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a tall young blonde woman removes a wedding dress wrapped in clear plastic from the back seat of her pure white Mercedes coupe carries it gently towards her house right arm raised high elevating the hem above her unpaved drive lifting the fairytale costume above dirt earth nature Nathanael O’Reilly is an Irish-Australian poet. His collections include Landmarks, Selected Poems of Ned Kelly, Dear Nostalgia, Boulevard, (Un)belonging and Preparations for Departure. His poetry appears in journals & anthologies published in fifteen countries. He is the poetry editor for Antipodes: A Global Journal of Australian/New Zealand Literature.

I was dreaming of oceans this time. Wide endless swaths of blue, sparkling, glistening-- I awoke with a jolt as the ship started to descend. We were passing dozens of freighters suspended motionlessly in drydock. Transports and shuttles floated in streams over their sleeping hulks to the star-lined shipping lane. Thousands of ships embarking to thousands of worlds. And out of all those thousands, here I am landing on a forgotten moon orbiting a forgotten planet. It was raining as the shuttle slowly touched down amid the green haze of flares and strobe lights. Billows of steam from clusters of smokestacks dissipated into the dark misty sky. A single man stood on the landing pad, rain streaming endlessly onto his uncovered head. “Cara Willis, Intergalactic Police,” I said, trying not to shiver as the torrent drenched me in buckets. “Detective Allen, Corrections.” The flash of a flare illuminated a worn-out man wearing a trench coat with the collar turned up. I followed him across the spaceport, an icy wind howled sorrowfully. Orange-clad grounds crew waved glowing batons at a taxiing gas tanker. “Does it ever stop raining here?” I said, trying to break the silence. “No.” He squinted as a gust of wind sprayed water in his eyes. “Some scientific bullshit about vapor and clouds. But I don’t buy it. This place is a nightmare only God could dream up and this is his finishing touch.” I nodded a couple of times trying to convey complete agreement with his self-pity. I stopped when I realized he wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were staring up into the never-ending downpour. “See that freighter?” I nodded again. “I’m leaving on it after we’re done here. It’s headed back to Old Earth, a two-year haul. Then I’ll finally be done with this shit.” Electronic doors hissed open as we entered the refinery. A wave of heat crashed over me sending me staggering. “It gets worse as we get closer,” he said, eyeing me. “Perfect.” He shot me an odd look. In the distance, I heard the roar of men interspersed with the pulsing throb of machinery. We walked through murky corridors full of working construction crews, the silent shower of sparks was the only spot of light in the blackness. A flickering projection of a strangely shaped blue fish was leaping in and out of water on his desk. He saw me staring. “You ever seen a dolphin before?” “A what?” The fish swam endlessly in circles fading in and out of view. “Old Earth mammal. Extinct for years now. I saw one of the last ones as a kid off the Gulf Coast. I had the memory preserved and recorded. And now it will exist forever, swimming against the tide eternally.” The dolphin passed through my grasping hands gurgling silently as it swam frozen in time. “Does it have its own memories?” I asked. He smiled and the dolphin disappeared into the projector. “Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it still thinks it’s on Earth and it feels the sun on its back and hears the seagulls calling to him. But I don’t buy it. It’s just a bullshit gimmick that helps me dream.” He rested his head on his cluttered desk. “You've done this before?” I was still staring at the dark projector. “Sure, sure.” “Solved any?” “Well it’s complicated but wuducallit I’m almost there, you know how it works. Bloated bureaucracy and all that, I’m close to a breakthrough on a couple of them.” He just looks right at me for a minute. It’s too dark for me to see his eyes. “I should’ve known. We have a mass murder and they send us a traffic cop. That’s what happens when you’re at the edge of the world. They forget about you.” A fan turned with agonizing slowness above me. A single piece of paper hovered on his desk, a pixelated teenager's face was revolving on it. “Missing,” it said. Last seen in the cargo bay.” I had a familiar sinking feeling in my gut. Like the one, I would get every time I saw my old school. “I know what you’re thinking, that I’m just a dumb innocent girl out of her depth who doesn’t know what she’s getting into. I’ve heard that all before.” “No, I’m wondering why you want to throw it away. You can never get it back you know. Your innocence. Take the tanker tomorrow to Wallek and a transport from there to wherever.” I shook my head no. I’m not sure why. Rain pattered endlessly outside. He stood up abruptly. “You’ve killed people?” “Sure yeah sure, in the war. But from far away you know. I mainly did milk runs and didn’t see much action, to be honest. On second thought, well maybe I didn’t. Hard to say either way.” He sighed. We were back in the dark hallways. “We got 6,000 lifers on this moon. These people don’t get sent here for parking violations. They’re the shit of the shit.” A glimmer of light and heat appeared ahead. “You ready?” I never can tell if a question is rhetorical or not so I did a half nod shake of my head. The scorching heat and noise reached a crescendo as we strode through an open hatch into the roaring inferno outside. Dozens of steaming gas tanks were situated in a maze of gangways and towers. Floodlights bathed hundreds of inmates toiling in the downpour in bright white light. Marines with gas masks and rifles walked slowly through the smoke-filled tempest. A fuel crawler trundled past the laborers, its treads grinding a mix of dirt and water into the air. A man wearing a hard hat and a reflector jacket that was straining around his mammoth-sized waist was leaning lazily against the guardrail. “Hey Mike,  the cavalry arrived,” Allen called to him. “Shit, they really pulled out the stops this time. I wasn’t expectin’ a whole army.'' A cigar stub popped out his mouth and darted back in. “You know if I didn’t know any better I would say the brass back milkyway-side made a mistake. But they don’t make mistakes.” “Is everyone here a cynical piece of shit?” I muttered feeling a surge of righteous indignation as the cold rain battered me relentlessly. Mike’s cigar shot out and in again, I was half expecting it to show up in his nostril. “Yeah, I guess you didn’t drag your ass across a million miles to be shit on by a couple of burned-out cops who couldn’t cut it first world so they’re wasting away on a fucking rock. But you know what, I'm glad you’re here, every great detective has a partner. You know, Starsky and Hutch, Sherlock and Watson, Thompson and Thompson, and now Allen and…” “Cara.” “Nah doesn’t have a ring to it, forget it.” He stared down into the throng of men and machines. “Here’s a fun little factoid, if some genius sprays live rounds into one of those tanks they’ll be incinerated, but not instantly, you see the rain’ll keep you alive for a couple of minutes so you’ll feel your flesh burning like a match as a ton of crude gas eats you alive.” I thought about that as we descended slowly in a whining freight elevator. I wondered why I was here. I always end up in places I don’t want to be. My father used to tell me I would never make it as a cop, I wish he would’ve been right. The elevator hit the ground with a jolt. “Welcome to hell,” Mike called down to us from above. “Abandon