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I see her in my bed, her body a few inches away from mine. Almost as tall as me, but not quite yet. She is fast asleep. Hands clasped under her face, turned towards me, tucked under a two-layered cocoon of warm brown flannel. A pause. A beat. And a rush of relief. Not a toddler that kept me on my toes the whole day. A battery-operated machine that went amma amma all day. A tween who can get her own water. Eyes closed, lips slightly apart, breathing rhythmically, A little warm, and deep in sleep. I see her in my bed, Where I can reach out and touch her left eyelid which twitches ever so slightly under the weight of childhood dreams. I see her in my bed, where I know her exact coordinates in this world. If there was to be a fire or a gunman or a pandemic, she would be right next to me for me to protect. I see her in my bed. A stillness and silence fills the room. Only the shield of our shared breaths, far away from chaos. I see her in my bed. I don’t have to worry about fires and floods and lightning and choking and intruders and perverts and aliens and earthquakes and tsunamis and volcanoes and bombs and roofs caving in. I see her in my bed. I can be less vigilant. I can sleep soundly, — at least for tonight. Shikha Valsalan grew up in Dubai and India and currently lives in Atlanta, USA. She works as a digital product manager in her day job and writes in her free time.

Inspired by the painting Beklemek (meaning: to wait), by Müfide Kadri (Turkey), 1890-1912 we feel it on our skin / the silvery powder beneath our bare feet / we sit across a tiny secluded strip of beach, further afield from prying eyes / the tall coniferous canopy offering much-needed shade / it’s like walking on silky blankets of spongy moss / the rock formation protruding through the iridescent dunes of sand / we breathe the poignant air enriched with the smell of salt as the tide kisses the shore / observing the rollers of aquamarine showing off their force / enjoying the quiet in our favourite sequestered nook / Remember when I first caught glimpses of you!? / all kitted out in a SCUBA gear unit / emerging from the depths of this Neptunian world you admire so much / our eyes briefly met and you smiled / the mystical smile of contentment with life / you taught me to love the sea / the terrifying power of it / even when it took you away from me / and how do I not / it’s where I feel closest to you / Nautilus you bequeathed to me, ohh… the beautiful pearly shell you found half buried in this sheltered alcove I call by your name now / it helps me on the days like these / on the days when memories of you are too overwhelming to bear / when sounds of the ocean grow too familiar to tolerate / the weight of their reign too heavy to carry / when saline air burns cilia at the back of my nose… and once silky sand grains wedge themselves in the creases of my skin / an aide-mémoire to the love once lived / when all my senses scream for you / I put Nautilus up to my ear and the world gets quiet… shhh…. just the gentle hum of your breath caressing my soul / and I feel at peace / if only for a minuscule moment in time Andrea Damic, born in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, lives and works in Sydney, Australia. She’s an amateur photographer and author of prose and poetry. She writes at night when everyone is asleep; when she lacks words to express herself, she uses photography to speak for her. Her literary art appears or is forthcoming in Roi Fainéant Press, The Ekphrastic Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Sky Island Journal, The Dribble Drabble Review, Five on the Fifth, and elsewhere. She spends many an hour fiddling around with her website damicandrea.wordpress.com. You can also find her on X @DamicAndrea, Instagram @damicandrea and FB @AndreaDamic

Decades later they’re still coming. Disaster tourists, la-di-da. Please, sir, may I have your gloves? Trade you for a picture with my crystallized sister. They love it when you shiver and beg. Makes them feel like they’re winning. I’ve been on the hunt since I turned twelve. That was ninety-eight days ago. It’s taking so long because they’re too well-fed. Don’t forget I have to carry my tourist all the way home myself. Can’t exactly become a man if someone’s holding my hand. The sky’s a smudge of melancholy. The cold’s a bowl of revenge. That hasn’t stopped the tourists, though, who roam through the market, louder than ever. God forbid a second elapses where nobody says or buys a thing. Suddenly, I see him: The One That I’ve Been Looking For. He’s sipping on a slushie at a neighboring kiosk, a middle-aged guy with gunmetal hair, studying trinkets fashioned from bone. His gloves are off and his coat’s undone, as if to say the weather’s no biggie, what is all the fuss about? The ignorance. The disrespect. That unzipped fucking coat. I bet he laughed when the blizzards hit, when half the world froze over. Now he’s here on holiday, watching us starve at favorable rates. A pale young girl, about my age, shuffles into view. You can tell she was pretty once, before the frostbite claimed her ears. The Unzipped Prick looks up from his slushie and offers the girl a wink. Not money or food or a sense of worth. A brazen wink. A flutter of lashes. Flirting like a dirty old butterfly. I make for him like chaos theory, daddy’s knife hot in my hand, ready to plunge into manhood. Sonny Rane lives in Prague. You can find him at the corner of Lightness and Unbearable, or leave him a message at sonnyrane.com.

If I ever have a wife, there’s no way I’ll buy another hunting jacket over fixing the leaky toilet and the broken backdoor lock and if I have a family, I won’t drag them from one dirty rental in Jacksonville to another when the rent is late because I spent my paycheck at the dog track and on handles of Jim Beam and if I have kids, I’ll go to their band concerts, Cub Scout derbies, and high school graduations, not just football games and the annual Rod ‘n Reel competition and I’ll make sure my kids have more than one dirty pair of jeans to wear to school instead of buying another fishing rod and I’ll never criticize my kids for getting a “C” in Biology when they tried their best and if I have a kid who says he wants to be an accountant, I won’t tell him to talk to Archie the CPA nextdoor while never looking up from the Jacksonville Independent and if I have a son who says he is moving to California for a different life, I won’t tell him that’s a stupid idea and to be happy with a job at the local aluminum foil factory and if I am suffering from PTSD, I’ll remain at the hospital and attend every group therapy session and try every treatment because my family loves me despite my flaws and today here I am sitting in this room drinking shitty coffee in rehab for the fifth time because I have no self-control and when I make a promise I find a way to sabotage myself and I wonder where I learned this, but I will kick this beast because I know it’s what I gotta do. Jeff Harvey lives in San Diego and grows avocados and lemons.

