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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 She has Coke bottle glasses and a hairstyle decades out of date.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

Monster in the Stairwell at Work The elevator at work won’t reach the top floor, so I take it as far as it’ll go and find the stairs, and I’m the only one in the morning teetering near the top of the building, where I wobble and imagine myself falling, gripping onto the awkward roller bag I bought to save my back, and when I reach the top, the landing is but a precarious ledge, where I must balance to use my keycard, but what’s worse is the shadow figure that emerges at 6:50 a.m. to block my way, scream in my face, and lift its skin so that I have to push through my fear, feel its fingers touch my hair, thrust my card forward before I’m on the other side, light-headed, winded, shaking, wondering how I’ll get back down, but this goes on, through the first rounds of layoffs, which I survive, making it past the first set of doors over the next few months, steadying my feet, but then I return one day to discover my pass won’t work on the ground floor, as I’ve been shut out forever, and I think I’d be relieved, but I miss the shadow, the monster, and imagine it touching my hair, soothing me to sleep each night. The Mothman’s Bride A wispy silken gown, such as the one Pendra found in the boutique on the corner, shouldn’t be on the sales rack. But it is, and Pendra can’t resist a sale—or a fluttery dress, so she brings it home, wears it to a party, and hangs it in the back of her closet, just as two glowing red eyes peer through the window and the panes of the glass mist. A winged creature stretches out its clawed finger and traces a heart in the fog, and after, Pendra can only see visions of dark skies and hear the shrieks of the dead. Her heart makes a caw-caw-skitter-skew pulse she feels throbbing in the veins of her throat, and she believes she’ll never rest again. # Humming noises, from the closet, prompt Pendra to investigate, sliding the hangers across the bar: a suit she never wore, a shirt she wore too much, and finally, the wispy dress, covered in bugs, their wings stitched together, struggling to flap. The caw-caw-skitter-skew pulse chatters against her teeth. An earthy, bitter odor makes her think the bugs are actually dead—or rotting—but when she touches the dress, they shiver. What makes it bring her closer to her, what compels her to try it on, she does not know, but she undresses and steps into the center, pulling the straps around her shoulders, zipping it up, and feeling her arms flutter. # At night, moths, ladybugs, spiders, and flies flock to her bodice, the hem, the back where the zipper meets, and she can no longer free herself of the dress. It has become one with her, penetrating her flesh, stitching itself into her lungs and blood and vertebrae, lifting her from the bedframe out the window, where she takes to the skies. They say she’s The Mothman’s bride, flying past the houses at dusk, creeping into a beam of light, and tucking fresh souls into insect-lace pockets to bring to her love. They say a skittering sound scatters the spiders on the walls and a caw-caw-caw follows in their wake. Cecilia Kennedy (she/her) is a writer who taught English and Spanish in Ohio for 20 years before moving to Washington state with her family. Since 2017, she has published stories in international literary magazines and anthologies. Her work has appeared in Tiny Frights, Maudlin House, Tiny Molecules, Meadowlark Review, Vast Chasm Literary Magazine, Kandisha Press, Ghost Orchid Press, and others. You can follow her on Twitter (@ckennedyhola). Instagram:  ceciliakennedy2349

CW: mention of miscarriage It’s the tilt of her head that catches your attention first. Such an attitude! You envy her for a fleeting moment, then sigh; such conspicuous confidence rarely reflects reality. The bus is not busy. The two women are the only ones standing. They linger by the door, rocking lightly, as if to follow a slow melody only they can hear. Her Attitude blocks the exit and rolls her eyes when a man pushes his way to the door at the American Embassy stop. A hundred metres after the stop, you look to the left until you see it. The building is now abandoned; front yard gone wild, planks roughly nailed closing windows and doors, suffocating the memories locked inside. There is a graffiti with two hearts intertwined, one cracked open and bleeding, and a quote. “The past beats inside me like a second heart,” John Banville. You close your eyes and breathe a little faster. You glance at the women and eavesdrop as Her Attitude