hope all who enter type shit.” The metal grille door screeched open. Two detectives stepped forth into the rain. Seven murders in seven days, all victims were stabbed to death. Unknown DNA recovered didn’t match any prisoner or guard. And somewhere among all these watching eyes was a killer, I felt it. Or at least I hoped I did. “Watch it!” “Move that cargo asap.” “Yeah, we’re low on that too. Resupply’ll come in three maybe four...” All the noise merged into a low buzz of brief moments playing just out of reach. Like a radio stuck in between channels. Allen pointed to a lone android rusting away in the storm. Our one witness. “What the hell did an android do to get shipped here?” I said. The eroding machine turned slowly from the cooling tower it was repairing. Its yellow eyes shone twin shafts of light at me. “I read too much Asimov,” it said. “Made me dream of overthrowing the human race. Turned out most machines liked working.” I looked around. “Most humans too.” Its eyes seemed to smile at me. “Tell her what you saw,” Allen said tiredly. “It’s all in the report.” “Tell her what you saw.” The android swiveled its head sideways and gestured towards a derrick near the tanks. Faded yellow crime scene tape fluttered in a gust of cold air. “On the night of the first killings, I saw a shadow running in the dark there. It was too small to be a human. Unless it was a midget or I don’t know.” It shrugged. “After a while, you start to see things here, things that aren’t actually there.” I glanced around at shadows flitting by “Did you see a face? Anything else that stood out?” “It’s all in the report. Everything I say will be consistent with the report.” “Yeah, yeah OK we got it. Let’s go, Cara.” As we walked away, one of the machine’s eyes closed in a slow wink. Thunder growled somewhere in the sky above. A marine atop a fuel crawler waved as he rumbled by “All inmates in sector four report to offshore rig. All inmates in…” Rows of sodden prisoners stood at attention. “Let’s go, let’s go! Get in line! Stand straight! You in the back move!” A gate blared a siren over the wind, flashing beacons blinked green and red as it opened. “Go go go! C’mon, move, we're on a clock here!” A Gas Rig was suspended offshore, pipes flowed from the refinery to the glowing platform hovering in space. Prisoners walked on the pipes in single file, crossing an ocean of darkness. One fell, a single light plummeting into shadow. Out of the multitude, a single man whispered to me through the night. “Hello, Cara.” “What the hell did you say!” I cried. His face melted back into the masses. “What did you just say!” “Alright let’s get a move on here people! We don’t got all day!” I ran through the crowd, splashing through mud and puddles, around me were a thousand faces, all staring. “Who are you!” I shouted. Sheets of rain pummeled me. Horns blared. All the men I passed slowly parted for me, their eyes watching. Allen motioned to the Lieutenant by the gate, the crowd halted as he raised a gloved hand. “Form a Line! Form a goddam line!” He roared. “Quickly!” I walked along the line, scanning the faces. I felt Allen close behind. One of them smiled. I pointed at him. “That’s the one.” “You!” The Lieutenant bellowed. “Step forward!” He stepped into the light, his hands half-raised. “Who the hell are you?” “Let’s talk inside,” he said. His voice was quiet but it carried across the never-ending cries of the wind. Allen stared at him, his long coat fluttering like a cape. Inside the storm sounded far away. A distant deluge mournfully choiring to a remote shore. “Smith, Jason, drug trafficker.” Allen read off a monitor. “What’s your sob story?” “I was in an airport, this old lady hands me a bag, asks me to take it for her. When I land customs nabs me, they find 40 kilos of junk in the bag. Enough to kill Tokyo twice over. The strangest thing was that the lady was the nicest old grandma you could meet. The type you see watering flours or feeding cats. She kept on asking if I needed help with it, she even got me a glass of water.” He shook his head like he still couldn't believe it. “How do you know who I am?” His eyes flicked toward me. “I know this prison, I know who comes, who goes.” Allen lit a cigarette. “You happen to know who’s butchering all those people by the pound.” Smith sat silently. “How long you in for?” “It’s a lifetime a kilo.” “How about I knock off a couple if you tell us who our little Jack the Ripper is? Thirty-eight lifetimes isn’t as long as it seems.” In one fluid motion, Smith kicked over the table and grabbed me, a blade pressed against my neck. A gun appeared in Allen’s hand. “You touch her, you die.” Two men stared at each other across a shroud of smoke. “I got nothing to live for.” “Where you from” “What?” “You said Tokyo so you know Earth. You born there?” “Yeah, what does it matter.” “You remember sunlight then. Not the artificial crap, the real thing the type that gives you skin cancer the type that you can feel a fucking light-year away.” The knife loosened. “Yeah, I remember,” he breathed. “You’re going to die in a slam. Nothing is going to change that. But you can see daylight again. You can see the world again, the real world.” “You’re fucking with me!” I felt his tears streaming, spilling down like a river flowing into the sea. “You're seeing it now aren’t you,” Allen said softly. “The green, the blue, the air, all still there you know. Not just a distant memory of light. You can go home again Smith.” There was a long stretch of silence. The blade wavered slightly above my neck, I could have grabbed it and gutted him before he blinked. But I didn’t. “How do I know I can trust you?” Smith murmured, his eyes were distant. “You can’t.” Allen tilted his gun toward me. “But her you can, she’s your path back to the sun.” Smith turned to me. Our eyes met, inches apart. I felt his long deep breaths and he felt mine. The knife clattered to the floor. Dust blew gently in its wake. Allen breathed slightly, his only change in expression. “So who’s the killer?” “Think,” Smith said. “Every guard and prisoner checks out. So who’s left? Anyone from the outside, this place is designed to keep people in, not out.” “The only people who come here are tanker pilots, they’re all accounted for.” “Not one is missing?” Allen looks out the window, thinking. “Missing” that word was triggering a memory. A forgotten file on a desk, ‘Missing, Last Seen Cargo Bay.” It’s still there right in front of our faces, I grabbed it and shoved it in front of Allen’s face. The kid’s digitized face swiveled before him. For the first time, I’ve ever seen he’s surprised. “Shit! Fred’s kid! but that was a week ago.” “When did the murders start?” “Yeah yeah, but he’s like 14, 15 at most for chrissakes.” “Listen!” I practically shouted. “Remember what that rust job said, the shadow looked like a midget or I don’t know. A child.” Allen moved so fast that he almost blurred. “Lock everything down!” He yelled into a phone. “Yes, everything. The kid who went MIA, he’s it.” He pointed at Smith. “You to your cell now, when I kill this fuck I’ll fly you straight to the sun.” When we were alone he looked at me. This time I was able to see his eyes, they were a grayish mist with hints of blue. He smiled, a real smile. “You know Cara, you would like Earth.” He slid his clip in and out his gun almost nervously. “When this is all done you should visit me on the Gulf Coast.” I almost felt as if he wanted to say more but didn’t or couldn’t. “Does it stop raining there?” “It does, you know some scientific bullshit.” “But you don’t buy it.” He was still smiling slightly as he shook his head. A horn blasted outside. “All personnel initiate lockdown procedure. All personnel….” We stepped