grant recipient, and currently works in public policy. Megan’s work has appeared in the literary magazines New Critique, Rogue Agent, Cellar Door, and Rainy Day. Her work is upcoming in Door Is A Jar.

Old man Clancy needed a good scare. When Teddy walked past his house to the school bus, Clancy spit in his hair. He called the cops when Teddy and the other kids played football in the road. He even kicked Muddy, Teddy’s dog. After helping his collie limp around the house for a month, he’d had enough. Teddy’s older brother, Jake, once showed him that filling a plastic bottle with certain pool cleaners, depositing tinfoil, and then sealing the concoction with a cap would cause the bottle to fizz and explode. He’d ask Jake to make the potion, but ever since Teddy started middle school, Jake wanted Teddy to learn the hard way. “Don’t be a pussy,” Jake said. He repeated to himself what his brother told him when he worried over when his mother would get home after her late shifts: “Man up, kid.” Teddy would man up. He decided to test the formula by himself in the woods. He set a loaded bottle next to a bush and dashed behind the safety of a nearby tree. For a few minutes, he thought that the experiment had failed, but when the explosion came, it felt like an earthquake. Clancy would feel this earthquake. The plan was simple: trigger the formula, set the bottle on his doorstep, ring the bell, and flee to cover. Clancy’s awakening would be golden. He lived in a large house three blocks down the road and was the head of the neighborhood watch, so Teddy had to be stealthy. He couldn’t wait to see Clancy piss his pants thinking that the bomb was real. He snuck up Clancy’s driveway and plopped the bottle down on his doorstep. After igniting it, he rang the bell and scrambled behind the bushes of a neighboring house. Clancy opened the door, his rumpled face reddening at once. Teddy beamed as Clancy hurled expletives into the summer air. Then the explosion came, and a chunk of the ravaged bottle careened into the yard just a few feet from the bush Teddy hid behind. Clancy teetered back and forth and then grabbed his throat—a shard of plastic protruded from it. He retched as black blood seeped from his neck. Falling to his hands and knees, he attempted to cry out for help, but all he could do was moan and wheeze. He dragged himself to the edge of the yard, leaving a crimson stream behind him, Teddy froze. Teddy’s Collie rushed around the corner and jumped onto Clancy, who tried to yell but could only spit blood. Muddy bit into Clancy’s arm, sensing his fear and aggression. A woman across the street screamed and ran over. She tried to pull Muddy off of him, but the dog’s bite was too strong. “Get help,” she said to Teddy. “He’s dying.” Teddy felt like he was dreaming. “Now,” she said, gritting her teeth at him. “Now. He’s dying.” But Teddy didn’t move. Teddy didn’t move for hours. Brett Pribble’s work has appeared in Aquifer: The Florida Review Online, decomP, Stirring: A Literary Collection, Saw Palm, The Molotov Cocktail, Five on the Fifth, Maudlin House, and other places. He is the editor-in-chief of Ghost Parachute. Follow him on Twitter @brettpribble.

An incomplete log of children who I have not seen: The Sasquatch. His body type is indistinguishable from that of my father. They share teardrop eyes and a sweet tooth for hyperbole. Observers note their gait. They give the impression of always stepping over something. They are described as lone wolves, which is not incorrect yet not fully understood. They would spare this world their weeping. They cannot understate the case, so they burn their poems. Their hair grows longer every time they glimpse the divine or grieve. My father after 1999. He has been changed. He was in Albuquerque, and I was in New York. Sparrows held security councils on his windowsill. He was dressed as an old man in buffalo plaid. He sounded like Johnny Cash and Billy Graham. He wrote me letters in colored pencil. I returned them. He let them write “cardiac event,” which is not incorrect but incomplete. He closed his eyes on the carpet and opened them in a horn section where he plays first trumpet. He is an assistant to the department of Setting the Lonely in Families. He has been changed. The Oldest Child. Eyes have seen Him. Observers note His spoor. I do not know if His hair is long. He was born while already present. He made walruses and all the good decisions. He is the Eye. I am visible. He does not travel without packing my teardrops in His bottle. He shakes them together with my father’s like a chemist. His backpack is enormous. I fall asleep on His shoulders and wake up wild to write. A “bad person.” His existence is the only tenet on which our species agrees. He is an article of faith. He is accepted without evidence. I do not believe in him, even though I have seen him. He has unhappy eyes. He has my fingers. He traffics in the terrible. He lies to his mother and steals loaves and virtue. He writes vicious letters to the Oldest Child and sprinkles them with anthrax. He breaks the world. It was already broken. He is more than his actions and less important than this morning’s bread. It was decided that he should be here. It was a good decision. He tries to hide behind his hair. He is not flammable, which disappoints his siblings. Myself. I am informed that I have been sighted. I have my father’s eyes, the color of a pond that has not rippled since summer. I have too many pencils and the ego to work them to the nubs. I cannot erase my tracks. My feet are large. Someone provides evidence that I was curled like a kitten in the backpack at the time of the crime. The case is dismissed. I let them write “innocent,” which is not correct but complete. Not even my bangs are singed. Angela Townsend (she/her) is the Development Director at Tabby’s Place: a Cat Sanctuary. She graduated from Princeton Seminary and Vassar College. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Arts & Letters, Chautauqua, Paris Lit Up, The Penn Review, The Razor, and The Westchester Review, among others. She is a Best Spiritual Literature nominee. Angie has lived with Type 1 diabetes for 33 years, laughs with her poet mother every morning, and loves life affectionately. She lives just outside Philadelphia with two merry cats.

