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after Remedios Varo’s painting Mimesis I have become the focus of my tabby cat, Mimesis. She will ignore flies and mice, but rather than being lazy, she is watchful, always napping or hiding near me, as if she can sense clandestine movement and the appalling trajectory of my life. Much like Mimesis, I’ve never been an active person. I like my favorite chair, this week’s sewing next to me, an occasional cup of linden tea, perhaps with a pinch of rose hips. I do sweep and dust, but only when I can’t coax a girl from the village to do it for a coin. I’m also careful, never walking under ladders or putting shoes on the table. I’ve never dropped my scissors. If necessary, I will knock on wood prophylactically. But last time I did that, Mimesis began her surveillance. A girl I had out to clean set my calfskin pumps on a table to sweep underneath. My heart tripped over itself in its haste. I screamed. They will bring bad luck! Take them off the table! Which she did immediately. Then I knocked on both wooden arms of my chair. Imagine my surprise when they knocked back. Shortly after that event, I noticed that the limbs of furniture seemed sympathetic to my emotions. Mimesis became my mirror reflection, eyeing me always, perhaps afraid to let me out of her sight. This morning, I tried to get out of my chair to put the kettle on and discovered that my legs were wooden, and I could not rise. My hands had become one with the chair. I recognized the fear in Mimesis’ eyes. I urged her to move, no, to run away. But her fur had already begun to seep into the floor’s wood grain. Luanne Castle’s award-winning poetry collections are Rooted and Winged and Doll God. Her chapbooks are Our Wolves and Kin Types, a finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award. Luanne’s Pushcart and Best of the Net-nominated poetry and prose have appeared in Copper Nickel, Bending Genres, River Teeth, The Ekphrastic Review, and other journals.

Tamieka tried to muffle her voice. ‘I told you I’m broke…I have to go. I’m at work. Yes. Really.’ She sighed and squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Ok. Later.’ She ended the call and stared at her cracked phone, before slipping it into her ill-fitting work trousers. ‘Are you quite finished?’ Martin sneered as she rejoined the group. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled into her chest. ‘Rule number one. No personal calls during shift.’ Martin, the team leader, was pink and fleshy like a raw sausage. ‘In this job, you’ve got to keep your wits about you.’ Eyes downcast, she nodded. ‘Come on then,’ he said to the induction group. Three men and two women in matching grey polyester uniforms. ‘I’ll show you the alarms set-up in the Grand Hall. Pay attention, alright?’ Six pairs of safety boots squeaked on the gleaming marble floor. They followed Martin through the empty foyer, past the wood-panelled ticket booth and underneath a twenty-foot-high poster for the Treasures of Eastern Java suspended from the ceiling. ‘Sounds like you’ve got trouble.’ The other woman sidled up to her, the elegant amber-skinned Eshe. Tamieka shrugged and chewed her ratty fingernails. ‘Money or men?’ Tamieka rolled her eyes. ‘Both?’ Eshe sucked on her teeth. ‘Keep up!’ Martin yelled. ‘The Grand Exhibition Hall is through here.’ Stepping through the doors, they fell silent. Bright with daylight, the Grand Hall ran one hundred metres long. The tessellated glass ceiling soared above their heads, a patchwork of skylights rippling like a stormy sea. Peanut-coloured tiles lined the walls, dotted with statues and glass cabinets. Even with their rubber soles, every footstep echoed. Open-mouthed, Tamieka drifted through the Hall until one statue made her heart stop. On a podium sat a curvaceous woman with the head of a smirking fox. She stared at the pigeon-grey stone monument, her hand fanned against her chest. ‘Come on, Tamieka,’ Martin said. ‘We haven’t got all day. The doors open in half an hour.’ She pointed at the beguiling fox-faced woman. ‘What is this?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he snapped. ‘Come on. This way.’ ‘It looks so old.’ Her eyes followed a red smear running down its neck and chest, as fine as a brushstroke. A hint of rose oil tickled her nostrils. ‘Of course it is,’ Martin said with a huff. ‘Everything here is priceless. That’s why we have bloody jobs.’ Eshe elbowed her. The rose smell was probably Eshe’s perfume. ‘Come on, dreamy.’ ‘I’ve never been to any place like this before,’ Tamieka said as she dragged herself away from the mysterious statue. ‘We used to come here for school trips," Eshe said. ‘Not my school,’ Tamieka said. ‘They wouldn’t let us in some place like this.’ She glanced back over her shoulder, the vulpine eyes were following her. ‘When I signed up for the security course, I never thought I’d end up somewhere like this,’ Tamieka said. ‘I know.’ Eshe sighed. ‘It’ll be boring as fuck standing next to paintings all day. Who’s going to steal them? At least in a shopping centre, there’ll be some action.’ ‘Keep up,’ Martin called out. ‘He’s such a dick,’ Eshe groaned as they continued down a narrow corridor. ‘Not even thirty minutes gone and I hate him already.’ Tamieka nodded, but her mind was still in the Hall. Tamieka didn’t get assigned to the Grand Hall. Instead, Martin put her in the children’s museum. ‘You’ve got kids, haven’t you?’ Tamieka smiled painfully. ‘Indy-Jade is almost seven. Rio is four.’ ‘Perfect. You’ll know how to handle the little buggers better than the young blokes.’ Tamieka wilted. Rather than guarding the statue, she spent seven hours stopping brats scribbling on the walls. While distracted parents treated the museum like a day care centre. On her break, Tamieka made a special detour to see the sculpture again. This time, a tour group of middle-aged women circled it, all intently listening to a female guide with a brutal arty haircut. ‘…fox spirits are feared and revered in many cultures, particularly Han Chinese and Japanese.’ When the guide led the women over to another glass cabinet, Tamieka stayed behind. This time she scoured the Hall, checking the cornices for cameras, recalling Martin’s instructions on the alarm system. Minutes before closing time, she made an unnecessary circuit of the Gift Shop. ‘A security check,’ she said in an authoritative tone to the shop staff, who shrugged in reply. On the shelf, she found the heavy hardback exhibition book, and after wincing at the price tag, she glanced around. The Gift Shop staff were huddled together by the till, tapping on their phones and organising after-work drinks. No one would notice if she borrowed the book overnight. Home was a blur of dirty dishes, squabbling and snotty noses. But while Tamieka cooked and folded clean clothes, the statue played on her mind. When everything was done, and she’d switched money between accounts like a shell game in order to pay her final notice electricity bill, she sat down to flick through the book. The section on the goddess was short, but enough. She took out her phone and wrote a list. Equipment she needed and phone calls to make. In the stuffy meeting room the next day, Martin droned on about safety incidents and the number of postcards being nicked from the Gift Shop. Tamieka inspected her gnawed nails while the others stared blankly at their shoes. ‘You might have heard about Mo,’ Martin said. ’Poor bloke took a tumble off his motorbike on the weekend. So this means we’re short this week. I’m looking for volunteers for some extra shifts over the next few nights?’ ‘I’ll do it!’ Tamieka blurted, her reply like gunfire. Martin recoiled, then pressed his lips into a colourless line. ‘I don’t usually like females working nights.’ ‘Can you say that?’ Eshe raised an eyebrow and Martin grumbled under his breath. ‘I could really do with the extra cash,’ Tamieka said. ‘Don’t you have kids?’ ‘I’ll sort something out.’ Martin looked at the other three men in the room, all slouched in their plastic chairs with heads lowered. ‘Well,’ he grunted. ‘if there are no other takers.’ ‘Thanks,’ Tamieka said, hiding a smile. Before taking her place in the children’s room, she visited the fox-faced sculpture. This time, when no one was looking, she laid her palm against the cool grey stone. Later on her break, Tamieka sheltered out of sight in a doorway, vape in one hand, phone in the other. ‘I need it for tomorrow night,’ she said, exhaling a fake-strawberry scented cloud. ‘You promised. You owe me.’ The call ended, and she licked her lips, ticking another item off her list. Two nights later, the skirting boards of the Grand Hall glowed with green night lights. Through the glass ceiling, a full moon hung in the sky, waves of white light cast on the marble floor. The statue, her statue, was spot lit by the moon. She checked her phone, almost one o’clock, almost time. She did another casual circuit of the Hall before returning to the podium with a bag in her hand. At the base of the statue in the moonlight, she laid out a bronze bowl, a red rose nicked from the museum gardens, and a curved Damascus steel dagger. She slashed the sharpened blade across her palm. Blood dripped into the bowl as she clenched her fist and muttered a devotional verse. She crushed the red petals and dropped them into the mixture. Rusty-scented blood and sweet rose oil infused the air. With another invocation, she dipped her fingers into the bowl and traced a bloody line down the statue’s neck and across her chest. Then she smeared a similar red stripe on her own skin. Blood. Rose. Moonlight. Three nights in a row. And after the third night, it was done. ‘Let’s make a start.’ Martin clapped at the front of the room. ‘Where’s Tamieka?’ Eshe said with a frown. ‘I thought you were mates?’ Martin said. Eshe shrugged. ‘She quit.’ Eshe sighed. ‘I told her it was going to be boring.’ ‘Got some cushy job in Asia somewhere. On a resort, I think. Thailand. Or maybe Bali. Anyway, she’s gone.’ Eshe grumbled to herself. ‘Some bitches have all the luck.’ Madeleine D'Este is a Melbourne-based writer of dark mysteries. Her supernatural mystery novel The Flower and The Serpent was nominated for the Australian Shadow Award for Best Novel 2019, and her Australian gothic novella Radcliffe was released by Deadset Press in August 2023. Find Madeleine at www.madeleinedeste.com