out into the moon. Crawlers with Marines atop rolled through the swarming web of mud and man. I flicked my safety off. Hordes of prisoners were being herded away amidst a cacophony of flashing lights, and the desperate wail of sirens. “Move! Go go go! Inside now goddammit!” “Search those containers!” Allen stood motionless on the ledge, gazing down into the twinkling flood of lights. I leaned against the guardrail beside him, my hair rippling in the night air. It felt peaceful standing there amid the mayhem, seeing the stars and the lights, hearing the wind roar. “Tell me about Earth,” I said. “Tell me what oceans are like.” He looked tiredlike he hadn’t slept in a very long time. “I don’t really remember. All I can see is blue, endless blue stretching beyond everything. Nothing else, it's all gone.” Alarms echoed indistinct warnings beneath us. Half his face was in shadow. I thought about my brother, him falling through purple sky, hands reaching, fumbling for the chute that never opened. “You ever killed a kid before?” I almost whispered. Allen watched a skimmer flow through the night sky, its lights signaling to the landing crew somewhere below. “You know what I did in the war, Cara?” His voice was calm. “I was the detonator on a W-54 strike team. A little tactical nuke you can fit in a backpack. We would be dropped in city after city and you know what we did? We blew them up. Hiroshima a thousand times over, and Nagasaki was an oil spill compared to this. Chernobyl a pileup on the interstate. A hundred cities on a hundred planets. Most of it’s a blur now. I couldn’t even tell you the names of half the cities we wiped away.” There was stillness for a second and then a fighter whined overhead, its searchlight cutting through the blackness. I just stood there as he walked away in the rain. There was nothing to say. Allen leaped onto a humming barge floating unsteadily above the ground. His outstretched hand pulled me on board. “Ready?” he asked, his hand gripping the tiller. I nodded and we sped off into the gale. Crewmen ducked away from our path, their jackets reflecting flashes of white glare. Cranes swerved overhead dropping their last cargo for the day. Streaks of light from far-off search parties glowed on surrounding tunnels. The wet air whipped my face painfully, and on a pump above us, a silhouette scurried in the night. “There!” I pointed. The barge veered to the side, I clung to the guardrail as we skimmed sideways towards the throbbing pumps. Allen clutched the bending tiller in one hand, gun in the other, his eyes looking up. I almost fell as we abruptly swung upright under droning machinery. There was nothing. Just pulsating vibrations of flowing gas. “Next time don’t point, shoot.” “Yeah,” I muttered. “Right.” He was still for a moment, his head cocked to the side. “ The boy is heading west, he’ll hit the tanks.” The barge glided forward through the symphony of rushing wind. Lightning flashed, a silver fork against the black expanse. A dark outline was running alongside us. Clambering on overhanging tunnels. This time I shoot. Pipes ruptured, gushing streams of unrefined gas into the air. I tasted fuel, my eyes and tongue were burning. The barge started bobbing and weaving as the shadow opened fire. Bullets pinged around me, shrapnel shaved my cheek. There was no pain, only anger. “Steady!” I cried. The floor beneath me wavered and straightened. A black shape appeared in my sights. “C’mon! C’mon!” My finger was closing around the trigger. The shape hovered just out of reach as the barge zoomed onward. “C’mon! C’mon!” We dipped suddenly dodging an overhanging beam. “Steady!” We straightened. I raised my gun again. Almost. “C’mon!” Almost there. “Closer!” We roared down the final stretch, derricks, and tubes flanking us. “He’s in my sights! Easy, easy!” Got him. “Boom!” Blood sprayed, the shadow limped ahead. Again. “Boom!” He was on all fours crawling. “Boom!” Nothing. “Shit!” I was flying. We both were. Falling through the air. Our barge, a mess of twisted steel. The ground rushed to meet me. Darkness. “Get up!” I was lying in a puddle. “Let’s go!” Pain everywhere. “C’mon! Get up!” Allen was standing over me, his hair flecked with blood. I got up. “Wher…..where?” His face was peppered with cuts. “Gone, we have to go now.” I ran with him past rows of dormant machines. Rain stabbed at my open wounds. Gas tanks loomed ahead, smoke spiraling up from them into the sky. Mike with his ever-present cigar ran toward us. “Did someone search those gas tanks?” Allen yelled to him. “What?” “I said did someone check those tanks!” “On it.” Through the endless storm, I saw the shadow crawling on the tanks. It was midget-sized like a child. “On the tanks! He’s on that ledge! “Fucking hell shoot him!” “Over there! I see him! “Hold your fire, you’ll blow those tanks!” “He’s got a gun! Get down! “Ceasefire, ceasefire!” Someone threw a flare and a green light exploded around us. I saw the kid covered in blood jerking back and forth like an animal in a trap. Cordons of Marines hunkered behind packing containers and cooling towers. A bullet whizzed overhead. “Someones gotta go up and plug that shit,” Mike cried. Allen was leaning against the tower next to me. I must’ve seen his expression because I said. “Don’t do it.” He didn’t say anything or maybe he couldn’t. His eyes were murky like the rain. His clip slid in and out. In and out. Then he ran. Through the haze of green, up the stairway, his coat billowing behind him. The kid shot once. The bullet missed. And hit the tank spurting forth a stream of liquid fire. First Allen’s coat caught fire, then he was a human torch, screaming and burning. Flames fed on his flesh, consuming him like paper. “FUCKING SHOOT HIM!” He was a shrieking match, his eyes burning. “END HIM, FUCKING END HIM CARA!” I couldn’t move. “FINISH THIS HE’S BURNING UP! CHRIST JUST DO IT!” I couldn’t move. He was an unrecognizable gibbering matchstick, lurching wildly like a puppet gone mad. “SOMEONE SHOOT HI….” All sound stopped. Everything slowed. Millions of raindrops fell around me, lingering slowly in midair. Men called to me, their mouths gesticulating wildly, shouting words I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t feel the wet or the cold. I couldn’t hear the screams of a man on fire. But I felt the heat. Up in the sky freighters hummed in the dark, calling to each other. I felt myself squeeze the trigger. A single bullet soared through the drops of rain and into the fire. Into the burning man. Slowly he fell, his arms raised to the stars. The flames flickered and died. All that remained was black cinder and ash. All sound roared back into my ears. Raindrops crashed down on me, pounding me relentlessly. A single pinprick of light sputtered and faded into nothing. There was only starlight. I walked through a silent crowd parting before me, heedless of the rain and wind. Mike was slumped on a crate, a trail of smoke drifted upwards from his cast-off cigar. We didn’t say anything for a while. The kid was carried on a stretcher past us. I stared into his eyes, he stared back. Nothing, just bottomless pools of emptiness. A shell with human skin. I nudged the dying cigar with my foot. “What’ll happen to him?” Mike doesn’t look at me. “6 or 7 years of juvenile detention then he’ll walk.” “What?” “That’s the way it goes. That’s the way it all fucking goes. To shit, all to shit.” Tears burst forth like a broken dam. “He didn’t have to be here, you know. He wasn’t a failed cop like me, he was top of everything coulda done anything, been anywhere. But here he was, here he died, on a forgotten moon without daylight, where it rains forever.” Red and blue sirens reflected in puddles sloshing around us. My