Seventh-Inning Stretch Horn-rimmed glasses and pants pressed free of creases. My arms around your middle, chin cradled by your shoulder. I am too fond of you. Our image in the mirror. My nudity. How you spit. That frisson of control. And Don’t you dare stain my pants. I’d crease myself down the middle if you wanted. Wear myself inside out. You’re late for work, but I kiss you; consider cigarettes. I’ve never smoked in my life. Gin my vice, though you drink vermouth to honor your dad. I dance with myself and hope you’re as fond of me. There are many mirrors, and I’m only in my underwear. I’m too thin, too flabby, too caught up in our dishwater. Because it’s ours. Our apartment one floor above the Polish man who sells vacuums. Spring has come to Earth with its light. Flowers and loose ties. I don’t know the first thing about baseball. Home Run Peanut dust and bent scorecards. Pencils worn to nubs. You lean forward, expectant. And who wears a dress shirt to a baseball game? Linen chinos. God. My dad would die first. But I love it. How the blue of the sky reflects in your eyes. The crack of the bat like a dream landing on the upper deck. I lean into you. You talk about RBIs and batting averages. Shifts and the pitch clock. I eat a hotdog. Nod. Make sure my mustard falls away from you, onto my jeans. And that is what love is, I think: the windup, the pitch, the swing and every lingering moment of flight. Spring Ball You’re watching the Yankees on TV, and You do remember my brother is a diehard Mets fan, right? You laugh and pull me onto the couch. I pretend I’m aggrieved: Traitor! It’s April, raining outside, and our lasagna is in the oven. Mom’s recipe. No béchamel, but mozzarella. Crushed meatballs between the layers. The scent brings me home. Nostalgia, like how you used to take the train from Connecticut to see the Yankees with your dad before the stroke. The two of you smiling at a disposable camera. The grainy photos we still keep in a shoebox labeled < 1999. Your tiny face unknots my heart. You smile like he smiled. The oven timer dings. I don’t want to move from your side. Though the whole apartment smells of tomatoes. I kiss your cheek, relish the rough stubble beneath my lips, and the Yankees bring in a run. What my brother doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Jared Povanda is a writer, poet, and editor from New York. He doesn't know much about baseball, but he thought writing these poems would be a good idea anyway.

milo lathers me in faux bravery as if it won’t flake from my epidermis the moment they turn their head. for them, i will wad up my dread and swallow it dry. even if exploring these derelict buildings might get us arrested. lost. injured, even. this multi-story warehouse, gutted and stripped of all functional elements, perches alon in a private lot. milo and i do a quick perimeter sweep before advancing upwards, seeking higher ground to scope out our industrial playground. my fingers and palms blister from groping rusted ladders and crevices in the walls. chunks of graffitied concrete break loose and crumble in my grip—rotting teeth falling off the gums. navigating feeble structures is challenging under white sheets, but milo insists we trade our identities for ghosts. because spirits get away with anything, milo reasons. because everyone’s in costumes this time of year. because you go along with anything i say, frankie, you ass-kisser. when milo says that last part, i vanish a little. to sell the act, maybe. our ascent brings us to an open floor overlooking the stories below. milo snaps film photos of the view. of me—ghost-imposter plunged in sunset hues. of themself grinning under that white sheet of theirs. tucking the camera away in its case, milo turns to face me. race you to the other end, frankie, they propose. loser has to walk home. i regard the boarded-up holes in the cement. although apprehension creeps up my throat, i accept milo’s challenge. anything to impress them. to prove myself worthy of their company. milo counts down from five and bursts into a sprint, flat-soled sneakers slapping the concrete. i take off after them, holding a hand to my head to keep my sheet in place. we dodge low-hanging wires and intruding foliage. weave around corners and beams. leap over gaping cavities unintended for parkour endeavors. just as i make up the distance between us, a board of rotting wood caves in under my weight and i fall through. out of reflex, my arms shoot out and catch me in time before crashing to the floor below. i kick open air, gasping, squirming for stability. although my eyeholes aren’t aligned, i notice milo’s figure disappearing around the corner. it takes scraped skin and all of my strength to pull myself out of there alone. milo isn’t fazed by the spots of red seeping through my white fabric. once i limp to their improvised finish line, they declare me loser and present our next obstacle. a flat slab of metal closes the gap between stable surfaces—a makeshift bridge. my pulse still thrashes through my temples. i shake my head, but milo trusts infrastructure over warning. they aren’t afraid of anything. maybe that’s why i hate them. why i adore them. the material warps to their weight, creaking, creaking. i hold my breath until their shoe touch solid concrete. then it’s my turn. fear reduces me to mere particles. more ghost than person. i swear i float across that stretch of risk. once reunited, milo sweeps a fabric-draped arm across my chest. someone’s here. cops? i mouth, which is essentially useless with covered lips. we strain our ears for soles crunching gravel beyond our own strained breathing. the sheet ghost beside me is mannequin-rigid. those black-hole eyes fixate on overgrown vegetation below. i catch a flick of their hand: crouch. we duck behind a column and face one another, knees touching. listen, frankie, milo whispers, barely audible above hard consonants. you stay here while i find another way out of here. whatever you do, don’t leave this spot. i’ll come back for you. i trust you. sinking to all fours, milo crawls across the bridge, creaking, creaking, and descends from my line of view. i wait. a draft seeps through shattered windows and curls around my ankles. light footsteps echo through the property, either milo’s or the stranger’s. then nothing but evening birdsong. crickets. absence. the fabric around my lips dampens from open-mouth exhales. i blot at my wounds, wincing at the post-adrenaline sting. curling onto my side accentuates my heartbeat thrumming against damp concrete. i’ll come back for you. will you, milo? shadows bleed around the corner. eventually, my scrapes lose their painful tingle. my legs fall asleep. then my arms. all somatic sensations wane to static, transcending to the spirit realm. just as i pronounce myself forgotten, solid footsteps stir me back into relevance. i jolt upright and reel from the black spots hijacking my vision. someone’s crossing the bridge. fatigued metal moans under their weight, creaking, creaking. i clench my jaw, waiting for some telltale sign to recognize. milo’s teasing chuckle. an officer’s radio signal. anything. what i get instead is a crash—our trusted structure splitting. a shriek. a wet, crunching thud below. i leap to my feet and scream out to my visitor. the nauseating silence that follows is a ghost in itself. Bethany Cutkomp is a writer from St. Louis, Missouri. She enjoys catching chaotic vibes and bees with her bare hands. Her work appears in or will appear in Alternative Milk Magazine, Hearth & Coffin, Wireworm Magazine, Exposed Bone, The Hooghly Review, Bullshit Lit, and more. Find her on social media at @bdcutkomp.