In the center of Old Town, where the ruins of Quevdo are located, there’s a top that’s been spinning for as long as anyone can remember. The question is this: how are any of us to know whether its movement will continue indefinitely on, or if it simply received such powerful initial force that it will only stop spinning once the last of us has passed? My name is Juan Liber Brön. I am one of thirty-seven inhabitants in the town of New Quevdo. None of us speak the same language, though those who write all use the same script(1). We are not all human, not in the old sense. What that word used to mean (what we gather it to mean from older documents) is not what it means now(2). I’m in pain. All of us are(3). Most are dying. Slowly. Parts and pieces falling off at whatever interval suits them best. Here. There. Most try to keep hold of these tchotchkes as they do. __________________________ 1 The one you, my beautiful reader, are deciphering now. 2 There are drawings in some of the books we’ve found, drawings of old humans: two arms, two legs, a loving symmetry to their structure, one nose, tussles of tangled skin atop their skulls, knotted like string… Some of us resemble these drawings, if you look hard enough, but most don’t. I know for certain that only one has what you would call ‘toes.’ And even then just two. 3 The reason I write to you, dear reader, from the past, is that you are the only audience who exists. No one here understands my meaning, and though I’m considered an optimist amongst my people, even I acknowledge that we will be the last of creatures to crawl on this earth. (We’ve found that after about a week you have enough for a meal.) And though we have no language—the reason for which must now be obvious(4)—the people of New Quevdo do not lack culture. (Even the dying revere tradition.) So, when The Urge is felt, we gather up our fallen bits and cook them together over an open fire (for the broth we use our urine, the only liquid left acidic enough to soften our flesh); and while the meat boils, we thirty-seven gather ‘round the fire to hold ourselves as best we can. We sing and dance in a way no one from past times would recognize; but though most lost the ability to hear long ago, or never had it to begin with, in those moments we all feel(5) warmth. Nothing more. Our pain does not stop. It spins on like the top. But there, sitting around my fellow shards, eating them as I open my one eye cautiously to watch them eat me, I am almost able to bear the fact of my own existence. __________________________ 4 None of us any longer are constructed in a way similar enough to allow for common meaning. And our sensory organs, too, are always shifting. I myself have no nose or tongue. My eye works only sporadically. (I’ve gotten used to keeping it closed.) It is for this that even language in signs would be pointless, since the endless configuration of fingers and appendages on our haphazard torsos has refused every attempt at standardization. 5 I know this: though of course we cannot speak, this I know to be true) L. A. Ballesteros Gentile is a musician, writer, and actor. You can find their work in Progenitor Art and Literary Journal, Pipeline Artists, and Blue Marble Review.

entry #1 - november 29th she has been following me, Journal. when I turn my head I can sometimes catch a glimpse of her. I don't know what she wants. I don't know if I want to know. my watch reads 9:02 A.M. entry #2 - december 1st the garden is far too gone, I don't even know where to start. the dirt has cracked, my lemon tree has soured. even the worms have left. the ivy has claimed everything as its own, and weeds reign supreme. I'm sorry. I remember when it was better. she watches me from the brick wall. silent, save for the flutter of wings. I kneel and weep, cradling the dry earth. entry #3 - december 3rd she follows while I walk, keen eyes on every move. she does not dare to creep too close; I do not dare to stop her. we continue our dance, the moon orbiting the Earth. the wind is whispering secrets through the trees in a language I recognize yet cannot understand. she parrots them back at me from a distance still. my watch reads 12:01 P.M. entry #4 - december 6th my mother visited today. remarked dryly on the dust covering the piano, the tables, the stove. only I see the small footprints trailing across them, the pointed eyes watching from a high perch. something unhappy squirms inside me. there’s a clock on the wall above the couch. it reads 3:37 P.M. entry #5 - december 8th all my plates were shattered. I don't know if it was her or I who did it. how long has she been here? the clock reads 3:37 P.M. entry #6 - december 11th I remember a cool morning on the porch, tea in hand. I could see my breath with every exhale. she sang me her borrowed songs from her place among the corn stalks, standing proudly in their bold youthfulness. the garden was green, I think. entry #7 - december 16th I’ve been trying to keep my eyes closed more often. maybe if I can’t see her, she can’t see me. entry #8 - december 19th I keep finding feathers when I sweep the floors. the clock reads 3:37 P.M. I feel trapped. entry #9 - december 22nd she follows me everywhere, like a tick stuck to the side of a stray dog. what does she know? my head hurts, Journal. I want a break. entry #10 - december 30th I pleaded with her today. begged her to stop watching. I feel that I’ve shattered a balance that I wasn’t meant to touch, brutalized a fragile vase with my hammer of a self. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. she’s gone. it’s too quiet. please come back. there’s a dent in the wall where I threw a book. I was an idiot. the tide has receded now, and I am terrified of when it will surge back to me again. the clock reads 3:37 P.M. entry #11 - january 3rd she’s always been here. as long as I breathe she will be. I recall oil paintings, long tucked away in locked closets. mockingbird resplendent. entry #12 - january 5th I want nothing more than to sink my teeth into her flesh. tear away feathers and skin, crush hollow bones underneath sick hands. warm blood to wash away the rot deep inside me. the clock reads 3:37 P.M. entry #13 - january 6th there are shards of ceramic under my nails. embedded in my palms and the soles of my feet. the chilled, unsympathetic tile of the kitchen floor soothes me. the clock reads 3:37 P.M. entry #14 - january 10th she is back. I don’t think she was ever gone. there is a cold peace inside me. the wind is whispering again. I’ve begun to understand their secrets, I think. she’s been perched at the foot of my bed. wary but understanding. no longer does she linger solely in the corner of my eyes. I haven’t stopped sobbing. entry #15 - january 11th I apologized. I pray she will accept it. I sat out on the porch too long listening to the wind. the wood is old, it creaks at every touch. my hands and knees ache as I write this. the heat of summer has long gone, and each night brings a sharper chill. my watch says it is 3:37 A.M., and she is sitting on the windowsill while I write. entry #16 - january 13th she spends so much time watching the clock, as if it confounds her. Journal, I found old boxes today. I’ve always been a collector of bits and bobs. in one of them, nestled between half of a wasp’s nest and several small shells, I found a set of feathers. pristine, soft, grey and white and black. identical to hers. entry #17 - january 14th we shared blackberries today, and I remembered why the garden was ever green. she chirped at me, my lips are stained purple, and I hope that is forgiveness. scabs have formed on my hands and feet, I’m trying to leave them be. she still watches me. entry #18 - january 16th I don’t know how long I was in the garden. the clock has been lying to me. since when did I have a clock? she watched me as I tore the weeds from the ground, ripped ivy and fig from their grasp on the shed and the trees. I don’t know when my hands began to bleed again. don’t really care. she contemplates me, almost. watches tirelessly, at a forlorn king tending to his desolate kingdom with a loving touch he no longer knows how to use. I will sleep now. I will try again tomorrow. slower, this time. entry #19 - january 17th too tired. entry #20 - january 18th still tired. my body is filled with a deep ache. I am a cavern. the clock reads 3:37 P.M. entry #22 - january 19th it’s still early morning. the wind nips but I know it is meant affectionately. I am in the garden. she is not with me and there is a light on in the house. she must be resting still. I know she watches me though. I am softer today. entry #23 - january 20th my blood is an act of love, the garden knows it. I have meticulously removed the trash and the barren remains of long-dead plants. I am sat here now, Journal, to tell you of something beautiful. my mint lives on, with a will and strength I envy. little sweet-smelling sprouts wave in a lazy breeze, and I in turn whispered to the plants the secrets I was taught from the wind. she watches on, small feet clicking on the brick. the company is soothing. entry #24 - january 27th I was digging today– I want to put in a mango tree. I found a skeleton. it looks to be of a small bird, but I recognize