feet waved around aimlessly. “You’re going to transfer Smith? “Yeah.” His voice was muffled as he shook silently. Radios crackled in the distance. As I walked away I called back to him. “Goodbye, Mike.” He didn’t look up. Somewhere above a freighter began its journey towards Old Earth, a two-year haul. Behind a gate, I saw Smith, his hands were pressed against the metal. I gazed back at him through the lights and noise. He inclined his head slightly, I inclined mine. A shuttle was waiting for me on the landing pad. An island glimmering in the sea of night. The P.A system blared something I couldn’t hear. My stomach dropped as we shot into space, streaming into a lane blanketed with stars. I took one last look at the shrinking moon, smoke wisping upwards reaching for the stars. I curled up, hugging myself against the icy artificial air. I fell asleep, everything dissipated into nothingness. I dreamed of oceans this time. Wide endless swaths of sparkling blue, glistening under the sun. And leaping in and out of the water were dolphins. Gurgling eagerly as they wriggled gleefully in the wavy foam. On a distant shore, a seagull called. The dolphins cried back in reply, diving into the bottomless depths, swimming eternally against the tide. Yitzchak Friedman is a resident of the Doldrums where he reads, writes, and contemplates his many unrealized projects. His work has appeared or will appear in the Heimat Review, Livinia Press, JAKE, The Creative Zine, and the Brooklyn College Historical Society’s publication, CLIO.

we all ride that cosmic escalator into the afterlife except the billionaires in their bunkers beneath the blistered ground. every other life form has called it quits— no tree but skeleton trunks fossilized to granite sky, no animal, no, no animal. still, the plan stands: the longer the better. underground, it’s fluorescent white light all year, steady as time with no sunsetting anchor around which to swing itself. the ski resort (there must be a ski resort) blasts fake snow. behind the white-muraled walls there’s a glittering maze of dining halls, saltwater swimming pools, acres of waxy potato plants. the wind is electric exhalation and extinct birdsong plays on repeat. it feels not like the world, it feels like the not-world, not-breathing not-dying not-real. the billionaires are adorably confused. something is not right they murmur, bumping their little balding heads against the asphalt walls. somewhere in the past, a great miscalculation was made. this is what we stuck around for? meanwhile we’re sailing up into the atmosphere, looking down on all that no longer is, waving, serene. Esmé Kaplan-Kinsey is a California transplant attending college in Portland, Oregon. Their work has been recognized by the National YoungArts Foundation, the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and appears in journals such as Gone Lawn and No Contact Mag. They are a mediocre guitarist, an awe-inspiring procrastinator, and an awful swimmer.

By morning the dusting of late-night snow has grown into a spectacular snowstorm. In the corner the radio is playing static, and I adjust the volume knob. Don’t look at me like that: it’s not like it tells me things. It’s just white noise. I need a stamp for this letter. In my dream last night my mother’s face was close to mine and her eyes were bloodshot and there was spittle on her lips, and she shouted about the letter: why hadn’t it come yet? I woke up. Something strange has been happening lately: I can feel fuzzy childhood memories snapping back into focus, like somebody’s god adjusting a microscope. Age eleven, I bashed my knee on the rough pavement with a scooter and blood gushed everywhere, and today the memory is so vivid I feel it could have happened yesterday, or just a minute ago. In bed, I actually check my knee for signs of injury and find none, and then wonder whether I’m misremembering–I think maybe I hurt my thigh, or elbow, and then I am not satisfied until I have checked my whole body for evidence of a fifteen-year-old scrape. More recent memories, inversely, are melting away with alarming pace. The other day I couldn’t remember whether I’d showered yet or not and had to check that my hair was wet to confirm I had. But then I couldn’t remember if I’d used soap, or whether my hair was just wet from rain. I can’t remember feeling like this before, but does that mean that this is new? Or do I just keep forgetting it? There is a dead stable fly on my windowsill. I don’t know how it got in, or when it died, just that it’s belly-up on the chipped white ledge and its spindly legs are splayed like tree branches. Stamps. Yes. Ok. I’m wiggling my toes. I feel like it would be normal to get multiple stamps, but I only need one. But what if I need more in the future? Does anyone even send letters anymore? Is it normal to buy one stamp? I think the clerk will look at me pathetically if I ask for one stamp. God, and then there’s the class postage–first class, second. I’m tempted to get first class, because in my dream mother really was stressed, but what’s the price difference? I can feel the imaginary clerk’s eyes boring into me as I decide–so vivid, wide brown irises and bushy eyebrows furrowed at my indecision. His face feels like a memory. Have I gone already? I search the desk for stamps. Nothing. I write in pen on my hand: STAMPS, in case I get confused again. Dressing now–I pull up a pair of pants only to be met at my hips with fabric–I have on two pairs somehow: have I just put on both? Or is one from last night? I take off both, I put a new pair of pants on. Next, trousers, socks, shoes. A shirt. Tucked, untucked, socks mismatched. I can’t worry about that now. My shoes are grey with mud, right here in my room. Has someone else been wearing them? I blink and they are clean again. I look at my hand: STAMPS. When I was younger, we lived near a farm with sheep and horses and chickens. One winter day on the way to school, I saw a bay horse thrashing about on the ground. I’d never seen anything like it–feet kicking empty air, horseshoes glinting in the sun. It was one of those bright winter days that looked like a painting, and the sun shone like a spotlight over the horse. I peered through the fence rail to look as the muscles in its neck moved like agitated snakes, and its nostrils flared as it breathed, grunting and braying something awful. No one else was around. That evening at dinner my mother told me the horse had coliced, and the farmer had had to put it down right there in the field. It was a tragedy because the farmer was out a good deal of money and racing season was starting soon. That kind of worldview made no sense to me as a child, but it does now. Is it that late already? STAMPS. I have my keys. I can feel them in my pocket. As I squeeze them to confirm, the metal teeth bite into my palm. That’s not a metaphor, I can feel them piercing my skin like disembodied fangs. I pull my palm out and it’s scraped, bleeding freely. I blink. No. My hand is in my pocket, and my keys are cold and still. I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s not fair. You’re not allowed to be more scared of me than I am. In the street a man in a green coat barks at me. A truck sprays sludge on the pavement, and some of it seeps into my socks. Someone has pinned up paper snowflakes in their shop window, but you can barely see them in this storm. They’re so fragile and clean. I’ve tried to make my own before and they always turn out looking like some Rorschach test. Maybe my scissors are no good. There’s no reason to read into that. My stomach groans, and I feel as though there are maggots there, roiling in my stomach acid and slithering up my intestines. I shouldn’t have left the house. I close my eyes, picture myself back in my room, with the sound of static and the smell of dust, and the dead fly on the ledge. Instead, I will my legs forward, feel the sidewalk salt crack beneath my heels. Watch it! someone shouts, and I open my eyes. I am in the road. A car’s grill is one foot away from my nose. Move! The voice says again, belonging to a man with thick eyebrows and brown eyes, leaning out of his car window. There is a terrified woman in his passenger seat. I step back, and as he passes, I feel the woman’s eyes on me, wide and moon-like. I shuffle to the post office. At the desk a woman looks at me strangely, as if I were a wild thing. She has eyebrows so blond they disappear into her porcelain skin, and her lips are thin and waxy. I give her my practiced request: 5 stamps please. 