Prozac Ocean the land is too small people tend to crowd the tide speaks to me in rhythmic intonations I spend time with fulmars, gulls, and wrens the shore is my trap door my escape is the Atlantic I swim in a night fever green particles bend currents shift minnows splinter I move beyond the red buoy running out of breaths slip through a hole in the salt mattress I Remember the Dolphin Tattoo On Your Shoulder Blade you trespass in my dreams / once again I build / a seawall / block you / out / I scream  / you flow from / the  pores of my metaphors / I am a gutted ghost / you  inhabit these veins / I am the unwilling host / I purge / your treasonous body  from my universe / you are love’s inverse / every plan we had a crash test dummy /every reflection a story  rewritten /every dashed hope  a Taylor Swift song / you crush  my love / in your glove  compartment / you’re gone / I rip  the hinges off  the door / you’re light / I’m wrong / a splintered river / misses the ocean/coffee is no substitute / I’ve washed the duvet/ trashed the pillowcase / sweat fades / salt remains

Mary Alden sits on the futon, next to her dead body, with her eyes narrowed and arms crossed. “I used the scythe to extract the soul from your body, and now I’ll put your soul in a Mason jar,” I say. “You know, I should not be the dead one,” she says. “You’re familiar with my husband? Harold Alden? Retired Baptist pastor and Christ’s greatest hypocrite? Well, he’s a philandering bastard, and you’d be remiss to take me instead of him.” I take a deep breath and let it out. I’m so close to vacation I can almost taste it. Just one more soul. “Look, I know this isn’t an ideal situation,” I say. Mary huffs. “But, this is how it goes. You’re dead and I need one more soul so I can go on vacation.” “Where are you going?” she asks, raising her eyebrows. “The Eternal Lake of Fire,” I say. She waves her translucent hand in front of her face. “Nevermind we’re forgetting the point. Harold saw me asleep, went over to Doreen’s, and now I’m dead!” “I understand you’re up—” “Don’t you even start with me, young man!” “Mrs. Alden, I am not a man, nor young. Regardless of your husband’s actions, it is time for you to move on.” “This new generation and their genders and sex. I just can’t keep track,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m actually a metaphysical entity with immense power and responsibility, but whatever,” I mumble. One more swipe of the scythe, and this is over… Noise comes from the front door. Mary and I watch the knob turn and in walks Harold. His eyes land on Mary’s cold, stiff body. He walks over, checks her pulse, and then pumps his fist in the air. “It worked!” he yells. “What is he talking about?” Mary asks. I shift around. This is why I prefer when people just let me collect their souls in their state of shock so I can put them in a Mason jar and enjoy the soft glow of humanity. “He poisoned you,” I say, watching as Harold fumbles with his phone to call 911. ”He murdered me? And I’m the one you’re collecting?” she yells. “You’re the dead one,” I say. Mary shakes her head and I take another deep breath. “Here,” I say, against my better judgment, handing her the scythe. “I only need one soul.” “And me?” she asks. “You don’t need me?” “We’ll meet again someday.” She nods and takes the scythe from me. In a sweeping motion, she slashes it through Harold’s neck. His body crumples to the floor and his soul appears in front of me as hers nestles itself back in her body. She blinks a few times and eases up. Harold looks around and his eyes widen when he sees me. “Hello Harold,” I say, opening the Mason jar and releasing the vacuum. I watch Harold’s soul fill the jar and then emit a warm, amber glow. It’s always the husband. Sydney Bollinger (she/her) has an MS in Environmental Studies with a focus on Environmental Writing from the University of Montana. Her creative work has been published in Northwest Review, The Petigru Review, Grimsy Literary Magazine, Dunes Review, and other places. Her first zine, Death Wish, was published in 2023. She lives in Charleston, SC, with her partner and their two cats. Follow her @sydboll and find her work at sydneybollinger.com.

I was shocked to hear people’s laughter echoing round the walls. Dad would have shushed them. Would have said something cutting about showing respect. I said nothing, just looked down and twisted my handkerchief. Tightening it. Erica asked me what the matter was and I felt my teeth clench. She meant well. She’d gone to all the trouble, cutting sandwiches all morning, no doubt. All I’d had to do was turn up. ‘I don’t mind, Fran,’ she said. I knew that she didn’t. And that she did. ‘It’s a wonderful spread,’ I said. ‘Dad would have loved it.’ ‘Well, we should talk to people, make them feel welcome,’ she said, narrowing her eyes. Turning from me. Rearranging the gala pie slices unnecessarily. I knew there was nothing I could say to help matters. I went outside. Lit a ciggie. Stood with the other smokers with our backs to the rough brick wall. ‘Fine old gent, your dad,’ spluttered one of them. He had a terrible cough. Just like Dad’s. I said nothing, but I offered him another cigarette, to be sociable. I knew Dad would have done the same. Cath Barton is an English writer living in Wales. She's the author of four published novellas: The Plankton Collector (2018, New Welsh Review), In the Sweep of the Bay (2020, Louise Walters Books), Between the Virgin and the Sea (2023 Novella Express, Leamington Books and subsequently The Deri Press) and The Geography of the Heart (2023, Arroyo Seco Press). Her short stories have been published in The Lonely Crowd, Strix and a number of anthologies. Her pamphlet of short stories, Mr Bosch and His Owls, is published this spring by Atomic Bohemian.