it as my own. entry #25 - february 4th I am still thinking about the skeleton. entry #26 - february 9th I can’t seem to find the box with the feathers I mentioned, Journal. I feel off-kilter. entry #27 - february 11th I feel fragile today. I opened the piano’s lid today, hands still healing and still aching. playing it is a muscle memory, I slip back into it like a well-fitted glove. she likes the music, as far as I can tell. she darts back and forth through the room while I play. I lit the stove, ate at the table. my shoulders feel lighter. I will visit an auntie tomorrow, I’ve decided. I want to plant again this spring. entry #28 - february 12th I am home, with seed corn and beans and squash and six jars of pumpkin puree that my auntie insisted I take. I feel warm. when did I ever stop reaching out to people? auntie told me to call again soon, and I think I will. she told me I ought to keep a journal. isn’t that funny? that’s why I have you, Journal. entry #29 - february 17th I fixed the clock today. at least I think I did? I don’t know if it was broken. but it seems to be working right. the clock and my watch read 11:15 A.M. she has taken her eyes off of me, but only to preen. entry #30 - march 30th oh Journal, I am so sorry for leaving you be so long. I’ve been caught up in life, and I left you behind without meaning to. I’ve spent many evenings with family lately. there is a beading workshop next weekend I plan to attend with my cousin. she comes with me of course. and watches. I don’t think I mind as much though. entry #31 - april 3rd she sat in my hands today. I held my breath the entire time, scared of ruining something so beautiful. the clock reads 3:37 P.M. entry #32 - april 15th every day I go into the garden now. I’ve been tilling the ground, preparing it for the season ahead. sometimes I lay out there on the grass and do nothing else for hours. just her and me. entry #33 - april 17th she still watches me. however, it is never silently anymore. she trills and chirps and barks and warbles and sings all the stories she has learned. I planted the corn in their mounds today– yes, a tad bit early. I know. I was so excited though. the wind doesn’t visit as often now, but I always pass on its words. entry #34 - april 19th the scabs on my hands and feet have long since healed, some leaving shiny little scars. I finally ordered new plates too. no more eating everything out of bowls. I splurged a little, got bone china. don’t think I ever want ceramic plates again. I’ve gotten specific bowls for her to use too. thought I might as well. I caught my own eye in the mirror. I am wearing my great-grandmother’s earrings, worn brass. she is perched on the clock behind me. it reads 3:38 P.M. entry #35 - april 21st she’s begun watching from a distance again. not out of any unkindness, I don’t think. I miss the closeness though. entry #36 - may 2nd the corn has sprouted. it is beautiful. the beans and squash will go in soon. the mint has grown wild and tall. my lemon tree has been blossoming, and honeybees have joined the symphony of the garden. my hair brushes my shoulders now. I think I’ll let it keep growing. entry #37 - may 5th there are certain things that are inseparable, Journal. don’t you think? that includes endings and beginnings. may is abuzz. the mornings are still cold, but the garden is so green. she dances distantly from corn stalk to corn stalk, carried by the occasional wind. they both sing, and I sing back to them, from my own perch on the porch’s chair. I’ve begun making mint tea in the mornings. it’s more of a hand warmer than anything else, but I’ve come to enjoy the taste. I put in lupine and yarrow recently. I am going to check on it now, as I write this. she follows me still. I don’t know what she wants. that’s alright. yadriel v. s. alvarez is a leaf in your hair, an old painting, and the small bird in your electronic device. it is also a transsexual indigenous poet and photographer with a deep love for the world in its heart. it is new to sharing work publicly, but can be found on twitter as @choraldroning.

We cocooned ourselves in our sleeping bags, still high from the marshmallows and campfire smoke, seeking warmth from polyester fiber filling and the nearness of our bodies, and I saw your eyes widen as you experienced a darkness you’ve never known, heard a quiet murmuration in the safety of our tent, a humid womb, empty and full, pulsating with fear and wonder while the unknown lurked just beyond the thin walls. I can’t sleep, you whispered, so I sang to you, trying to harmonize with the crickets and the wind and the shushing of the trees, our isolation so fragile, so momentary, and when night finally receded, I liquified into memory while you emerged into the dewy morning, spread your wings, and searched for the bloom of life. Elena Zhang is a freelance writer and mother living in Chicago. Her work can be found in HAD, Bending Genres, Exposition Review, and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter @ezhang77

Early mornings the birds were hungry and bold. The ibises landed on the netting above the flamingo pond and dipped their curved beaks through the gaps to snatch minnows from the water below. The flamingos had been moved to the gift shop, cleaned out, and temporarily retrofitted at the behest of a wealthy donor who had sent the Foundation a six-page letter (attached to a substantial check) calling them the ‘scurge [sic] of the earth’ and ‘shit-dirt-sucking snobs’ for effectively condemning the flamingos to a sentence of death by bird flu. There was no space to move them before, but now, thanks to the generosity of one big-hearted donor, the flamingos were unhappily pacing their makeshift habitat looking for a way out. On her drive to work, with a half-piece of toast in a dog’s soft hold in her mouth, Luisa’s filling had suddenly come apart. She was left with a black crater in her molar but no pain, at first. She made it to work in time to start morning rounds of food and medicine while the owner, Mike, was still there to witness her punctuality. It was only her second week on duty with the birds, and she hated it. She took the job because she thought she’d get to work with the alligators, and she had, until the flu. The alligators had been sent off to Tampa, the manatee to Kissimmee, the turtles to Orlando and tortoise to the Keys. The butterfly collection was held back at the Center, not because there was any credible risk posed by the virus, but because so many members tweeted their concerns it was just easier to keep them with the birds. Everything was temporary, until the birds could be allowed back outside, but it was hard to remember that when she was standing in the echo chamber of the Old Reptile House with 107 of them squawking for vitamin pellets. Luisa had begun plotting her escape before she knew what she was doing, skipping lunches so she could transfer a few extra dollars into savings at the end of each week. There was a gator camp in Louisiana that hired a fresh crop every August before the eggs started hatching, if she could get out there in time. Some birds, it was obvious why they were chosen for inside or outside. The bald eagles were inside, and so were the litter of endangered Hoffs warblers they planned to release to the wild, whose sweet, aerated song was often the only pleasant sound Luisa could find among the din. The peacocks were outside, though the real reason for this went unspoken: no one was brave enough to wrangle them. The Center was closed to visitors but they still walked over from the beach and peered through the fence most days. As Luisa made a minor repair to the netting around the stork habitat where more ibises had torn at the weak spots looking for an easy meal, a family walked up and watched her work. The mother explained to her daughter that the Canadian geese in the park at home were, like all off-season geese, stranded after having become too heavy eating off the American food chain to fly back north. Luisa didn’t know if this was true but it sounded true enough. “We’re closed,” she offered through the fence. “Bird flu.” She didn’t tell them they couldn’t stand around outside but she hoped that’s what they heard. She winced at a sharp twinge in her jaw and felt a sudden desire to be as alone as possible. On her way to the Reptile House, Luisa got a text from Mike. Warblers have to be segregated. Put them in travel cages in auditorium mens room. Something perm later. Can you let Biscuit out thanks. Luisa wrote back, ??? Report in email It turned out that the first generation of Hoffs warblers released back to their native islands were doing terribly. In the Center, surrounded as they were, their songs had taken on the wrong inflections, and in the wild they couldn’t find mates. Luisa coaxed each of the tiny birds into a cage and walked them two by two down through the sunken auditorium to the abandoned men’s room behind the stage. The bathroom tile amplified their cries so that the sweet cacophony of duress followed Luisa all the way back up the theater steps until she closed the auditorium door behind her. Before continuing her rounds, Luisa headed toward the office for the dog. The only upside to the flu situation was, now that the park was closed and they could let Biscuit out, he was an entirely different dog than the nightmare Luisa had met on her first day. Apparently, when Mike adopted the chihuahua he’d imagined the dog would roam free, greeting guests and comforting the kids scared of the toothier, scalier creatures behind the glass. Biscuit had proven too stupid for this job. Biscuit knew no enemies, nor danger, and was small enough to squeeze beneath the fence around the alligator exhibit, which he did several times before being sequestered to a small round bed in the office. All