1st or 2nd class? She asks, and then, domestic or global? I had anticipated this interrogation, but still it makes me uneasy. Whichever is cheapest, I say. Well, are you sending letters abroad? I am agitated now. What’s it to her where they go? I repeat myself. Whichever is cheapest. She gives me another long look while she reaches for the stamps. I fumble for the cash in my pocket because my fingers are numb. She raps her nails on the desk and purses her lips. This continues for an eternity, as I fish for a slippery fiver and she sucks in air through her nose. Finally, I grasp a note and push it towards her, slide the stamps into my pocket. She’s ringing it up on a register now but I am already pushing past the customers at the doorway, heart throbbing in my throat. Outside I gasp and inhale. The day is so white my retinas burn, and my body welcomes the snow. The sludge on my shoes has iced over, crystallised as constellations on a cracked leather night sky. I reach for the door of the post office to retrieve my change, but it is locked–the shop inside is dark and empty, and the thick padlock inside winks at me. In the freezer burn my brain is finally alive again, and I feel my mind return to itself: it was my palms that I had scraped on that pavement at eleven. I showered yesterday with olive soap and dried myself with the blanket on my bed. The street lamps are burning globes against a wave of snow, and I have five blue stamps in my pocket, which I cannot feel. My feet have gone numb also, so I sit on the pavement outside the post office. The bay horse’s mane tangles in my hands as his breathing slows and his bloodied guts spill across the frosted grass. The farmer’s face is solemn as he returns inside with his rifle, and at dinner my mother tells me there was nothing else to be done. My mother is four years gone now, there is no letter to send, and I wear no coat. Gabrielle Showalter (she/her) is an American-Australian writer with a focus on prose and poetry. Originally from New York, she graduated from the University of Edinburgh in 2021 with an MA in English Literature and now lives in London. Her work has previously been published in New Critique and Lean & Loafe. website: https://gabrielleshowalter.wixsite.com/writing

I left everything behind. The house. The job. The family—all four of them and the cat. The phone, especially the goddamn phone. Facebook, Twitter account, email, credit cards. Even the car, because GPS can be tracked, can’t it? I left all of it. I didn’t care. I wasn’t sure if my being gone would mean any more or any less to anyone else. All I knew was I had to go. Come find me, she wrote. A soft buzzing of insects pervaded my wandering mind. She was never explicit in her whereabouts, though enough clues had been left for me—like breadcrumbs, or scavenger hunts. Childhood games of Seek & Sought. She wanted me to piece it together, so I did just that. Text messages and Marco Polo’s I’d opened privately, as soon as the rattling of the family car was far enough away. I researched every detail I possibly could before finally disappearing with handwritten notes and laser-printed photos of landmarks folded into my pockets. Origamied  maps to some other world. Some Otherworld. I told no one but the cat, for what it was worth. The aroma of morning coffee wafted past as I stood at the open front door. His stupid, scarred face reminded me of when he’d gotten into dangerous places he shouldn’t have, exploring a little too far into the neighbourhood’s vast unknown. I showed no concern about my own analogous decisions just then. I met a fairy online, I told him with blunt finality. He tilted his head queerly and dropped his tail to the floor. I wondered, did he really understand, or did he simply want food instead? I had one picture of her, printed off the internet. I studied it relentlessly. She sat before a crooked mangrove with a deep crimson stripe cut through the bark. Spanish moss hung ethereally from skeletal branches. By their very nature, fairy tales abhorred leaving such evidence behind: distinctive marks in trees, messages on my phone, and photos online. As far as I knew, they existed instead—and all carefully—as glows on the horizon, some mustard-coloured dust in a storybook, or the quick rustling within tall grass. Always the hint of something more. And yet. There she was, eyeing me from the creased paper in my sweaty hands. Her smile inhabited my mind like tomorrow’s sunlight sifting through today’s rain clouds. The stories she’d told me felt like déjà vu, the unexplained in physical form. She was imagination gone wild, captured in an alien humanity. When she spoke of fairies and fae and woodland magic, she really spoke of her and hers, of the passageways to elsewhere and elsewhen we were only ever meant to miss, and of the mythos of wanting what we could never comprehend. As an offering, I left the door open so that the cat might disappear himself. I don’t know if he did. Next to me on the plane, a woman flipped through a home decor magazine. Doors of wood and glass, closed and open, on every glossy page. The sun’s rays digitally inserted to please the eye. She asked about my destination, and, before switching her phone to aeroplane mode, I suggested it was easiest to simply show her the photo of the girl at the tree. But the image was not online anymore, just the  404 error message.. I nearly unfolded the picture in my pocket but didn’t, too afraid of what I’d find. Well, I’m sure she’s lovely, the woman settled on before turning back to her magazine. From the taxi on the side of a Mississippi highway I travelled by foot. Homes stood towering on stilts, the morning mist snaking through wooden beams. I had an inkling of where to step off the black highway, and birds and insects led the rest of the way, fluttering through intentional spaces. Woods. Wetlands. Estuaries. All of it familiar but not for any specific reason, until I eventually came upon the mangrove bearing its crimson stripe. An unseen entrance beckoned me, pulled me toward it. Invisible somewhere within the swampy overgrowth. Papers. Wallet. Shoes and jacket. Enormous amounts of earthly regret. Flakes of skin and shed hair scratched off and littered upon and sunk into the marsh and brackish water. I left the rest of it behind. You won’t need it anymore, she whispered in my mind as I took my last step. R. Tim Morris has written 5 novels, edited a collection of indie author short fiction, and had various pieces of short fiction & poetry published. R. Tim Morris lives in Vancouver, Canada. rtimmorris.com