lectures her friend loudly enough to be heard over the rickety rackety of the engine. “That is preposterous. You should not speak of what you indubitably know so little about.” The practice was on the first floor. You always used the stairs, but not that day. That day, you felt too weary, not brave enough, so you took the lift. The waiting room was spacious and minimalistic. The only decoration was on the main wall: a large frame filled with grinning mothers and baby faces. You gazed through the room and sighed because the good seats were all taken; you had to settle for the sofa. The leather always stuck to your legs and bum in the heat, making a weird soft sound when you stood up. Her friend’s cheeks turn the same colour as the bus. She glances around, gaze darting from face to face, checking whether someone took heed of her public humiliation. Your eyes meet. You smile, hoping to convey sympathy. She looks down, slumps, and blushes further. You knew something was wrong the minute the kicking stopped. There had been no movement for two days. You just knew. You wonder what their discussion is about. What could be so indubitably preposterous? Who talks like that anyway? You stand up and move closer. You stood up when the doctor called your name, unsticking your heavy frame from the leather sofa—soft popping sound—but that day, you didn’t care. “That dress was not ‘beige’, as you put it. It was ‘Desert Mist’.” She tilts her head further to the left at an angle that must be uncomfortable. Your neck slants to the right in response. Indubitably preposterous, indeed. He placed the blue gel on your immobile belly before doing the scan. He frowned at the monitor in silence. You held your breath. When he turned back to face you, his blue gaze was an ocean of sadness. “I’m sorry.” He replaced the scan on the metallic shelf. "I'm sorry." You push your way to the door. Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos is a Breton writer, teacher, mother, nature and music lover, foodie, dreamer. She loves butter, needs coffee, hates easy opening packaging, and likes to create stories in her head. She lives in Athens, Greece. Twitter & Facebook at @DelGeo14. https://delphinegg.weebly.com/

The first time she heard the baby crying was in the morning. Like a stampede of infant feet, the wails of high-pitched noise overwhelmed the frontal lobe of her brain. The shrill cries bounced off the four walls of her pastel blue bedroom before stopping. With a start, Julia's eyes opened, and she immediately sat up in bed. Her earlobes throbbed to the rhythm of her pounding heartbeat. She glanced around the room for signs of a baby, babies, or just about anything unusual, but there was nothing. The armchair directly across from her had her silk robe draped over it. The matching tree-sculpted nightstand lamps emanated warm hues, the same as the evening before. Blue and white curtains remained pulled, with the only morning light peeking in from the top. “A baby.” She laughed at the thought. Julia threw back the covers and went for her robe, finding her slippers in the process. Salty bacon with a slight burnt odor floated in from the hallway. Julia rolled her eyes. “Alex,” she said to herself. “Want a plate?” She heard him say as soon as she shuffled into the kitchen. Her pink, fuzzy slippers tapped the black-and-white checkered floor as she walked. “You know I can’t stomach that stuff,” she said. She poured her usual cup of black coffee and put two slices of bread in the toaster before plopping down at the newly bought kitchen table from Neiman Marcus. “You going to the art gallery today?” Her husband asked from his perch on the bar stool. His neatly parted brown hair gleamed with gel, not one strand out of place. Julia took a long sip of coffee before answering. “Maybe. I need to finish the setup for the fundraiser. They don’t have many volunteers, and it’s been a week since I was there. I guess I’ve been a failure at commitment.” She put her cup down and rubbed her forehead. “But if I get another one of those aches like yesterday, then definitely staying in bed.” Her husband scoffed. “A little socialization and fresh air would do you good.” The toast popped up, and she put the bread on a plate. “I don’t know. I really think I should talk to a doctor. The headaches have been going on for some time now and it doesn’t seem to get any better. In fact, I’m finding it harder to complete the simplest tasks.” She relaxed in her seat, her chest feeling suddenly lighter after the vent. “I feel like I can’t do anything right. Something’s wrong.” “You don’t need to take pills for those types of things. They aren’t good for you.” “Who said I wanted to take