that time cooped up inside made him irritable and nervous, prone to keen at every sound with wet goldfish eyes that looked ready to burst, and Luisa had once overheard Mike fretting on the phone about whether it would be better to give up the dog, which he treated like a child, to a happier home. Now that Biscuit got several hours of outside time each day, he was all peace and love, and Mike had seemed to gain some inner sense of equilibrium that made him a little easier to work for. Biscuit greeted Luisa at the door and waited patiently by his leash, smiling serenely at the wall, while Luisa went to the back of the office, retrieved the first aid kit from beneath the sink, and dug through the little packets until she found the Orajel. The packet contained enough numbing gel for at least three or four uses, so she opened it carefully and squeezed a pea-sized glob onto her fingertip. In front of the mirror, she found the bad tooth and gasped as her finger made contact. Within seconds she felt some relief. Her jaw relaxed. The tension had been spreading through her whole face, and she hadn’t realized how much pain she’d been in until it started to dissipate. Now that she finally had a close-up view, she started to worry. She tucked the Orajel into her shirt pocket, crossed over to the other side of the office, and pulled down the Benefits binder from the HR shelf. Her dental was finally active, but she’d had no intention of using it so soon and didn’t know if her coverage was good or bad or what. She thumbed through the binder until she found the dental plan documents and did some math on her phone. With coverage, a root canal and crown would eat up three months of savings. Having the tooth pulled would set her back eight weeks, and she assumed under present conditions she would never be able to afford an implant to close the gap. Luisa slammed the binder shut. Biscuit turned away from the wall and trotted over to her. He sat at her feet and gazed lovingly at the carpet. “Okay Biscuit,” she said. “Let’s go.” She put on his leash just in case and headed back out to finish rounds at the Reptile House. Biscuit sprang out ahead and beelined towards the alligator enclosure, but lost interest when he found it still empty. Luisa dawdled behind, thinking of the time her Uncle Tim babysat over a long weekend her parents were away for a wedding. She’d been six and a half, and her front tooth had been loose for what seemed like an eternity. When Uncle Tim noticed, he told her he’d give her $10 if she’d let him help. He tied a string around her tooth, attached the other end to the heavy oak door, and that was all Luisa remembered. Her parents had been furious. She kept the bloody string for months and would stay up past her bedtime to suck on it in the closet, willing it to take her back to that moment of oblivion. “It’s a daaaaaawwwg!” As soon as Luisa heard the child’s high-pitched voice she turned around. “We’re CLOSED. WE’RE CLOSED. Haven’t you heard of the bird flu? WE’RE. CLOSED.” The kid started to cry, and the sound was a hot nail in Luisa’s jaw. She turned away from the fence to pull the Orajel out in privacy and squirted it directly into her mouth. As soon as her pain faded she was mortified that she’d yelled. She sat on a bench by the picnic lawn and checked her phone. Mike wouldn’t be back until lunchtime and the cleaning crew never arrived before three. Nearly all the staff had been furloughed when they closed to visitors, so Luisa spent most of her shifts alone with the birds and Biscuit. The chihuahua came running out from under the bench, something silver flashing in his mouth. “Biscuit?“ Luisa called, her sudden interest confirming the dog’s hunch that it had found something valuable. It picked up speed and hummed off like a tiny beetle across the grass. Luisa slowed her approach and tried to adopt a posture of nonchalance and total indifference to the dog, which had stopped at the edge of the lawn to inspect its spoils. She tried his name again, this time raising her pitch and softening her voice like she held something sweet and warm in her hand just for him. “Biscuit!” As stupid as he was, he wouldn’t be fooled by a change of tone. He ran a few feet to the left and settled back down to resume licking the Orajel packet. His leash had come to rest behind him, where Luisa couldn’t grab it. If she could come at him from the other side, she could pin the leash with her foot and stop him from running, but Biscuit had closed in on the fence. This edge of the park bordered the grim, brackish estuary Luisa grew up calling Colon Firth for its persistent resemblance to toilet runoff. When the facility was built, the fence had been six feet from the bank of mangroves that stood high above the water; sixty years later the mangroves have grown into the fencing and each quarter the landscapers chop off buckets of new growth pushing in through the gaps. Biscuit had found a puddle of shade beneath the towering trees and was completely engaged with the packet of sweet numbing gel. His trembling eyes narrowed to ecstatic filaments and his little pink tongue grew looser and sloppier by the second. A hard-to-place sound sent Luisa’s head spinning. Everything was still in the moment it took to scan her surroundings. It wasn’t until her gaze returned to Biscuit that the knot of plastic scraps wafted down from the treetops and landed a few feet from the dog, dislodging two tiny pink eggs. Biscuit stood and took two halting steps towards the scavenger’s nest, forgetting the packet of Orajel and entirely missing the growing shadow closing in on him from above. Luisa had never seen a heron that large. Instinctively, she stepped toward the dog, but she balked as the heron’s dead blue eye crossed her gaze. Biscuit had just enough time to whimper and start to the left before the heron made purchase on his leash and, pulling it taut, silenced the little dog and hoisted it into the trees. Now, Luisa could see the spot where the bird had been biding its time. Meghan Ritchie's fiction has appeared in the Rathalla Review, surely mag, and the PS Reader, and has been supported by the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop. She lives in Berkeley, California and is a graduate of Sarah Lawrence College.

Content Warning: Suicide/Death 13th of October 1989 was the day mum vacuumed the Lego. I remember the date, because it was the day after Kyle’s 6th birthday. I remember his face, distorted by distress, his cheeks drenched with tears as he saw the long-coveted little pieces disappearing up the black nozzle. I remember her face, crumpled with fury while she went through the room, yelling about the mess. We didn’t realise then that she was having a breakdown. We were used to her bouts of excessive reactions, her abuse, her constant taunting. By the time we’d put two and two together, she was already cold, leaving us as helpless as she’d felt. Life went on for us. “She should have left a note,” said Kyle, a few years later, out of the blue. “To say what?” “I don’t know. To explain, to apologise.” We grew up, moved out, moved on. Got partners and children. Lanky boys looking like we did, bar the pudding bowl hairstyles, bar the withdrawn looks of children told one time too many that they’re nothing but a burden. We’re close, we always have been. We’re surprisingly happy. We even manage to talk about it sometimes, generally after a few drinks. I joke that Kyle has the perfect excuse never to vacuum and he laughs. We find him dead in his car on 4th of April 2018. I remember the date, because, well, why wouldn’t I? He’s locked in his car, slumped over the wheel, a pen and blank sheet of paper by his side. B F Jones is French and lives in the UK with her husband, 3 kids and 3 cats. She is an editor at Punk Noir magazine and the author of two poetry collections,  Five Years and The Edge of Nowhere, and one collection of interlinked flash stories, Something happened at 2 am. Her next flash collection, Nobody thought to look under the floorboards, will be out in 2024.

When they thought I had breast cancer, my grandmother worked a bare-handed half-acre to plant a meditation garden. Roses, mostly, antique tea roses with a scent she vowed would cure me, whatever I had. I wondered what the scent of rose was other than rose. For weeks when we didn’t know if some dark ruin had rooted itself in me, Nana dug, seeded, tilled, staked, watered: her invocation to deity. I marveled that the domesticated field appeared to turn itself over every night, so each sun filled the rose-roots of rows of white, pink, scarlet, and peach. The god, Nana said, that most prayed to deserted her sixty years ago, taking parents, a sister, three brothers, in-laws, and a nearly-born son to a land she knew was just a place in a story. So she planted. One garden bred another, then two, then a tiered sloping distance beyond rose to lilac, iris, peony, phlox, and lavender. No supernatural overseer in that valley; only the flowers asserted possible ways to thrive: vivid serrated leaves, suede buds, deep and heady scents of chilled apple, pear, and lemon soaked in rosewater. I was 14, and when tests came back negative, we daily rambled the plush triumph of flowers, and she would grasp my hand in her impossibly soft one, exquisite dirt nestled under each ridged and indestructible nail. Alexandra Burack is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet, editor, and author of On the Verge (Plinth Books). Her recent work has appeared in The Sewanee Review, The Blue Mountain Review, Ink & Marrow, FreezeRay Poetry, $ Poetry is Currency, and Poetica Magazine, and is forthcoming in Broad River Review. She serves as a Poetry Reader for The Los Angeles Review, and is Adjunct Professor of Creative Writing at Chandler-Gilbert Community College (AZ).