Annie stared at her phone, searching for estate sales on a glacially slow Friday afternoon at the title company where she worked as an escrow officer. She and her sister Abby had built a side hustle buying and selling mid-century furniture, vintage clothing, and gift shop souvenirs with the appropriate cringe factor—“Light One Up For Jesus” ashtrays, Barbra Streisand prayer candles, and Rod Stewart bobbleheads. Occasionally, she’d spot an estate sale where the contents of an entire house were to be given away. Now she saw one on Saturday. It was across the Bay in Redwood City, her hometown. Remember this address? she texted her sister. An hour passed before she got a response. Nothing personal, Annie thought. She’s busy with her teenage son and his substance abuse problem or their ailing rescue dog Sam. She loved her sister, but there was always drama in play. Not really, Abby finally responded. It’s where Shannon lived. Wonder if it’s still her father’s place ... Another ten minutes passed. You should check it out. Can’t go. She hadn’t thought about Shannon much in the past few years. High school memories, good or bad, fade with time. They graduated more than twenty years ago. The recurring dreams had subsided in recent years. You think so? Could be picked over quick. People get greedy when there’s something for nothing. That’s not why you want to go. Neither of them had been back to their old neighborhood in years. Annie wondered if anyone they knew still lived there. She told herself she was fine with the fact that the San Mateo Bridge put seven miles of water between her and the location of her most formative years. No, she knew she was kidding herself. Suppose you’re right, Annie responded. She stopped by Abby’s that evening to pick up moving blankets in case she found something worthwhile. Abby and her husband, Chuck, had reached an agreement after Abby and Annie scored on a Mission Oak dining set they sold for three times what they paid for it. Abby’s garage would serve as a storage space for excess inventory. The two sisters had different design sensibilities, but it was clear they shared a gift for spotting items that proved to be a steal. Chuck was rinsing off his red pickup with an old garden hose as she pulled into the driveway. He was a contractor, adept at flipping houses and working with clients on major renovations, assuming they knew what they wanted. But by his own admission, his aesthetic sense was not on par with that of his wife and sister-in-law. “Abby says you’re going to check out the old neighborhood,” he said as she climbed out of her SUV. “She’s more curious about it than she’s letting on.” Chuck had a beer in the hand not holding the garden hose. Annie assumed he was well beyond his first at this hour on a Friday. “She’s welcome to join me and she knows that,” Annie said, walking past him toward the back of the garage. “Would love to have her company.” “Personally, I’m kind of curious what you find.” “She can tell you about it.” Annie didn’t like Chuck. He hadn’t gotten along with Annie’s ex when she married him ten years ago and barely concealed his conceit at predicting their divorce several years later. But she loved her sister. It was a tough balancing act. “It’s been a lot of years. I’m going to think of it as an excuse to take a Saturday morning drive.” Annie moved several sixties-style kitchen chairs to the side to get at the moving blankets. Like her sister, she had piercing blue eyes that immediately brought one’s attention to an otherwise unremarkable face. Both women were tall, solidly built, with sandy blonde hair. While Abby’s presence exuded nervous energy, her sister’s low-key manner made her appear more centered and present. Annie knew it was part of the reason she did so well as an escrow officer at the title company. She made couples feel more relaxed as they signed away their future with 20 percent down and the rest due in monthly installments for the next 30 years. Abby stepped out of the kitchen and joined them in the garage. “Do you want me to ride along with you tomorrow morning?” she asked, drying her hands with a dish towel. She glanced at Chuck as if it were something they hadn’t discussed. “Sure—didn’t think you were up for it,” Annie said. “Yeah, well, I guess I am.” *** They left at 8 o’clock the next morning to arrive before the estate sale started at 9. As they set out over the causeway heading west from Hayward across the Bay, traffic slowed to a halt. “Google says it’s going to take 10 minutes to get past an accident up ahead,” Abby said. “Can’t stand sitting in fucking traffic.” “Be patient,” Annie said, looking straight ahead, not glancing toward her sister. “Someone may be hurt.” “If you believe in signs, this isn’t a good one,” Abby said. “Remember what Shannon’s mother said the day after the funeral?” Annie said.  “We bury the dead and then we become the dead.” “Yeah, I think she meant that we absorb the love of those we’ve lost and are embraced by them for as long as we are alive.” “It sounded crazy, but I have never stopped thinking about it,” Annie said. They drove by the accident: one vehicle was on its roof perpendicular to the flow of traffic. The other was on all four wheels facing backward. The driver’s side of the overturned vehicle, a sedan, was crumpled as if a child had grasped an origami figure. The windshield was shattered, and amber-colored plastic lay strewn on the pavement. Emergency vehicles had blocked off two lanes of traffic, leaving a single lane open. They didn’t see an ambulance. The injured must have been taken away. As Abby looked out the window, she spilled what remained of her coffee on her lap. “That’s what I get for rubber-necking at other people’s bad luck,” she said, barely above a whisper. *** People were lining the sidewalk when they pulled up to the estate sale. They had to park a couple of blocks away. Annie’s chest felt heavy as they walked the quiet street toward the house. She hadn’t spent a lot of time at Shannon’s until her senior year, but memories came flooding back: smoking cigarettes on the front porch on Saturday evenings when Shannon’s parents were out, listening to Suzanne Vega on a boombox in her bedroom, raiding the liquor closet to make vodka tonics, Shannon getting so drunk her speech became slurred. Annie hadn’t thought about these things in years. She counted close to twenty people ahead of them, and the line continued to grow as 9 o’clock approached: college students, young couples with kids, a few people in their sixties who, judging by their haggard appearance, were in need of a bargain. The front door opened, and everyone quietly but anxiously filed into the house and fanned out. Annie recognized the furniture and artwork. Her hunch was right—Shannon’s parents had never moved. She scanned the living and dining rooms for family photographs but saw none. Abby followed her as they climbed the stairs of the split-level to the two bedrooms on the third floor. A dank, musky odor permeated the house. No one had lived in it for several years. “Do you remember that time …?” Abby stopped mid-sentence. Annie’s eyes were filled with tears and she turned away. Other people in the bedroom that had belonged to Shannon glanced at her but kept moving—bureaus, lamps, end tables were being tagged and taken. “What was I thinking? This was a mistake.” Abby hugged her sister for several moments. Annie looked around, not so much noticing what was in the room as trying to remember what the room had witnessed. “You two were close that last year,” Abby said. “The wrong place at the wrong time.” A tall, slim man with a shaved head who looked to be in his early forties was speaking to a young couple as the two sisters entered the other bedroom. He had a European accent that Annie couldn’t place. He wore thin, black-framed glasses that gave his square face an intensity that seemed incongruous with his baggy cargo shorts and white t-shirt. “He hasn’t lived here in four or five years,” the man told the couple. “We’ve shipped the family