Walk outside, smell the fresh grass, feel the breeze, soak in the rays of the morning sun. Embrace the wonder of the world’s possibilities but remember some of them can kill you. It’s fucking cold for June, don’t forget your hoodie. All you can smell is grass because your mom mowed last night. Your MOM. She’s sixty-seven, she has arthritis in her knees, but you couldn’t be bothered to help her. You watched her limping past your window while you scrolled through your phone. Jfc the pain was written all over her face. Walk around the yard, get a little exercise. Your mom left a couple of long patches around the rhododendron. She didn’t even weed whack, that’s another fucking chore you’ll have to deal with. Sic transit gloria mundi. Bear in mind she’s still supporting you though you’re almost forty. The breeze makes you horny. You imagine a muscular fit thing with hard nipples in a tank top and track shorts. Amor vincit omnia. Dream on, it’s not gonna happen. Seriously, forget a boyfriend or girlfriend, you’ve barely had a friend. Just because you’re smarter than everyone doesn’t mean you have to be a prick to them. Who cares if they don’t know who Dante is, or don’t remember any Latin from tenth grade? You do, and how far has it taken you? You stubbly rotten-breathed weirdo. Try to be civil with people, it’ll help. When you’re at work at Shop Rite on Monday, volunteer for extra duties, maybe you’ll get a promotion. Not everyone’s got Ralph Waldo Emerson in hardcover, the version you swiped senior year in Mrs. Gibson’s class. They never laminated their college essays and they sure as hell don’t want to read yours. Your mom wasn’t always old and silly. You’ve seen her high school pictures: angular cheeks, bouncy bouffant, sly smile, like she had a crush on the photographer but was afraid he might seduce her. Picture that sixteen-year-old kid, it wasn’t all sock hops and Annette Funicello. Remember a teacher told her she had real talent, and she ought to pursue it. Audere est faucere. Her life’s ambition wasn’t to be a mom to someone like you. Maybe she thought she could be someone special. Think of something nice to say when she gets back from grocery shopping. “Thanks Mom, I really appreciate it,” something like that. You’ll never give her everything she needs emotionally, at least do the small stuff. When she says, “I’m disappointed in you,” maybe she’s saying, “I truly believe you could do better”; when she says, “You can’t be stressed, you don’t have any responsibilities,” maybe she’s saying, “You could try a little harder, it’s not too late.” When there aren’t any words, just the long stale sigh, maybe she’s saying, “It’s not easy for me either, David. I’m tired, too.” Try to think of that the next time she looks at you like she wants to cry, with her crooked fingers and droopy gray eyes, a blade of grass on her cheek. Timothy Boudreau lives and works in northern New Hampshire. His collection Saturday Night and other Short Stories is available through Hobblebush Books; his recent work has been nominated for Best of the Net, Best Microfiction and a Pushcart Prize. He is a fiction editor at The Loveliest Review. Find him on Twitter at @tcboudreau or at timothyboudreau.com

The dye had already begun to set in when Julia realized that she was horribly and irrevocably fucked. Her hands gripped the sides of her bathroom sink, carrot-colored skin tainting the porcelain, and the face gawking back at her in the mirror was adorned with a head of hair that was not the ‘Autumn Sunset’ the dye box had promised but instead ‘Orange Highlighter Smudged with Black and Brown Ink.’ Her once even, blonde curls sat matted across her scalp, appearing more like clumps of alien flesh than actual hair, and she resisted the urge to curse whatever god was out there or break down crying until her face began to turn to the same putrid red as her hair. It will look better when it dries, she told herself like she was the woman smiling on the box, radiant and ready to dazzle with her auburn locks. It had to. Glancing down at her cell phone, she grimaced at the 90 minutes she had left until 6:00 pm arrived and her date with it. Julia wasn’t sure what possessed her to dye her hair for the first time in her 42 years of life, but then again, she wasn’t sure why she said yes to a dinner date with a stranger in the first place. She wanted to blame it on a misplaced mid-life crisis, one without the copious amounts of money to buy sports cars and Botox. Some subconscious desire to replace the ring that once clung to her left hand before the fading tan line filled in, perhaps? That was the theory her mother preferred, that her daughter was too entangled with others, too likely to crumble if left to her own devices — Julia pointedly refused to look at her orange reflection at that last thought. Her mother had told her that much during their final phone call six months ago before the Rot devoured the retirement home Julia had unceremoniously plunked her in. That she would have preferred to have Carolyn as a daughter with her six-figure research position, steely disposition and face that hardly smiled and looked like it was carved from marble,, and hands that knew exactly where to land on Julia’s body and how to push and prod with such scientific precision and… Julia quickly shook her head like the motion would dislodge the thought of her ex-wife and splashed her face with cold water to shock away her image. Carolyn had left her in two ways last year. She left Julia for mousy Linda in a lab coat and hands full of pipettes, a woman with an actual house in Fresno and two golden retrievers. And now, a baby, Julia learned in the no more than ten times she stalked her on social media. But, more than that, she left Julia alone as a sobbing mess filling the emptiness within her with vodka and mint chocolate chip ice cream. She left her alone as the skies blacked and buildings dissolved into inky sludge. Before the cable lines succumbed to the Rot, Julia saw that Fresno had been wiped from the map, and she danced for the first time in years, limbs free to sway and stretch across her apartment. Maybe it was that freedom that compelled her to accept the date from the unknown woman on the other line. The festering dread that she was not equipped for solitude, that she needed to cling to someone, anyone before she shattered to dust. She wondered what it felt like, not necessarily being alone, but living alone, existing with no one to witness you. She wondered if Carolyn was happy despite the Rot, so long as she died in the arms of another. Julia flinched as her phone rang — one of few functions that worked ever since the satellites dissolved — but her sudden shock vanished as she read the caller ID, a smash of random numbers and letters, and knew it was her admirer on the other end. “Hello?” Julia? The voice was strange yet familiar, gravelly like the words were transmitted through radio interference. “Who else would it be?” Julia tried to imbue her words with a sultry yet casual smirk. “I’m assuming you realized you don’t know where I live.” She hoped the intended playfulness came across, and she didn’t just sound like an asshole right there. No need to worry. Julia Kaufman, 1990 Park Street, Apartment 315, right? Julia wondered if she should be concerned that she knew her full name and address, but she brushed that thought aside. For all she knew, she, this woman, and the few stragglers she saw in the grocery store were the only people left in the city, or the continent, or the entire earth. Now wasn’t the time to be picky. “Well, if you know where you’re going, are you still coming at 6?” Don't worry, Julia heard a faint laugh, I have a knack for getting to places right on time. There was a soft rustling on the other end, and Julia wondered if the caller was planning on hanging up soon without so much as a goodbye, without allowing her the final word. “Wait!” She cried out and then immediately cursed herself. She needed to be composed or at least act like she was. “I mean, you already know so much about me. Can I at least know who I should be expecting?” Julia mentally applauded her brilliant save. And names were important. She needed to know what to call the woman when she walked through her front door, what name to save her contact under, what to cry out in bed. The caller, however, was silent, almost dumbfounded by the question. This may sound strange, but I can’t tell you. You absolutely cannot know it. “And why’s that?” Julia hoped the woman wasn’t in danger, so much so that she had to hide her identity. Or, worse, this was a challenge of sorts, where she had to prove herself to win the privilege of knowing her name. It has this effect on people when they hear it or see it written out. Even worse when they speak it out loud. They begin to act… unlike themselves, I guess is the best way to put it. Inhuman maybe? But if you want, you can make up a name for me!  