After disco. Before AIDS. There was Joe. Joe wasn’t a model though he could have been. Northern Italian, he looked more Austria than Mafia but most took him for an Indian. I met him at a U2 gig down at Toad’s Place in New Haven. Didn’t see much of the show. Too many tequila shots during the warm-up band had given me the spins. I stumbled to the toilet but only made it as far as the coat pile in back where I swanned onto the leather mountain. “Hey, you okay?” I mumble-grumbled something as the three of him sat next to me, coat pile shifting like a bag of puppies. “Here, drink this,” he said and held something cool to my mouth. The glass against my cheek comforted like cold bathroom tiles. “bleurblahmumblugh,” I said which roughly translated into—fuck off, I’m going to piss myself. He laughed, lifted me in his big, strong arms and carried me into the bathroom. Waited in line despite sharp looks from safety-pinned faces; put me on the toilet; let me do my business, then carried me out again. Somewhere in a fog, I heard my roommate, Lisa, tell him to sling me into her El Camino and something wet, I assumed lips, smacking my cheek. I woke, alone in my own bed, a piece of paper drool-plastered to my face. I peeled it off. Stared at the number on it for a minute or ten but couldn’t, for the life of me, remember who the fuck Joe was. Lisa had the afternoon shift at Denny’s and was in the kitchen making coffee. I shoveled a glass out of the pile in the sink, gave it a quick rinse and drank as much water as I could. I sat at the Formica table my uncle had dug out of his garage when Lisa and I moved here— our first apartment out of high school. “Did we meet someone named Joe last night?” I said, pawing the ashtray for any butts long enough to light. She laughed and fanned herself with a Bud Light coaster. “You did, you lucky bitch.” She stared at the paper in my hand. “If you don’t want him, I’ll take him.” Two seconds away from handing her the number with Lisa’s eyes lit up like the fourth of July, I remembered I had the day off with nothing better to do. So, I picked up the phone instead. “Hope he’s not an asshole,” Lisa said as she headed to work. Joe lived two towns up the coast in West Haven. Within an hour, he was knocking at the door. We went for fried clams at Stowe’s, then walked to the end of the pier. It was high tide and dark water spanked the pilings. “Let’s jump in,” I said. He sniffed. “The water’s no good.” “We swim in Milford. All the time.” True, but years ago. Before Jacey Miller jumped off Woodmont Pier into shallow water and broke her neck on a sand bar. “West Haven isn’t Milford. All the shit from New Haven runs down here.” I thought of Jacey in her wheelchair; the baby bib she wore to catch the drool. How she begged people to kill her. Still, you can’t be afraid of living because of someone else’s bad luck. I elbowed him in the side. “Chicken shit.” He laughed. “Yeah.” We went to a gig at Brothers Three, an Italian restaurant that made side-money after hours as a punk club. I drank water this time and sweat it out in puddles. We slammed against each other all heat and smoke and slippy-sloppy skin and for the first time, I actually wanted to fuck instead of just doing it for the guy. He took me home and we made out in his Dodge Challenger. I squirmed all over the front seat but he refused to come up to my apartment. “Let’s wait,” he said. “I like you.” Next day, he picked me up at Denny’s after my shift. “I hate this uniform,” I said as I changed in the back seat. “I should have stayed in college.” “College teaches you nothing,” he said. I laughed. “And waitressing does?” He watched me struggle with my buttons. “It teaches you to want something better.” As I pulled my smock over my head, I thought of middle-aged Mary, skin greyer than her hair. How life had run out of her somewhere on a graveyard shift. “Or to give up,” I said, sitting there in my bra and panties. Our eyes met in the rear-view mirror. Neither of us looked away. After that, we were together every day. Mostly, we went to gigs. It was 1981 and the sounds came hard and fast. Joe loved turning me onto new bands and we’d drive into the city whenever we could to catch the big acts. It was exciting to be alive and living and I was falling hard for the big man at my side but nothing between us changed until the New Order gig at the Ukrainian Ballroom. It was the first time they’d toured following the death of Ian Curtis and the renaming of the band from Joy Division. The crowd was silent, the band in a cloud of smoke, building slow to Everything’s Gone Green. Bernard Summers started singing and it was all heartbreak. Something made me look up at Joe. Shadows play tricks but there was no mistaking the solitary tear running from his eye like the Indian in the Keep America Beautiful commercial. I touched his face and he hesitated before turning. My eyes were all—what is it, Joe? But I said nothing, just held his hand and let the music do its thing. It was somewhere between late and early when we drove home and I-95 was clear except for sporadic truckers. Head on his shoulder, I watched the lights and listened to the slow tide of Joe’s breathing. “Do you know how Ian Curtis died?” he said out of nowhere. “Killed himself, didn’t he?” “They say he stood on a massive block of ice with a rope tied around his neck. When the ice melted enough, he hanged.” I shuddered. “That’s some commitment.” “I guess he’d had enough.” “Enough of what?” Curtis had epilepsy, but millions of people managed it without killing themselves. “Enough of the same old shit.” Joe reached into the glove compartment and pulled out one of the mixed tapes he loved making. He shoved it in the cassette player and Joy Division filled the night. He stopped at the next rest stop, cut the engine and the lights. Trucks rumbled past on the interstate but the rest stop was deserted. He kept his hands on the steering wheel until Disorder’s throbbing chords began. He shifted then. Looked at me like he was lost and only I could save him. Slid his big hand with its long fingers through my hair. Cupped my head and pulled me in. Mumbled something against my throat, my chest, my stomach. Slid my clothes off and himself inside. “I love you, Joe,” I whispered too quiet for him to hear. But he knew. He knew. # Joe drove a truck for his old man. I’d never been in the cab of a truck and thought it would be fun to tag along for the day. “It’s not very comfortable,” he said, trying to dissuade me and he was right but I didn’t care. I was nineteen and could bend my long legs at odd angles so shoveled them under the bulbous dash without complaint. He put a tape in the player, then the truck in gear. “Who’s this?” I said, turning it up, the sound all echoes and angst. “The Teardrop Explodes. They’re from Liverpool.” “Like the Beatles,” I said. “Nothing like them.” “Just like the city is nothing like the state.” I said, snow flurries splattering on the window like tiny bombs. When you grew up in Connecticut, New York always meant the city. Upstate was just an extension of New England and in winter that meant dead things and snow. It was a long drive and my legs were cramped by the time we passed security at the gate and drove down the long, manicured drive to the hospital. I wanted nothing more than to stretch my legs while Joe unloaded the delivery. “Don’t get out of the truck,” he said as he backed into the loading bay. He wore sunglasses against the snow glare so I couldn’t read if he was serious or not. I looked around. There was nothing but a bunch of Christmas trees festooned with snow. “Come on, my legs are killing me.” “Don’t. It’s dangerous.” I laughed. “I mean it, Sarah. Don’t let appearances fool you. This is a high security, mental hospital. “Aren’t they locked up?” “The most dangerous are but still, stay in the truck.” I could hear him talking to some fellas and unloading, but after a while everything went quiet. Snow began to pile on the windscreen and the cab went coffin-like. I stared at the door handle. Was reminded of the time I was six and the babysitter told me not to open the front door because her puppy would run into traffic and get killed. How I knew what would happen but twisted the doorknob anyway and the dog bolted—the screeching brakes, the thump. The poor thing crawling back up the stairs at my feet. They had to shoot it. I looked around. There was no one or nothing and I had to piss. I put my hand on the door handle. A face appeared at the window. I screamed bloody murder but it didn’t go away, just grinned. It could have been a woman but the mad hair and Invasion of the Body Snatcher eyes made it hard to tell—her pupils were tiny as a pinprick and just as sharp. She jangled the handle. Pulled as I struggled to hold it closed. I was losing ground and starting to panic when Joe and a few other fellas pulled her away, kicking and cackling like a witch. “Christ, that was scary,” I said as Joe climbed into the cab and locked the doors. I lit a cigarette with trembling hands. “Her eyes. What the fuck was wrong with her eyes, Joe?” “It’s the drugs,” he said. “Drugs? What kind of drugs do that to your eyes?” “The strongest ones.” He lowered his sunglasses and turned to me. It was only for a second but that’s all it took. The ink of his pupils had constricted to a black hole. “What did you do, Joe?” He wouldn’t answer. Not until we stopped at a truck stop just over the state line. We sat across from each other in the diner. He flipped the levers of the table-top jukebox while we waited for my food and Joe’s coffee. “Nothing but shit,” he said. I stared at him. Waited. “I’m a heroin addict,” he said like telling me the time of day. “What?” “Heroin. I take heroin.” Heroin was only something in the movies. “I don’t believe you.” He looked around, shrugged off his leather and rolled up his sleeve. “See these?” He pointed at some red, angry looking dots that I’d always thought were infected mosquito or flea bites. “That’s where I stick the needle in.” I rubbed my finger over the angry holes, willing them to vanish. The waitress came over with the coffee pot. Joe jerked away and rolled down his sleeves. “How long?” I said once the waitress left. Working at a truck stop, she’d probably seen everything there was to see and had taken no notice of Joe. “Not long, I tried it for the first time a few weeks ago.” “Stop.” “I can’t.” His hands twitched as he lit a cigarette. He wouldn’t look at me. “I don’t want to.” The diner shrunk and stilled. “Why? What’s it like?” His eyes went all far-away. “It’s the best feeling in the world. Better than sex. Better than anything.” I winced at that. “I want to try it.” He looked at me then. Stared me straight in the eye. “No.” “Why not? If it’s the best feeling ever…let me see what it’s like. Just once.” But it was more than that. It was jealousy pure and simple. “Not even once.” “But...” “No.” He slammed his hand on the table right next to mine. A few of the truckers looked over but as long as he wasn’t beating me, they were going to mind