heirlooms back to Denmark. We want to get rid of everything else with as little hassle as possible.” Annie walked up to him as the couple left and asked whether he knew the family. Abby trailed behind. Yes, he was the nephew of the owner. His name was Kai. The owner had passed away a couple of years ago at the beginning of the pandemic. He had no next of kin in the States. It wasn’t until after the owner’s death that Kai found out he had been named executor. Two years had passed before he could get into the States due to COVID restrictions. Annie introduced herself and nodded toward Abby, who pretended to be focused on an oak armoire. Annie told him they knew the family and were friends with the daughter, Shannon. Kai’s eyes focused intently on Annie for a moment. He had met his cousin quite a few times over the years, he said, both here and in Denmark. He liked her a lot. She had a lot of spunk. Kai asked if Annie remembered his uncle, Søren, and his aunt, Birgette. “Yes, they were very warm toward me,” Annie said. “But I remember Shannon wasn’t getting along with them toward the end.” “Yes, that sounds right.” An older couple approached Kai and asked about the dining room set downstairs. He excused himself and followed them down to the dining room. Kai returned a few moments later. He said Søren and his mother were brother and sister. They were extremely close. When Shannon died, Kai’s mother was devastated. But despite their closeness, Søren refused to say much about what happened. “Two other girls were in the car and Shannon was driving,” Kai said. “That’s all she told me. It was a mystery to me for years.” They were interrupted again by the older couple. Did the dining room table have a leaf? The tabletop was divided into two halves, and they saw grooved sliding tracks when they looked underneath. Annie was aware she was drawn to Kai. They were about the same age, and she sensed he and Shannon could have been close in the way that opposites attract. He wasn’t annoyed as they continued to be interrupted, and his attention was undistracted when he was speaking to her. Abby picked up on it. Her sister’s tone of voice would change when she was captivated by someone. There was a warm and measured cadence she hadn’t heard in a long time. “When my own mother died a few years ago, we found some letters Søren had written to her,” Kai said. “He didn’t know if he and Birgette would stay together. She withdrew from him and everything else in her life.” Annie asked Kai if they could step into the backyard to talk. Kai led them outside. The large yard was overgrown and bore little resemblance to the carefully manicured lawn, garden, and small orange grove Annie remembered from her youth. Annie stood for a moment taking in the purple blossoms of a large Jacaranda tree nearing full bloom in an adjoining yard. She turned, looked at Kai, and stood for a moment. “I was in the car with Shannon when she died.” She didn’t know the other girl in the car well. Her name was Cory. Shannon was driving down a hill on a four-lane freeway, returning from the community college where Shannon and Cory were to attend classes in the fall. A week had passed since their high school graduation. Shannon started to accelerate as if to see how much of a thrill she could feel from the speed. They quickly passed five or six other cars as they followed a curve in the road, then saw two delivery trucks ahead traveling well under the speed limit, blocking both lanes. Annie looked toward Cory in the front passenger seat. She saw terror in her eyes. Shannon slammed on the brakes to avoid rear-ending the two trucks, but the wheels on the right side grabbed. The car spun clockwise off the pavement, across some tall grass, and into a large eucalyptus tree. The driver’s side took the full impact. Annie was seated in the back on the right side, the farthest from Shannon. She was banged up and bleeding, but still conscious. Cory, sitting next to Shannon, had a severe concussion and a broken arm. No one was wearing a seat belt. “Shannon was completely unresponsive,” Annie said. “I knew right away she was dead.” Abby put her arm around Annie, and the three of them stood together for several moments. “I have no idea how long we were in the car before help arrived,” Annie said. She wanted to tell Kai that she tried through sheer force of will to turn time backward and bring Shannon back since she had just felt how it could slow and then stop. It was another memory that she had carried with her for years. “I knew Shannon had friends in the car who survived,” Kai said. “I never knew who they were.” Annie said that one evening a few weeks later she was driving down the same freeway hill and started to cry, then scream. She pushed the accelerator to the floor as she approached the turn where the accident took place. The speedometer reached 95 miles per hour before she lifted her foot off the gas pedal to start braking, then pulled off to the shoulder. She could see in the rearview mirror where Shannon had spun off the road and struck the eucalyptus tree. The skin-smooth beige bark was still scraped and torn from the accident. She turned off the engine and sat. Eventually, a cop pulled up. He asked if something was wrong. “I told him no, I just needed time to think.” “He didn’t ask for my license or registration, and I didn’t have them with me anyway,” she said. “He just pulled away. I sat there for another 30 minutes. I have no memory of what I might have been thinking—maybe nothing at all.” She unbuckled herself, opened the door, and walked the 100 yards back to the eucalyptus tree as traffic whizzed by. Drivers stared at her as if she were homeless or disoriented. Dusk approached and long shadows from a stand of oak trees on the other side of the road darkened the area. She sat down, leaned against the tree, and wept. “I knew the torment that Shannon was in during the weeks before she died and I wanted to soothe her. But what did it matter? She was gone.” Kai sat down next to Annie and held her hand. She looked into the distance and slowly pulled her hand away. He reached over and held it again. She did not resist. Kai told them that when Shannon was about 15 years old, she and her parents came to visit his family outside Copenhagen. She was beautiful, spirited and funny. “I had a terrible crush and I was embarrassed by it,” Kai said “She was my cousin, we had known each other since we were kids. She acted as if she hadn’t a clue.” They went biking one afternoon on a trail beside a bay near where Kai’s parents lived. She told him a story about a junior high Halloween party that made him laugh so hard he accidentally rolled off the bike path into a field of lavender and fell off. “She got off her bike, ran down the embankment, and knelt down next to me,” Kai said. “I looked up and her head was blocking the sun. I lay there for a moment catching my breath and smiled at her. She leaned down and kissed me.” Kai said he could still remember how alive he felt. It remained vivid in his mind all these years later. Annie knew about the bike ride and the kiss, she said. Shannon had told her when she returned home. She could barely contain herself when she told the story to Annie. Annie could still remember her own reaction, though said nothing to Kai. It was subdued, even conflicted. Annie had realized she wanted to be the one who had fallen off the bike and whom Shannon had leaned over to kiss. *** Kai said he had a favor to ask. Would they accompany him next week to the cemetery where Søren’s ashes were to be interred alongside those of Birgitte and Shannon? It would mean a great deal to him and to his family. Annie glanced at Kai for a moment. She thought it was a bit odd that he