She sounded so earnest that Julia wasn’t sure if she was joking or not. “Then, can I call you Naomi?” Naomi. I like it! Perfectly human-sounding. Maybe tomorrow Julia would acknowledge that comment, but for now, she focused on Naomi’s approval. She liked the name Julia selected, its sound, the way it rolled off her tongue. Julia couldn’t help but jump to the next likely conclusion: did that mean Naomi liked her? Oh, and one other thing before I forget. When I arrive, take care not to look at any part of me for an extended period of time. More than the lack of a knowable first name, that took Julia aback. But then again, maybe Naomi was just shy. “I-I see. But I hope it’s not because you’re self-conscious or anything. I'm sure you’re beautiful.” She winced at how forward she sounded, how degraded and raw her existence had left her. Oh, thank you, but it’s nothing like that, I assure you. It’s much like how it is with my name. I mean, it gives off the same effect, and I want us to have a nice evening together. With how dark your skies are, it’s easy to hide, but it’s been so long since I’ve been in the company of another. I’m sure you understand. “I think I do. And roger that! No real name and no looking.” Despite only speaking twice, Julia wondered if she and Naomi were one and the same, if it was possible to feel so connected, so seen, by a stranger. And yet, her name proved their nascent bond. Naomi. Created by Julia and thus already tethered to her. I’m happy you’re so accepting! Well, I don’t want to distract you any longer. I’ll see you soon, Julia. “Likewise, Naomi.” Any excitement being the one to end the call may have given her vanished as Julia realized she had to shower, effectively sealing her hair’s fate for good. She knew the dye would grip its tangerine claws into whatever it landed on, but it wasn’t like anyone else saw her bathroom or her body on a regular basis. And, if the woman on the other line was just as willing to dial a random number and ask out whoever answered as said answerer was willing to say yes, Julia figured she wouldn’t mind a few stains. The shower head sent streams of icy water down her back, and Julia wondered what her Naomi was like. Was she tall? Short? Did she have a thing for women with streaky orange hair? It was like this before every first date — questions of who and why and why her — though she had only been on four her whole life. Julia vaguely recalled the only date she went on after Carolyn left, a day before the Rot began, as if the universe was spiting her for her optimism. The memories trickled back, and she doused her body in lavender body soap like she could scrub them off of her. She was giddy as a teenage girl, nervous that her 19-year marriage had left her unequipped to find another partner, her legs live wires, squirming beneath the coffee shop table. Her date wore a short, floral dress and kitten heels, and Julia was trapped between wanting to immediately get down on one knee and wanting to escape through a back window. She did knock the woman’s almond latte over onto said floral dress and spent the rest of the afternoon peppering her sentences with hurried apologies. When she didn’t get a call back, she knew her date — what was her name? Chelsea? Rebecca? — must have been one of the first to perish. Probably turned to tar or was smothered when her building rotted to mush. Julia still found herself tearing up at the thought of what could have been between them, what now could never be. As Julia squeezed a stream of iron-tinted water from her hair, her phone revealed that she had only 30 minutes left to prepare her apartment. She tallied the number of tasks she had left: her outfit was lying on her bed — a red dress she hadn’t worn in years and a black lingerie set — the dining area was freshly scrubbed down, dinner was… Fuck, she forgot dinner, hadn’t she? Fuck, fuck, fuck, Julia muttered to herself as she toweled herself off at record speed. She had been so focused on the dye job that she neglected to consider that a dinner date semantically required food, and, as she gave her reflection a withering glance, it wasn’t even worth the wasted time. Though she half-expected it, Julia couldn’t help but sigh as she stared at the nothing waiting for her inside her pantry. Or at least nothing worthy of a meal anyone other than her had to eat. She shuffled through a few cans of succotash and chicken noodle soup, some boxes of saltine crackers, and whatever else she managed to get from the store. It was only when she opened her freezer that she found her savior: a frozen cheese pizza she swiped over a month ago. Julia readjusted her shower towel and preheated her oven, grinning as she read that the pizza only took 15 minutes to bake. And besides, who didn’t love pizza? Or, even better, the pizza could be a litmus test of sorts to see if this stranger, this lovely, mysterious Naomi, would thank her efforts, and her resourcefulness in finding quality food in this new world. However, as she placed the pizza in the oven, she felt a pit of sadness squash her wonder as she realized that finding the pizza and now baking the pizza made up the highlights of her past month and a half. Julia expected the end of the world to be exciting, some otherworldly call to action. She imagined herself a survivor with ripped clothing and dog tags, camping out in abandoned shopping malls and building campfires out of old newspapers. Her anticipation only grew as the skies darkened for good, signaling the beginning of the Rot, and a podcaster she listened to spoke of something lurking in the darkness, a danger incomprehensible to the human mind. But instead, a new form of monotony began to set in. She found herself returning to work the next day, armed with a flashlight where the streetlamps couldn’t stave off the sunless shadows. It was better than remaining at home where there was no Carolyn and nothing to distract her from the news reporting on cities wiped off the face of the earth, 100 million killed the first week and the number only rising every day. A mood killer more than anything. And when the marketing firm she supervised succumbed to the Rot, she went shopping until even pacing through decrepit aisles and swiping whatever she could shove into her purse lost its luster. Julia realized then that she had nothing to look forward to but the spare luxuries she found in the grocery store: the loaf of white bread the rats hadn’t gotten to, the humble whiskey — a needed replacement to her bottles of vodka — she could steal with no cashier to judge her, the frozen goods she found stored in formerly locked back rooms. There was no danger she could avoid, spare for the inevitability of her own sad rotting, no gallant adventures to be had, no purpose granted by the Rot. She was just the same Julia she was seven months ago when the world was blue and bursting with life. It was a small mercy when she smelled the faint smell of burning cheese wafting in from the kitchen. She sped through worming her way into the dress, inching up the zipper with her breath sucked in until she was finally sealed inside. Julia could hardly look at herself as she walked to the oven, stumbling on a pair of ill-fitting heels. She wondered if the bra strap she left teasing out in the open