their own business. His fingers crawled over, took mine in his. “I love you, Sarah.” The words came slow as if each one brought him closer to a trapdoor. “Promise me one thing.” My heart paused while my mind raced. I wanted to go to a club, dance like a lunatic then fuck him clean. “Anything,” I said. “You’ll never try it.” I took his hand. Stilled it. Nodded. # It was a long winter. Joe and I still saw each other but not every day. He had excuses but I knew the score. By spring, he had stopped working and spent most of his time in the darkness of his parents’ basement or in New Haven with some junkie friends. If junkies ever had friends. It wasn’t long before he started borrowing money. I gave it to him. I’d give him whatever he wanted. “Just do one thing for me,” I said. He peered at me over the top of an old, wool blanket. It stank. He stank. He nodded. “Come away with me. We’ll go to Rhode Island. Book into a motel. Get you clean. I know you don’t want to…live…like this.” He looked away. “I can’t.” Can’t or won’t? I crouched next to him. Stroked his greasy stubble. Coaxed his chin towards me. “Do you love me, Joe?” “I love it more.” That hurt. I couldn’t understand and looking at him—shivering under the blanket, eyes glazed, cheekbones sharp as granite and just as grey—I didn’t want to. I wouldn’t give up on him though. It took some time but I finally convinced him. It was then I knew he really loved me—when he would at least try to be right for me. “Leave the stuff behind.” He nodded. “It’s okay, I’ve nothing left, anyways.” Two or three days was all it would take. We found a cheap motel off I-95 and crawled into bed. Cool Hand Luke was on the television with Paul Newman shoveling boiled eggs into his mouth. I held Joe in my arms and tried to stop his shivering. “I’m gonna be sick,” he said. I helped him to the toilet just like he’d helped me the night we’d met. Put my cool hand on his hot neck. Wiped his ass when he couldn’t hold his hand still enough to do it himself. “I gotta go back,” he said when I got him into bed again. “Not yet. The worst is over. If you made it this far, you’ll make it all the way.” We didn’t even make it the night. I drove while Joe curled up into himself next to me. “Hurry, Sarah, hurry.” The words drooled from his mouth while he sweat and shook. I went as fast as I could but it wasn’t fast enough. He started shouting, mumbling things I couldn’t understand. “Joe, you’re scaring me.” He started laughing, crazy like. “You don’t know what scared is and I hope you never will.” I dropped him at a friend’s house in New Haven. The door opened and swallowed Joe whole. # A month later, the lease on our apartment was up. When Lisa said she was moving back in with her folks to save money, I knew it was time to move on. I needed to get away. Far away. California sounded good. I hadn’t seen Joe since that night in Rhode Island. I tried calling him a few times but he never answered. I tried one last time. Still, no answer. This time, I left a message. Told him I was leaving and when. I didn’t expect to see him at the train station but there he was, sitting on the bench, waiting. He looked good. Skinny but good. I ran to him, threw my arms around his neck. Kissed him quick, then slow. He kissed me back. Wrapped me in his arms and squeezed. Hope pulled me away from him. “Come with me,” I said. He smiled. “I can’t.” “Please.” Tears ran down both our faces. “Please, Joe.” He handed me a box wrapped in green paper and kissed me one last time before walking away. I ran after him, grabbed his once strong arm, now thin and brittle like a broken promise. “I’ll stay. We’ll get a place together, you and me. I’ll take care of you.” He put his hand on my cheek and smiled. “Get on that train, Sarah. Get far away from here and me. Live a life for both of us.” I watched him go. He got in his car but didn’t start it. He sat, hands clutching the steering wheel and stared at me until the train whistle called. I walked backwards towards the platform, mouthing, please the whole way. The pain in his eyes was plain as his addiction. He knew. Knew I wouldn’t get on that train. He started the car and drove off, giving me no choice but to go on without him. It was just over three days to California and I didn’t stop crying until the second. It was then I felt strong enough to open the box. In it was a mixed tape labelled Dark Wave with songs from every gig we’d ever gone to. I stuck it in my Sony Walkman and pressed play. “I love you, Sarah,” was the only thing I heard. Barbara Byar started off in Connecticut; moved around a bit but now lives in Kerry, Ireland with her two boys and her two rescue dogs. She is working class and hearing impaired but lets neither get in her way. A recipient of a 2023 Agility Award and a 2021 Literature Bursary from the Irish Arts Council, she was short-listed for An Post Irish Short Story of the Year 2023. A previous Irish Writers’ Centre Novel Fair winner, her critically acclaimed, debut flash fiction collection: Some Days Are Better Than Ours (Reflex Press) was short-listed for the 2020 Saboteur Awards. 2020 also saw Pushcart and Best Small Fictions nominations. Barbara’s short fiction has been widely published and listed, most recently, a 2022 3rd prize at the Bray Literary Festival and a 2022 Best Microfictions nomination from Reckon Review. Barbara is a Fiction Editor for Variant Literature Magazine and Editor of Motel, a forthcoming anthology from Cowboy Jamboree Press.

You open the door and step inside. Across the room, an old lady sits behind a large desk. Unlike the concrete columns and open air of the foyer thirty floors down, the office is claustrophobic and the fluorescent lights overhead immediately begin to give you a headache. The woman beckons you forward. In the floor-to-ceiling mirror behind her, you watch yourself cross the office, clutching onto your resume, looking nervously from side to side at the yellowed posters of entertainers and magicians from Las Vegas yesteryear. “Sit down, sit down,” the woman tells you. A nasally voice, an accent that seems out of time. You do as you are told. “I am Miss Florsheim,” she says. “Like the shoes.” She has Coke bottle glasses and a hairstyle decades out of date. In the mirror, you see the door swing closed behind you. You tell the old woman that you saw the ad in the paper. You slide your resume across the desk. She pushes it to the side and says, “I need to ask you some questions to see if you’re the right girl for the job.” The questions she proceeds to ask strike you as odd for a job interview—your hopes and dreams, your sleep patterns, your darkest fears—but you have never interviewed in an office before, so you speak from your heart. The old lady writes everything down on a yellow legal pad. Looking at yourself in the mirror, you wonder if someone is watching you from the other side. When you look back at the woman, she is holding a phone to her ear and nodding. You suddenly feel not quite yourself. “Do you have a boyfriend?” Miss Florsheim asks when she puts the phone down. “Husband,” you say. Then, because you have heard it before, you say that you may seem young to be married, but you want to prove them wrong. Like the Chuck Berry song. “What does he do?” she asks. “Your husband, not Chuck Berry.” “Truck driver,” you say. You tell her how he’s long haul, traveling vast distances across the country. He sends you a postcard from each state. You just got one this morning showing the Alamo. “The Alamo,” she repeats. The glare on her thick glasses obscures her eyes and reflects the world back to you. “The job is yours. You are the one.” “Wonderful,” you say. But the fluorescent lights are flickering wildly overhead, a blinding kaleidoscope, and you don’t want the job or even to be in this room any longer. Miss Florsheim gestures to one of the posters on the wall. “That is your new employer,” she says. “Mister Flowers is a great man.” “We used to watch his TV show,” you say. There is not enough air in the room. “Yes, yes, everyone knows him.” But what is little known, she continued, is that his was one of the first families to settle this frontier. Here, in this very desert, they brokered peace and trust with the native peoples. Then, when they gained their friendship, they massacred them to the last man, woman, and child. As their civilization was being decimated, the tribes prayed to their gods for salvation and justice. But even though they had been here for thousands of years, they did not know that they lived in America. There was no one coming to save them. “Jesus,” you say. “Well, that is our history,” she says. “Best to look at it plainly, right? About the job. There will be a probationary period. Thirty days of initiation. For you and your husband.” “My husband?” “He’s hired, too, of course.” “I told you he has a job. Long haul.” “We can discuss the details later. Now, it’s time for you to meet someone. No, no, not Mister Flowers. That will come later. His assistant wants to meet you first. Ah, speak of the devil.” In the mirror, you watch the door open behind you—and when you see what comes through it, you scream. *** It is dark by the time you come home. After being up for 36 hours straight, pushing through the last stretch up I-40 from Texas all the way back to Vegas, you are dead tired. The wind outside is howling as you step inside and close the door. It beats at the door after you. You slip off your shoes and step from the cramped entranceway into the kitchen. Through the open bedroom door, you see your wife asleep in bed. The covers pulled over her head. The sheets rising and falling with her breathing. You wonder how the interview went. She is embarrassed by what she sees as the smallness of her dreams, but when you first met, she was just a cocktail waitress at the casino. Then she moved up to food. Now she is going to work in an office. With the long hours you worked, the two of you were like ships passing in the night. But you see the better days to come. You feel it in your heart the way you can feel the glacial coolness of the linoleum through your socks. The future is an island on the horizon and you are rowing to it. There is a strange smell when you come into the bedroom, but you take off your clothes and slip in beside her. You feel her body heat under the sheets and close your eyes, ready to be washed away on a tide into sleep. The phone on the nightstand rings. You reach over and pick it up, hoping it did not wake your wife. But the voice you hear on the other end is her own. She is saying your name. She can’t seem to say anything else, just your name, which does not leave your ear until you lower the phone and turn to the shape lying next to you in bed. Which turns to meet you. And a voice strange and familiar says, “Well then.” It says, “Shall we begin?” Shane Joaquin Jimenez is the author of the forthcoming thriller novel Bondage (spring 2024). His writing has appeared in the Los Angeles Review of Books, The Greensboro Review, Denver Quarterly, and elsewhere. A native Las Vegan, he now lives in Canada. Check him out at www.shanejoaquinjimenez.com