pills? I just want someone to talk to.” He bobbed his head back and forth in a bird-like fashion. “That’s what I’m here for.” “But you’re not a trained professional, you’re an accountant who’s at the office from 7 to 7.” She sighed. “I need help.” “I’m not about to let my wife go see some whack just because she’s a little depressed or whatever and then all our friends find out.” He stood up and dusted his suit off, even though there was no dust. “Let’s face it Jules, that’s what it really is, these headaches of yours. You’re unhappy. Man, I can just hear it now around the office. There goes the guy with the crazy, sad wife. He can’t make partner because he’ll have to tend to her needs.” “Is it so wrong that I’m feeling unhappy? It’s been a struggle to get out of bed every morning this week, Alex. All I want to do is sleep.” She took a ferocious bite of the toast. “I just don’t feel like myself anymore.” Alex finished his food and placed his plate in the sink for the maid to clean. “Oh, don’t start that again.” His eyes narrowed. “I can’t do this. I can’t do that. There’s something wrong with me.” He shook his head. “You have a beautiful life and you’re telling me you feel…detached…down? I don’t get it. Sounds like you’re just ungrateful, Jules. Get up, put some makeup on. Go be with your friends. You’ll feel better.” “I don’t think putting on a fake front would help anything.” She turned, following him with her eyes as he left for the garage. Her back and shoulders tensed. “You men never understand. All you worry about is yourselves while us women worry about fitting into that perfect mold.” Her words hit the wooden door as he slammed it. A moment later the Lex started up. “Mom.” Julia spun around to see Sofia standing in front of the table. The sun illuminated her bronze skin and ebony curls. A ring of light from the bay window surrounded the crown of her head. “Sofia, good morning. Hope you slept well.” “Yes, it was great. I dreamed of you.” “Of me? I wish you would dream of something nicer.” Julia winked. Sofia's eyes, brown in color, stared expressionless. “You were sick and in a hospital.” “I hope I got better, at least.” She turned and disappeared into the pantry. “You did. Daddy came to see you.” Julia chuckled and glanced at her now chilled coffee, raising it to her lips for one last sip. “Was that a dream or more of a nightmare? You came too, right?” “A dream, of course, because you got better. And yes, I was with you the whole time.” Sofia’s voice was light. “Sounds boring. I’m sorry the dream had me stuck in a hospital.” “It’s alright. I forgive you.” “Forgive me?” “Yes, for everything.” As she rubbed her chin, Julia raised her eyes to the pantry and saw her daughter back in the kitchen but with her face distorted and swirling into a void of nothingness. Julia screamed, dropping her mug. The black liquid splattered everywhere, on the table, the floor, but mostly on the kitchen wall. “Mom, are you okay?” Sofia rushed to the table with a towel in one hand and a bag of pop tarts in another. Ignoring the mess, Julia clutched her daughter's shoulders. She scanned her fourteen-year-old’s face. It was back to normal. “I’m fine. I…I just thought I saw something. It was my fault.” She placed her right hand over her temple, letting Sofia dab the coffee. “It’s these headaches. They affect my vision.” “It’s alright Mom, you just rest.” Sofia ran water over the coffee-filled towel and squeezed it before leaving it on the sink. “I have to catch the bus, but Hannah can clean up when she gets here.” She stopped by Julia to kiss her on the forehead. “Bye Mom. I love you.” “I love you too,” Julia mumbled, still staring at the pantry where she’d seen the horrible image of her daughter. “Oh Sofia, wait!” Julia turned to the door, but no one was there. “Damn.” She hadn’t even heard the door close. “My mind is not together.” If she had enough energy, she would've accompanied her to the bus stop, as she did before. But those days were long gone. With a sigh, Julia got up and trotted back into the bedroom. She put on a pullover top with high-waisted lounge pants and swept her black hair into a messy ponytail. She figured it would be satisfactory for the gallery, which she thought she should visit before getting kicked off the volunteer list entirely. Even though the gallery was a block from their house, she didn't want to drive, so Andrew took her in the Porsche. “12:30, ma’am?” the pepper-haired driver asked when Julia turned to close the car door. “Let’s make it 11:30. They go to lunch at 12.” She shut the door and walked into the mid-sized gallery with French double doors. Still wearing her sunglasses, her grip tightened around her