was too much, if her wobbling gait was off-putting, if her hair looked more like the flame on a red giant than any Autumn Sunset in existence. The same smoky flames engulfed the pizza, and Julia realized she had forgotten to remove the cardboard disc the pie sat on before baking it. Any buttery crust or gooey cheese had been replaced with a layer of bitter charcoal that spat out thin lines of grease. “Damn it!” She raced for a pair of oven mitts and pulled the ruined pizza from the oven. Once she pried the charred cardboard from it, Julia realized just how utterly, utterly fucked she was. More than before, perhaps more than she had ever been. Bad hair was something an especially kind person —like she knew Naomi was — could overlook. Bad hair and a dinner fitter for starving rats than people? Well, that would require a miracle and a half for Naomi to stay for the entirety of their date, much less schedule a second one. And Julia couldn’t even fathom a reality where she would allow that to happen. Her body still buzzed from the kindness Naomi gave her, and she wondered how she had survived this long without it. It was 5:53 pm when Julia resolved herself to salvage whatever she could of the date. Just enough time to push the pizza aside and pick out a bottle of whiskey to serve with dinner. Alcohol;the perfect coverup for any inedible meal. Hopefully, Naomi preferred whiskey to wine, but deep down, Julia had a feeling she did. She knew it, so much so that she had no doubt that Naomi would thank her, praise her even, for her drink selection. Julia splattered on some makeup — hints of mascara that stained her bottom lids and red lipstick one shade darker than her dress — just as her phone’s clock struck 6 pm, and she steeled herself for what would inevitably come next. Would Naomi knock? Would she understand that locking doors had little purpose anymore and simply walk inside? The questions returned with a fury, swirling and churning until Julia had drafted a version of what would soon occur. Maybe a hypothetical, maybe reality. Naomi would have dark brown hair, neatly braided, as her name would suggest. Her dress would be blue to complement Julia’s, and her jewelry sparse yet bold. Her perfume would be floral — rose seemed fitting — but not overpowering. She would be perfection in human form, a light hovering in the night sky, just as she said. Yes, Julia murmured to herself. Yes, of course. Naomi asked her not to see reality, but she never asked Julia not to fantasize, not to spend the rest of her life wondering. She wrung her hands together, gripping her wrists until her skin turned red. She felt closer to a live wire than a person. Closer to something ready to erupt. With her thoughts devouring themselves, it took her a few moments to register the gap that appeared by her apartment door. Less a hole than a tear, a jagged maw revealing pure darkness that unhinged its jowls until something slithered out of it, landing with a damp splat on the wooden floor. Julia could hardly get a good look at the mass, at where the tear ended and the being began when a soft voice emanated from it. Didn’t I tell you? Right on time. Julia stared at the creature for a second longer before quickly averting her eyes. She had promised Naomi, and she wasn’t about to ruin their evening together before it even began. “Naomi?” The mass let out an affirmative hum. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.” Likewise. Julia stuck out her hand, and some part of Naomi gently shook it. The possible appendage was soft to the touch — almost skin-like — but it was spongy and molded to perfectly fit Julia’s grasp. A slimy film clung to her fingers as Naomi broke from the handshake, and she couldn’t stop herself from cringing at how cold the film was, how it dripped to the floor in a languid stream. If Naomi noticed her indiscretion, she didn’t say anything. The air smells lovely. Were you cooking earlier? So Naomi had a nose or at least something that served the same function. A nose that, unless horribly skewed, would have realized that any cooking was better left to rot in a dumpster somewhere far from the apartment. Julia wondered if she should ask if this was a trick, if Naomi was simply flattering her. If deep within her globby mind, she too had crafted a fantasy partner, an illusory, ideal Julia who the real one just proved she could never live up to. But for now, she simply nodded at the floor. “I tried to make us a pizza for dinner.” Really? That’s so generous of you! I would love some. “Are you sure? I have some whiskey, so we could just have a drink if you want.” At least she could show that she was a solution-forger, a graceful pivoter. But Naomi wouldn’t let her have even that. Both sound great, actually. It’s been forever since I’ve had a glass of whiskey. Julia heard her make her way to her dining table, the gap sealing itself shut soon after. She selected two of her cleanest glasses and brought them to the table, the bottle of whiskey tucked under her arm. It was lukewarm but drinkable and more expensive than any spirit Julia would have purchased pre-Rot. She was lucky that it was technically free, that she had something worthy of presenting to Naomi. The slight squeal of delight and cheerful clapping of two appendages that followed informed her that she had made perhaps her first good decision of the evening. Once poured, they both took a greedy sip of the whiskey. It burned enough to remind Julia that all of this was real and true, that no woman, tall or short, with skin scented with flowers, would arrive anytime soon. That in her steed was the bona fide Naomi with her staticky voice and unknowable form. The Naomi that knew her, knew with such unimaginable precision who exactly she was entering the apartment of. “I never gave you my name did I? Or my apartment for that matter.” You didn’t. If Naomi shook her equivalent of a head, Julia didn’t see, her eyes fixed on her amber-filled glass. But it simplified everything, right? I mean, from what I’ve observed, it’s customary to know at least a little about the human you’re going on a date with. It seemed rude not to know the basics about you: name, address, birthday, things like that. “Then should I expect a present on…” May 19th? Only if you want one.  Julia couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of Naomi somehow figuring out her birthday, and her name, when no one had reason to say ‘Julia Kaufman’ in months. She imagined her scouring through long-abandoned social media accounts, frantically tapping her cell phone screen and leaving webs of slime on it. The image was almost endearing, if not a little off-putting. “So I guess it wasn’t fate that you found my number then. You knew that I was the person you were calling.” Another sip gave Julia enough confidence to take short glimpses at Naomi, averting her gaze when her eyes began to burn and her forehead throb. She didn’t appear to have a solid form, her body undulating like ocean waves. Numerous appendages hung from her torso, several clasping together like well-mannered hands. Anything above her torso — her head, her face — she refused to look at after a misguided peek revealed no sign of a mouth, nothing for noise to emit from or liquid to enter. Maybe it was the whiskey, but even with parts unlike anything she had ever seen, Julia had no desire to force Naomi out of her apartment, out of her life. I have been observing you for a few months. Wait, that sounds creepy, doesn’t it? I was observing everyone, every human who stepped outside, from around a thousand-mile radius of this city. Like I said on the phone, it’s easy for me to blend into the sky with how it is now. You probably didn’t even realize I was there this whole time. Not that I caused the Rot or anything — yes, I also listened to podcasts, radio, anything to get to know humanity — but it allowed me to get closer to those beneath me, physically and in other respects. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t accusing you or anything.” If Naomi truly was so vicious, so willing to cast aside innocent lives, she would never have told Julia not to stare at her for too long. She would have said Julia her true name and laughed as her prey fell into disrepair. Julia felt validated in her assumption of Naomi’s kindness, and she rewarded herself with another sip of whiskey. But I will admit I watched you more than the others. It became less about knowing humanity, about witnessing this planet, its life and decay. I wanted to know you, every piece, every part of you. I wanted to see everything. “Everything?” Julia’s mind flickered to her wanton shoplifting, her drinking, her desperate attempts to dye her hair, to reinvent herself by her bathroom sink. It was nothing to brag about, not even a funny anecdote. It was horrifying that Naomi could have seen it all to know about that before anything else, and she was suddenly grateful that she had more than one good reason not to look Naomi in the eyes. “And you still decided to ask me out?” It was actually why I decided. I needed to speak to you in person to know for sure, but I had a feeling we had a lot in common. That you, more than anyone, could understand me. A connection, a nascent bond growing between them. Julia shot up from her chair and rushed to the kitchen, muttering something under her breath about the pizza getting cold. She was right about Naomi’s radiance, the shimmering light that seemed to pulsate within her. How could Naomi ever dream of comparing herself to someone who couldn’t even bake a frozen pizza without nearly burning her apartment down? Maybe that’s why she wanted to place it on the dining table and force Naomi to acknowledge her faulty hypothesis. I’m sorry. Was that too forward? We can change the subject if you’d like. “No, I just… that’s not something I’ve been told very often. I’m not sure if you picked up on this in your research, but I’ve been pretty much alone since the Rot began.” And more than a bit of time before it, but she banished that thought as she sawed the charred pizza into six slices. Not even Carolyn found commonalities between you and her? It didn’t feel worth asking Naomi how she could know about Carolyn. Julia placed the pizza slices on the table and took a bite out of one, grimacing at its acrid flavor. “We were young and thought we could overcome our differences, and then we weren’t, and we realized we were fighting a losing battle. So, no, I guess she didn’t.” She heard Naomi place two slices within her body with a soft, squelching sound. Again, I hope you aren’t offended. As I said, I needed to make sure I was right about you. Here, maybe you should ask me something. I’ve never been the greatest conversationalist. She ended with a hushed chuckle before taking a long drink. Was Naomi embarrassed? Julia couldn’t help but imagine her amorphous cheeks blushing, her mind cursing itself for potentially offending her date. The thought was almost adorable, and Julia felt a warmness well within her, one she didn’t bother blaming on her drinking. The food is excellent, by the way! The words were tentative, like Naomi was attempting to assuage whatever hurt she may have caused, and Julia melted further. How thoughtful, how wonderfully sweet of her to say. “So, what was it about me that attracted your attention?” I’ve seen you live as though your world won’t dissolve in a few weeks' time, your isolation, your fruitless attempts to nurture relationships, your desperation to be more than you are if only to avoid being alone. “And you liked that?” Julia wasn’t sure if she should be offended at Naomi’s brutal honesty, her clinical evaluation of her every weakness. But more than that, she was intrigued. No human would find that appealing, would adore her despite it all, or perhaps because of it. Naomi consumed a third slice before continuing. My kind is a solitary one. We have no planet, no kin, nothing but our studies and the endless expanse of space. Most have no desire to even communicate in the way I have with you, much less love another. And I’m sure you can understand why those are harder for my kind than others. “Yeah I can imagine how the whole unknowable name and unseeable body things are deal breakers for some people.” Naomi chuckled softly. And yet it isn’t for you. It wasn’t a question, but there was no reason for it to be. Julia could have backed out when Naomi first gave hints of her true nature, but the thought never crossed her mind. “What you were saying about loving another. Do you love me?” She wished she could tolerate the pizza if only to have something to fill her mouth with and stop her from asking such asinine questions. Love was something reserved for at least the third date, sometimes before sex, but never like this. And yet did she not love that woman in her floral dress and kitten heels? Did she not love so many shadows, so many figments of possible futures? Not yet, but I can imagine loving you, growing to love you. Is it so unthinkable that I could? Naomi didn’t sound biting like she assumed Julia thought her kind to be incapable of love. No, instead, she placed part of her body – an appendage by the feel of it – over Julia’s hand, looping her flesh around her fingers. It was cold and sticky, but Julia had no repulsion to force down this time. She gripped back, stroking her thumb over Naomi. “I’m not sure about your kind, but we humans tell stories about love at first sight. But they’re just stories, fantasies to help us rest easy at night. So, yes, it is a bit unthinkable that you could care so much, nearly love, someone you only just met.” Julia didn’t know who she was fooling with that response, but she wanted to believe Naomi. To trust that connection, that affection, she felt over the phone, deep within her mind. As unthinkable as it is for someone to accept a date with a stranger? You call it a fantasy, but didn’t you say yes, hoping it would be true? That this would make everything – the Rot and all that came before it – worth it? Julia was sure whatever she said next would make her look like a hypocrite, so she finished her whiskey instead. Naomi’s appendage never left her, and she lifted the squishy limb and pressed it against her cheek. She nuzzled it and hoped Naomi got the message, that she wanted to believe her, so desperately wanted to prove that she was worthy of the beautiful being before her. That she was worthy of loving and being loved in return. So, what do you want, Julia? And know that nothing you say will change my mind about you. “I think I want another drink before I answer that.” They both laughed, but Julia wasn't completely joking. She filled her and Naomi’s glass and took another long sip. She glanced around her apartment at walls that once held framed photographs, signs of a time when she never had to want for anything. There was nothing left to tie her to this location, this life. More than anything, she needed an anchor, a shining light to guide her to a better tomorrow. “I would like for you to come over tomorrow.” And then? A different set of limbs took her hands. “Maybe we can go on a walk or stay here and have drinks again.” And then? “You can tell me about you, everything there is to know.” And then? “It doesn’t matter. I just want you by my side when we do it.” Well, Julia Kaufman, I would like that very much. Until the world rots away, until I know I love you, you never have to be alone again. Julia closed her eyes and looked forward, letting Naomi guide her head to where they could have locked eyes. She imagined the sky falling to ash in months, weeks if Naomi’s prediction was correct. Buildings would fall, oceans blister.All of humanity, all of its joy, sorrow. love, and loss, would be forever decimated by the Rot. And yet, in the darkness, she saw the table before her, the remains of pizza and whiskey scattering its surface. She saw her wondrous Naomi beaming down at her, holding her, smothering her in chilling warmth. “Yeah, I would like that too.” Sarah Licht is a writer of the body and all its emotions, affects, and innards. Based in Washington, DC, their work has been published in Beyond Queer Words, Grim & Gilded, and elsewhere. Find them on Twitter @sadslidewhistle.