Rows and rows of black-eyed Beanie Babies stared down from wooden shelves, covering every flat surface, from dresser to nightstand. A hospital bed commanded center stage. Cradling a half dozen Beanies, its lone human occupant stared glassy-eyed at the ceiling. Whether Delia Druthers found these eerie soulless companions comforting was unimportant to her caregiver. Neelam needed the money badly, and Delia was a pleasant old woman, even with her crazy obsession with her stuffed "babies". "Mail, Mrs. D! Your favorite, the Bean-Zine!" she announced brightly to help balance the solemnity of her creepy cabinets of collectibles. Delia turned slightly towards Neelam's voice, a smile cracking through a stoic veneer. "Give it here," her arms reached out like she was about to take a child into her arms. The Beanies she held dropped into her thick blankets. Neelam had been working for Delia for the past month only, newly arrived from India, and this was her first job. While Delia leafed through her Zine, Neelam got to work with the morning ablutions, carefully sponge-bathing her before helping clean her teeth and hair. Once dressed and coiffed, Delia was transferred to her lounger, facing her treasures as if lecturing before a rapt audience. "So, Neelam," said Delia turning to face her, her eyes focused and sharp, "tell me again where your family is?" Neelam watched how her wrinkles furrowed between her silver eyebrows and gathered like pursestrings around her lips as she spoke. "They live in a small village in India, outside Jaipur," answered Neelam, head bowed. She thought about her family, waiting for her to establish herself and sponsor their immigration when possible. The task felt monumental and weighed on her chest, forcing her to take a large breath to steady herself. "You live alone?" asked Delia. Her beady eyes barely blinked as the old lady moistened her dry, cracked lips. She appeared to be breathing more labored, and Neelam had to recall whether Delia had taken her morning medications yet. "Yes," said Neelam with a sigh, remembering to be patient. Repetitive questions were part of working with patients with dementia, and Delia's probing of her personal life felt a little more intimate than Neelam's reserved nature felt comfortable handling. At times she questioned whether Delia was indeed mentally incapacitated, catching her intelligent gaze now and again before it lapsed back to vacant stares. "Mrs. D, tell me about your family?" "God rest their souls, my husband…my son's…son," said Delia tearfully and clung to her Beanies for support. Neelam decided not to pry. This is as far as the topic ever got, but she always felt that there was more behind it. "So, tell me about your favorite Beanie," Neelam asked, changing the subject, which resulted in boring Beanie Baby stories until Delia's mid-morning nap. Neelam picked up the Bean-Zine that had fallen to the floor. It boasted images of the newest Beanies sold, ones no longer produced and the most coveted. The notion that these tiny stuffed toys were worth something was unbelievable. Only in America. According to the prior nurse's aide, Delia was a card-carrying Beanie fanatic. She had been on eBay daily, buying her favorites and spending most of her pension until her last stroke. It was a shocking sign of excess no fur coat or Rolex could ever conjure. While Delia was sleeping, Neelam picked through the plush animals, reading tags, feeling their heft. She approached one Beanie that was sitting askew. Could something so tiny be worth so much? The little monkey nodded in agreement as Neelam lifted it in her hands. Nana, the tag read. Startled, she returned to the Zine where she had just seen Nana's picture with the price of $4,000 next to it. A small ad below referenced a number to call for any interested seller. Sensing Delia stirring, Neelam hid Nana behind a camel and Christmas penguin and began her afternoon meal prep. *** At home, Neelam had time to ruminate on her own growing obsession. She had bought her own Bean-Zine and was looking through it intently. Partially trained in medicine but unable to complete the schooling needed to obtain a degree, Neelam worked as Delia's aide by day and medical assistant most evenings at urgent care. Just one Beanie like Nana would bring her closer to her dream of becoming a nurse. It would also bring her closer to getting her family to America. The sudden grip of loneliness sealed her resolve. Neelam called the buyer's number and left her information on an answering machine. *** Neelam greeted Delia with her usual sunny enthusiasm the following day, looking over to see if Nana the monkey was still hidden. The night nurse reported Delia's sleep had been erratic and that she could be more tired today. Indeed, Delia was more subdued and less talkative than before. Neelam doled out her pills with that morning's breakfast. While she took her nap, Neelam priced out some of the other toys, adding names, dates, and information into a little notebook she brought. Perhaps this old lady wasn't crazy after all. Her eBay acquisitions over the years had amassed a few rare gold mines and, given they were not encased in plastic or put on display, gave her hope that Delia may not be fully aware of their worth. The slight queasy feeling and churning in her gut did not stop her from taking Nana with her as she left. If she notices it, I will return it and tell her it fell behind the shelf. *** When Neelam got home, the phone rang; she picked it up before the answering machine. "Hello?" asked Neelam. Very few people knew her number or even called. "Neelam?" asked the man. "Yes," said Neelam. "Neelam! So happy you called. I'm Dr. Kurt Marcus, and I'm very interested in purchasing your Nana Beanie if it is indeed in the condition you say it is." "I will not take anything less than four thousand dollars since it has never been played with," said Neelam. "Mint condition, I see. But I would still need to approve the merchandise before I agree to the terms. Would you be willing to come to my home with Nana so we can…" "Cash," said Neelam. "Excuse me?" asked Dr. Marcus. "It needs to be in cash," said Neelam. "Well, Neelam, you drive a hard bargain. But it's for a good cause. My son, you see, really only ever wanted Nana," said Dr. Marcus wistfully. He gave her his address. After work tomorrow, she would make the trade, which could help fund nursing school and bring her a step closer to her dream. She felt a twinge of guilt, considering what she was doing. Perhaps, one day, I'll pay Delia back. *** In her excitement, Neelam was a little more absent-minded at work the next day. Delia cried out when her hair was snagged in the brush, hissed that the soup was too hot, and complained that she had been sitting in one position for too long. Neelam apologized while mentally harvesting more of Delia's treasured companions. She counted at least fifty adorning the bedroom and one hundred more throughout her small home. Neelam took it as a good sign that there was no mention of Nana that day as, after tonight, she would no longer be able to say why it was missing, and she could feign ignorance. *** That evening, a taxi dropped her in front of an ornate metal gate. She pressed the intercom, which slowly creaked open; its iron maw was both regal and foreboding. A sliver of moon hung over the immense Tudor estate before her. The wooded property was set back at least half a mile with a winding gravel drive dimly lit on either side and surrounded by overgrown rhododendrons that cast long-limbed shadows that reached toward her in the dark. The unease she felt at Delia's came back, and she thought about leaving, returning the monkey. But the gate had creaked closed behind her, locking her within the property's brick walls. She made her way up the drive. Her steps crunching echoed in the still night. The crinkling plastic bag slapped against her thigh. Neelam gingerly approached the front door. It opened before she got there. "Welcome to Marcus Estates, Neelam. The finest home teeth can buy. I am Dr. Marcus, and please call me Kurt." Kurt was an imposing man, gaunt and narrow, like iron bars rather than reeds. He smelled vaguely medicinal, but given his profession as a dentist, she took no heed. He walked her through the dark mahogany foyer into the sunken living room. Fire lapping the cold from the room flickered from the fireplace. Above the mantel, a portrait of a boy with bright green eyes smiled down. "Your son?" asked Neelam, shedding her coat in the over-warm room. She clutched the bag still, unable to relieve herself of that treasure. "Derek, yes, my…son." He choked a little as he spoke. "I look forward to meeting him," said Neelam. "In due time. Ahh, perfect timing, my dear," Kurt said to a woman entering. “Neelam, my wife, Jeanie.” Jeanie's blue eyes were wary, not daring to meet the eyes of either her son's portrait or her husband's gray ones. Yet, they searched out Neelam's and latched on with a ferocity that scared her. "Welcome," she said quietly. "Can I offer you some tea?" "Yes, please," Neelam answered. Feeling she had responded incorrectly, she wrestled the urge to call Jeanie back as she left the room. "Perfect. With this pleasantry aside, let's get down to brass tacks." Kurt sat down suddenly, staring at her intently. "Let's have a look at our Nana, shall we?" The Shoprite bag seemed out of place in the grandeur of their living room. She sat down in front of Kurt, the leather couch cold despite being in the heated space. Neelam placed it gingerly on the table and lifted out the monkey with the amount of importance she felt, given the price she was about to extract. It lay on the glass-topped coffee table, beady-eyed and lifeless, scrutinized by Kurt as if it were in its postmortem. "Excellent!" said Kurt, color coming to his pale features, his breath quickening in his excitement. He looked at Neelam with renewed vigor and, with an intimidating forcefulness, swept Nana into his arms. Neelam felt as if something had been stolen from her for a moment. Bereft of the toy and with no money in sight, she realized nothing would keep them from kicking her out, and with no proof of purchase, there was nothing to say it wasn't theirs in the first place. Feeling a fool, she breathed relief when he placed bundles of cash into the plastic bag and moved it aside for the tea things. Jeanie had entered quietly and stood solemnly waiting for Kurt to motion her over. Her hands shaking slightly, Jeanie filled each delicate china cup. She held up a small glass container holding white powder towards Neelam. When Neelaum nodded, Jeanie added it to Neelam's cup. The couple watched her intently as she took long draws of the warm, rich brew. Kurt stood once Neelam had downed her cup. "Let's go meet Derek, shall we?" "I must go. I have taken too much of your time," said Neelaum, reaching for her coat. "No, we insist. Jeanie will call a taxi while you meet our son," said Kurt, rising. As