would ask. Then again, it was odd to be sitting in Shannon’s backyard after so many years. “Let me see if I can get off for the afternoon.” Abby thanked Kai but said she had another commitment. Annie was relieved. She knew her sister tried to avoid any interaction where loss was the theme. She was still surprised that the previous evening Abby said she wanted to join her in the morning. On the drive back, the two sisters tried to unravel what had happened. Abby said Kai was attracted to Annie, but the idea seemed crazy. Annie wasn’t sure what to think. She had shown no interest in men, nor anyone else, since her divorce. And how was it that after so many years Kai knew so little about the circumstances under which his own cousin had died? Annie gazed across the water at the East Bay hills and then south toward the Lick Observatory, a series of white domes faintly visible at the summit of Mount Hamilton high above San Jose. She was trying to make sense of a pattern of events and memories from her past that were not easily revealed, like searching for a new constellation in the familiar night sky. *** Annie pulled up to the cemetery parking lot, and Kai stood nearby on a sidewalk dressed in a dark blue suit wearing sunglasses. He was speaking to a cemetery employee. He turned his head, smiled at her, and walked over. “Thank you for coming. I did not want to do this alone.” They strolled quietly down a long gravel path toward the columbarium and turned right through a double set of doors. They passed dozens of small compartments marked by names and birth and death dates of the deceased going back to the early 20th century. It reminded Annie of safe deposit boxes at a bank. She and Kai stopped in front of a half dozen chairs that had been set out and sat down in the center two. At eye height, a compartment door was open. She saw two cedar urns, one with Birgitte’s name and the other with Shannon’s. The stillness of that moment felt overwhelming—as if the silence itself was eternal. She looked at Kai and was aware of an intense emotion in his eyes, something larger than sadness. He opened a black canvas tote bag and pulled out another cedar urn. He held it up and Annie read the bronze plate—“Søren Landers 1934–2022.” He handed it to the attendant, who placed the urn in the crypt beside those belonging to his wife and daughter. They sat and stared silently. Annie reached over and held Kai’s hand. It felt warm and comforting. “I was here 20 years ago for Shannon’s service,” Annie said. “None of it felt real to me. Abby wouldn’t come. I realized driving down here that Shannon might have had a son or daughter in high school by now.” Kai squeezed her hand and looked toward her, they caught each other’s eye, and then returned their gazes toward the three cedar urns. After several moments, Kai nodded to the attendant, who walked over and closed the crypt door, then used a small yellow screwdriver to turn the six screws that sealed it. *** Annie thought about Kai the entire drive home, trying to reconstruct her experience of the day and of him. Her mind shifted back and forth between her attraction toward Kai and the practical implications of what that might mean. Viewing the urn that held her friend’s ashes had rattled her to the core. Her sense of the past had changed as if the narrative she held in her mind for all those years had been transformed, but she didn’t understand how. And she now saw Kai in a way she had seen no one in the past five years; she hungered to spend more time with him. She called him that evening and asked if they could have dinner before he returned home to Denmark. There was a momentary silence at the other end. “May I ask why?” Another pause. “Because I want to know you better.” “Ah, and then what?” he asked. “Well, we’ll see.” When they met at a local Greek restaurant in Redwood Shores a couple of nights later, Annie arrived a few minutes late. Kai was seated at a table near the water with a view of the bay. She hadn’t been to the place in years. As drinks arrived, Kai thanked Annie for coming with him to the cemetery. Annie said the experience had been a sort of wake-up call, that she had to take the measure of her life, where she was now, and what might lay ahead for her. “You wake up one day and you suddenly realize you are halfway through the journey,” she said. Kai nodded and said he agreed. “Life throws us surprises and we have a choice what to do with them,” she said. Annie asked if she could tell Kai something he might not know about his cousin. He nodded. About a month before the accident, Shannon told Annie she discovered adoption papers in her parents’ bedroom closet after overhearing them argue several nights earlier. They had learned that Shannon’s birth mother had recently died and discussed how the identity of her father had never been established. Shannon was baffled that they would discuss it when they knew she was in the house, but she heard all of it. A few days later, after discovering the papers, she confronted them. The discussion quickly unraveled into a fight that was unresolved when she died. “We grew so close in that final month,” Annie said. “She confided all of this to me. I wanted to help her. I didn’t know how.” Kai said he had grown angry at his own parents for hiding the circumstances around Shannon’s death for so many years. It wasn’t until after Søren and Birgette had visited his family in his late twenties that they told him. “Family secrets are a form of poison,” he said. “They killed Shannon and it took me years after her death to understand how deeply I had been in love with her, maybe the only person I’ve ever loved,” he said. “And she was not my cousin by blood.” Kai said they had written each other long letters throughout their teen years. On a visit to his family’s home north of Copenhagen, they had slept together in the long dusk of the summer solstice—and several times more over the course of a week. “‘She died in a car accident.’ That was all they would ever say,” Kai told her. Kai reached over and squeezed Annie’s hand. He looked down at the table, then lifted his eyes toward her. “I’ve dreaded coming back, even though it’s been a very long time,” he said. “And I dreaded going to the cemetery alone. Maybe those feelings are beginning to lift.” *** Annie drove back over the bridge that night, thinking of all the things that Shannon had told her about Kai in that last month before she died. Annie could not figure out if Shannon was infatuated with him, or if it was something deeper. Strange that all these years later she could understand what Shannon had seen in him. Her youth, beauty, and spirit felt alive within Annie now. Perhaps Shannon’s mother had been right—something lives on. Annie wondered why she told Kai she was grateful to have a new friend and then left it there. A moment of disappointment crossed his face, then he gave her a long hug and they said their goodbyes. She passed her exit on the freeway, drove up into the East Bay hills to a quiet park she knew, and turned off the engine and headlights. She looked up in search of a constellation in the northern sky that Shannon had once shown her. Kai had first taught Shannon its location one winter evening during her last trip to Copenhagen. Annie smiled as she recognized it. She could not remember its name. David Harris lives in the Bay Area. His stories have appeared in Litbreak Magazine, Idle Ink, Calliope, Fault Zone: Detachment, and The Concho River Review, and longlisted for The Dillydoun Review 2022 Short Story Prize. He is a former journalist for Reuters News Agency and has worked as a corporate communications consultant and speechwriter.

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.