In barely a whisper he muttered the cat’s name. She sat, ignoring him, by the sliding glass doors in the dining room, where out in the yard two crows against a backdrop of new snow had her full attention. An imperious exhaustion suddenly came over him, and for the first time that he could remember he felt with absolute certainty that he would never make it to the bed. There was still a little bourbon in the glass. I wonder should I get up and fix myself a drink. No no no. The cat did not move as she watched the crows. There there, he thought. There there. Ralph’s has been widely published over the years, appearing most recently in The High Window (UK) with poems forthcoming soon in Plume (USA) and Queen's Quarterly (Canada). His latest collection is A Passable Man (2021), about which Nina MacLaughlin in The Boston Globe wrote "These are physical poems, attuned to natural rhythms and those rhythms' effects on spirit and body both. ...Quiet wisdom, which is the best kind of wisdom, lives in his lines."

It’s nighttime, and I sit wondering if I might be serial killered out here in my own backyard. It’s unlikely, I know. So I remind myself, and then try to fashion out of this shield a bunker, or a boat, or just a bigger shield. I think I’m really sad and the strange night bird is whortling like a cartoon version of itself in this world that feels too real to be real. And yet, tomorrow is trash day.  Rent is due. I have to remember to defrost the chicken. Because I am still alarmingly alive, while more of this world will disappear tomorrow. My cat is at the window looking out, his paw holding down the blinds, which he knows is not allowed, and his face is so excruciatingly sweet, I laugh because no one is seeing this but me, and maybe the feral cat on the shed roof, and maybe the cartoon night bird. If I screamed right now, maybe they would join. And more and more would open their throats and scream and it would travel around the world. And maybe it’s already begun in some other throat, and it’s on its way to me now. I’m ready for that ecstatic choir of screams to lend my voice to. For seeing my parents alive until they’re old. For a love that feels safe. Feral animals welcoming me to their home. And justice. Or vengeance. Or maybe a god holding justice and vengeance behind their back, and saying “Pick a hand,” and I say, “Right! No, left!” And we laugh and laugh.

Maybe I’ll never die. Or maybe I will. Unknown pulses push through the space I’m also in. Thank you. Love is different than I expected. Or maybe this is something else, something as yet undiscovered and it is my job to describe it and make it real? Well, it’s nice and terrible and begins in the blood at the back of my throat. The leaves fall into the lake. My daughter sighs in her sleep and says, just now as I’m writing in this notebook, “I kinda don’t feel like saying it.” She burrows deeper into her sick daytime sleep, mouth just open, sweaty hair starfished on the borrowed pillow. The fan circulates the air coming in from the open, screenless window. Everyone else has gone on a hike to the falls. I went outside and pressed my ear to an oak tree. I heard nothing but my own skin scraping the bark. Another leaf falls, but the lake caught the sun and sent shards of its light into the room. I asked my daughter, “Did a bird fly in?” And she said, “No.” Then, “Well, maybe.” She sleeps now. My father has stage three non-small cell lung cancer. I called him and left a message. When you pass through that membrane we can’t perceive you clearly or maybe at all. Will it be lonely? For you or for us? We probably have a few months before we find out. It’s hard to perceive how the time after will feel to whoever I am then. Who I am now will be gone. My daughter’s mouth moves but this time she doesn’t say anything. I’m not sad, really, and I’m trying out gratitude rather than panic. She turns, stretches, wakes a little at the noises of the other children returning from the falls. One says, “I’ll just wait in the crazy room,” and the other yells, “I’ll meet you down there!” My daughter, fully awake now, looks at me. “I didn’t know everyone left,” she says. “I heard them. Or I thought I did.” “Were you dreaming?” I ask. She thinks about it. “I just saw a bird!” She points to the open window. “Or maybe it was just something falling from the trees.” Travis Nichols is the author of two novels on Coffee House Press, Off We Go Into the Wild Blue Yonder and The More You Ignore Me, as well as two poetry collections, Iowa (Letter Machine Editions) and See Me Improving (Copper Canyon Press). With Katie Geha, he co-edited the anthology Poets on Painters from Wichita State University Press and was the tour manager for the Wave Books Poetry Bus Tour. He currently lives in Georgia and works for the humanitarian relief organization CARE.org.