she stood, Neelam swayed, cursing herself for not having eaten dinner. She followed Kurt up the stairs. The carpeting was a dark bruise of blacks and purples, and the crimson and gold wallpaper was textured with flowers. She put her hand out to touch it, soothed by its pattern despite the garish display of colors surrounding her. At the top of the stairs, she was led into a bright white room converted into a medical facility. A boy, aged about twelve in her estimation, was lying in bed breathing with the help of a ventilator. The nurse attendant stood at attention when they both walked in. "My son," said Kurt, his voice tightening. "Derek was a fan of these blasted creatures." He placed Nana tenderly next to his son's face, taking a moment to kiss his son's cheek. Neelam could imagine the piercing green eyes behind the closed lids, and she could hear his laughter. She felt unsteady, perhaps from the shock of seeing his son like this. "He saw an ad in the Bean-Zine offering Nana the monkey for one hundred dollars. Instead of coming to me, he called the number and went to them alone. They robbed him of his money and his future. He's been like this for two years." Tears ran down his cheeks, and he looked accusingly at Neelam. "You thieves, thinking you can take with impunity. That you can abuse these poor collectors and get away with it," he said, stepping closer to Neelam. "You killed my boy. You took his money, his Nana, and his dreams. You took EVERYTHING!" Kurt's eyes were wild and unfocused. "You got the wrong person. I did nothing to your son, I swear," said Neelam, breathing hard and sweating. She backed away from him towards the door. The dizziness she had felt earlier spread throughout her body, and she fell back into the arms of the nurse, who had positioned herself behind her. "Well, Neelam, you will do your part to help keep my son alive," said Kurt right before Neelam passed out. *** Neelam awoke in a dark room, the cold from the metal table below her seeping through the thin cotton of her robe. She struggled to get up, but her arms were strapped to the table, and her legs were shackled. She screamed, but the gag she wore muted her. Only her tears could escape. A light turned on overhead; its bright surgical ring blinded her momentarily. The nurse and Dr. Marcus came toward her. Neelam craned her head upward, her body straining against the straps. The nurse put a mask over her face while she struggled to shake it off but was sedated again. *** She awoke to someone whispering in her ear. Her body felt numb and tingly, and her eyes were bandaged shut. "Neelam, don't scream or try to run." She recognized Jeanie's voice. "I've drugged their tea, and I'm going to get you out of here." Freed from the straps and the gag, Neelam vomited. The warm fluid seeped onto her feet, making her retch again. Weak from sedation, barefoot, and blind, she allowed Jeanie's hand to hold hers and followed her down the cool, tiled hallway. Neelam reached for her bandaged eyes. "Don't. It won't help you. He removed your corneas," said Jeanie calmly. "My family's going to come looking for me, and they know where I went tonight," said Neelam sobbing as she fought back another urge to vomit. "You have no family here. Kurt's mother confirmed that for us," said Jeanie. "His Mother?" asked Neelam, head swimming with sedatives. "Delia Druthers," she said in hushed tones, revealing all as they walked. "Delia finds worthy donors. Immigrants who wouldn't be missed. Those who steal get what they deserve." Neelam vomited again, in deep dry heaves, expunging the guilt that had followed her from when she first picked up Nana, that damn stupid monkey. "I love my son, and the money keeps him alive, but I can't…." Jeanie stopped abruptly, causing Neelam to stumble into her. She could hear footsteps rushing towards them and a loud slap as Jeanie gasped, her hand leaving hers. She felt Kurt's presence before her heavier than the darkness pushing against her. "Money these noxious, bean-filled, idiotic toys cannot provide," said Kurt. "Toys that robbed me of our son so thieves like you could profit! Stealing from an old woman. You'll do more good here than you ever did with my mother!" Neelam could feel his hot breath on her face. Her legs buckled, the residual effect of anesthesia leaving her utterly numb and defeated. She surrendered to her guilt and despair and collapsed against the wall. "I'll deal with you later, Jeanie," he said hoarsely as he grabbed both of Neelam's wrists in one hand and pulled her back down the hallway. He pushed her into a room and closed the door with a bolt and a click. The sound of his footsteps faded away. Neelam dropped to the floor, clutching her knees, rocking, tears streaming as she gulped for air. She heard breathing behind her in the silent pauses between her breathy gasps. Smelled dry blood and urine. A hand touched her shoulder, and Neelam screamed. "I won't hurt you," a female voice said. Neelam reached out, felt the same cotton robe she wore, and touched the same bandaged eyes. "Our eyes were collected so that others may see. Next, they'll take a kidney and then part of the liver. If we survive…." "Our eyes? We?" asked Neelam. Her stomach roiled as if in free fall, her heart thudded, and she found it hard to breathe. "If we survive, then they harvest our heart and remaining kidney," said another woman's voice, echoing about the cavernous room. Neelam reached out to each woman's voice. Desperation rose like bile in her throat as she clung to the nearest one. Felt her bandaged body through the soft fabric. Sensed their unwilling acceptance of their plight. A scream tore through her in impotent rage. She sensed other bodies shifting from creaking bed frames and approaching her. Their warm bodies tried to comfort her as they enveloped her into their fold, helping her to a bed. And in the darkness, Neelam imagined rows of beds filled with blank-eyed women awaiting their dark purpose, the ultimate collector's dream. Nina Miller is an Indian-American physician, fencer, and creative. Her hybrid work can be found in Cutbow Quarterly and Raw Lit, her prose and poetry in Sci-Fi Shorts, Every Day Fiction, Bright Flash Literary Review, Five South, Roi Fainéant, Five Minutes and more. On Twitter @NinaMD1 or www.ninamillerwrites.com.

On a mild night in late August, my mother dropped us off outside of the stadium, handed me twenty dollars, and went on her way. I looked at Josh and exhaled, my vision blurring and hands shaking as an announcer’s voice boomed indistinctly from inside the stadium. This hadn’t been my idea; hell, it might not have even been Josh’s, but he was happy to go along with it. I was apparently too stupid to understand this, but high school football games were a rite of passage, and now that our first day of freshman year grew closer, it was our god-given responsibility to stand in a stadium full of people I couldn’t stand and yell about football. This of course stemmed not from Josh, but his father, Paul, a former lacrosse player and not-really-former fuckboy who was hell-bent on his son experiencing high school the exact way he had, regardless of what it meant for anyone else in Josh’s life. It was painfully obvious by this point that I was not what Paul wanted for his son, and Josh had more or less told me that his father, along with his mother, Diana, didn’t care for me. I wasn’t good at fitting into the Baltimore prep school girl mold, and furthermore, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to. Artistic, disinterested in sports and social climbing, and unapologetically honest, I was certain Paul and Diana couldn’t fathom how I was the way I was. To say I did not want to be standing outside Johnny Unitas Stadium to watch this football game was an understatement. Not only had I planned an entirely different evening before being told that our plans had already been decided for us, but the idea of facing anyone from Josh’s school made me want to crawl into a hole. It would be one thing if he ever defended me when the heckling started, but he never did, instead choosing to laugh along or sometimes join in. I was starting to see so much of Paul in him, and it made me want to slap Paul across his smug face every time he opened his mouth. We sat down on the concrete bleachers as the teams lined up on the field and the sun disappeared behind the treeline. Josh’s phone buzzed with a text from Paul: Y aren’t U sitting on our side of the field? I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. He was truly not content unless he had total control over Josh’s actions. Josh got up to move and I followed begrudgingly, knowing exactly what I was in for on the other side. As we drew closer to the student section of the bleachers, I could hear it starting already. Hey, Bloody Mary’s here! Someone got a tampon? The twenty-four hour news cycle didn’t exist in the Baltimore private school scene. Once you were infamous, you stayed that way forever. This was probably the number one reason I found it irritating as hell that I had to grow up here—once I’d bled through my pink Forever21 skirt at a mixer for all to see, I would never find another reputation. I was no longer Ryann Newman; I was Bloody Mary forever. The snickers and hoots could be heard from clear across the field, probably, meaning every person who didn’t know about the circumstances of my first period had now been informed. I hated this place. Hey Mary, hollered a voice two or three rows behind me. How does your carpet grow? I ignored it and looked at Josh, unsure why I expected him to protect me. He looked up at the field, watching the opponent’s cheerleaders wave pom-poms in the air. Hey Maaaaaaaaary! the voice yelled again, and something in me snapped. I shoved my way past Josh, stomped up the steps to the heckler’s row, and shoved my way into the throng of boys painted head to toe in red and white. All the while, he kept it up, now starting to pontificate about how feisty I was. I met some resistance once some boys saw the fire in my eyes, but it was nothing a well-placed fuck outta my way and an elbow to the ribs didn’t fix. Finally, I stood face to face with the offender: Hunter Brady IV. What’s the matter, Mary? Need a new pair of panties? I blacked out. When I regained consciousness, Hunter Brady IV was gripping his nose, red of blood almost indistinguishable from facepaint. My right knuckles throbbed as boys pushed and shoved—they were at least raised well enough not to hit a woman, but I quickly realized it would behoove me to be on my way. As Josh looked up at me from our seats, disgusted, I beelined towards the stadium’s parking lot; he didn’t follow me. I knew coming here was a fucking mistake. nat raum is a disabled artist, writer, and genderless disaster based on unceded Piscataway and Susquehannock land in Baltimore. They’re an MFA candidate and also the editor-in-chief of fifth wheel press. Their work is published in Delicate Friend, Corporeal Lit, and ANMLY. Find them online: natraum.com/links