In line at Walgreens, I feel significant and singular. I know I’m not the first person in history to purchase a pregnancy test.  I’m probably not the first to buy one at this particular Walgreens this afternoon. In my personal history, though, this is big. I delayed the errand as long as I could bear, which turned out to be about three days.  It wasn’t that I felt sick, or anything. It was more like a mounting feeling that something important was happening to me. I pay for the test at the counter. It’s more expensive than I’d realized, and I feel a little crazy having to buy a package with two tests in it.  It’s not like I see myself taking these things on the regular. I picture myself tearfully sharing the results in the middle of a cluster of girls.  They are cooing over me, and maybe some are even braiding my hair.  I could be crying out of terror or relief -- the tableau is the same either way.  I’m probably not pregnant. I can feel the space for it though: the proverbial void into which something meaningful emerges.  So, maybe I am. I’m not dumb; I know that getting pregnant my sophomore year of college wouldn’t be, like, a good thing. But a pregnant girl is never alone. I hadn't realized it would be possible to feel so lonely on a campus of thousands of students, sharing bathrooms, sharing large wooden tables for dinner, always together, always in each other’s air. I have a single dorm room this year, which technically is enviable. The only reason I have it, though, is because I couldn’t find someone to room with, or even to “clip” two adjoining singles together. I still see my freshman year roommates; we’re not bosom buddies, to use a phrase no one here would use, but there’s no animosity between us. I could have put the Walgreens bag in my backpack, but it’s dangling from my wrist as I enter my dorm’s courtyard.  I see Hannah, one of my roommates from last year, and even though she doesn’t particularly move my way, I wave to her and approach her as if she’s beckoned me. “This is so embarrassing,” I say, gesturing to the bag. “What is?” she asks. “Being caught red-handed with a pregnancy test.” I try to act close and friendly enough for the both of us. “Oh,” says Hannah. It seems like it’s still her turn, so I wait. “Well, good luck,” she finally says, heading out the gates to whatever important place she has to go.  That’s okay.  I’m also on a mission. The women’s room is empty, though I wouldn’t have minded some accidental company as I unwrap the test in the stall. Sitting on the toilet, I read the instructions three times.  I look for weird sentences that I could incorporate into a hilarious story to be shared between the hours of midnight and two am (what I think of as confessional hours.) I narrate to myself the whole time.   Now I am holding the stick under a stream of urine.  Now I am setting the test on the box on the ground, but not looking at it as I count to three hundred, just for something to do while my phone keeps the official time.  I couldn’t actually be pregnant; I can’t make the idea feel real. My phone timer chimes the end of the wait.  Now I am, momentously, picking up the test. Now I am learning that I’m the same person I always was, not a person plus a fraction of a future.  I throw away the test, stowing the unused one in my bag. That night, after a couple of hours vaguely re-reading the same ten pages about US-China relations, I put on my slippers and pad over to Hannah’s room.  I knock on her door. “Come in,” she says.  I think her face falls a bit when she sees it’s just me. There are two other girls there: Hannah’s roommate Sarah, and Phoebe from down the hall.  They are studying, I think, but it sort of feels like a slumber party.  I can smell microwave popcorn, and someone's Spotify playlist shimmers irrelevantly in the background. “Good news,” I press into her room, sitting next to her on her bed.  “The test was negative.” “Um, congrats,” says Hannah.  Sarah and Phoebe are paying polite attention to me.  No one reaches for my hair, which I’d washed earlier today just in case a hair-braiding situation presented itself. “Phew! Right?” I say. “Um, not to be offensive or whatever, but, did you need to take a pregnancy test?” Hannah asks. “I mean, it was negative, so in retrospect no.” “But, like, have you ever had sex?” Hannah looks embarrassed now, even though it’s my personal life we’re talking about. “No,” I admit.  “Not per se.  I mean, no.  It was just a feeling, you know? Anyway, it was negative.” I observe a look between Hannah, Sarah, and Phoebe that I can’t quite parse. I’m seized by the absurd need for someone to hug me. Instead, Hannah kind of taps the book in front of her, and Phoebe does a weird cough. I feel like someone needs to explicitly invite me to stay, but no one does, so I leave. I’ve left the lights and all my lamps on in my room, so it feels inviting when I get back to it. My textbook is open on the desk where I’d left it.  I know I won’t always feel like this. For all I know, next semester I’ll fall in love.  Tomorrow I might meet the person who becomes my best friend. Tucked into my desk drawer is the other pregnancy test. Anything’s possible. Julia Meinwald is a writer of fiction (www.juliameinwaldwrites.com) and musical theatre (www.juliameinwald.com), and a gracious loser at a wide variety of boardgames.  She’s had stories published in Vol 1 Brooklyn, Brief Wilderness and West Trade Review, with  stories coming out in After Dinner Conversation and Bayou Magazine  in Spring 2024.  Her work as a composer has been heard in productions across the US and in Canada, and the cast album for her musical The Magnificent Seven streams on Spotify, Apple, Amazon, and elsewhere.