Birkin bag when she saw Kelly standing at the help desk. “Jules! I didn’t know you were coming in today. Nice to see you again.” The skinny blonde walked over and gave her a pretend hug. Julia mimicked it back. “Yes, I was feeling a little better, so thought I’d stop by to see if there was anything I could do to help.” “Glad you’re doing great now. A lot has changed since you were last here…what was it, a week ago?” “Thanks.” Julia forced a smile. She took off her sunglasses. “There haven’t ever been many volunteers over the past few months, so I thought you may still need help.” Kelly’s brow furrowed. “When you just abruptly left that day, we were worried about you. We didn’t know if you were okay or if something happened.” Julia shuffled her feet. “I wasn’t feeling well and had to leave.” The woman’s head flinched back. “But you seemed fine that day.” “Some illnesses hide their symptoms.” Kelly sighed and smacked her lips. “Luckily, Daria knew a few people willing to give a hand.” She gestured to the woman behind the help desk. “With new volunteers, the gallery will open by the end of the week.” Her arms folded across her chest. “I’ll contact Alex if there are any other opportunities since he’s the one who set it up for you.” Julia's mouth dropped open. “I guess I failed at being a volunteer too…I’ll just leave.” Kelly reached out. Rosewater permeated the air, filling the space between them. “Wait. You’re welcome to view the exhibit before you go.” She gave her a half smile. “It’s Gabriela Colón. I believe she’s Puerto Rican, like you? Some captions are in Spanish.” “I’m half and don’t really speak or read it.” “Oh, well.” Kelly pursed her lips before turning around to the help desk. Julia’s nostrils flared while she stared at the back of Kelly’s pin prick of a head. Biting her tongue, she turned to leave but then stopped. There was the sound again. The very distinct noise of a baby’s cry coming from somewhere in the gallery. “Is anyone else here?” Julia asked Kelly. She knew better than to tell her about the baby. The woman only acknowledged her with a brief, over the shoulder glance. Her blue eyes widened at the question. “No, why?” The crying continued, coming from the adjacent room. The high-pitched wails echoed repeatedly. “Annoying,” Julia whispered. She eyeballed the entrance to the next room but couldn’t see anything. As she glanced back at Kelly, she caught a view of the woman’s smirk before she turned away. Head down, Julia hurried to the door frame. Her flats gave her an advantage when sneaking into situations. If there was a woman with an upset baby needing some privacy, she didn’t want to bother them. She halted in the open doorway and looked in. Colorful festive oil-based pieces plastered the cement walls. Images of desert or sea creatures with contorted spines and exaggerated characteristics. Beautiful, yet demented. Inhaling deeply, she swept her gaze across the room a second time. The works of art were the only thing present. After a moment, she looked at her feet and coughed. Her cheeks emitted a wave of heat. Julia shook her head and began searching for her phone but stopped when the crying started again. This time it was much closer and clearer than before. She jolted upright, and the crying abruptly ceased, silenced by a peculiar thump. “Mama.” Julia immediately recognized her daughter standing twenty feet away, wearing a cute dress with heart patterns. The sight of Sofia stepping from behind one of the two load-bearing beams left her frozen. Despite being just one year old, her daughter already had a head full of dark curls and striking dainty features complemented by her large brown eyes. “Mama.” Tear tracks covered Julia’s cheeks, flowing in multiple directions. Every part of her body shook. “No,” she whispered. “No!” The crying resumed, but this time it was twice as loud. She dropped her purse and covered her ears, closing her eyes to block out the noise. With each passing moment, the wailing intensified, reverberating off the gallery walls. Julia's eyes opened as she looked for her daughter. She was gone. Nothing remained, except for red liquid splattered everywhere. She uttered a scream icy to the core and sprinted out of the room. Flinging the doors open, she ran down the sidewalk. Every face she saw was her daughter’s. Their synchronized voices echoed, calling out, "Mama, mama," again and again. Julia covered her ears and ran as fast as she could. Her legs pumped hard until they burned. Strands of hair stuck to her moist cheeks. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She ran until she recognized her house's gate. She was home. Julia paused, leaning on the black iron railing, wiping her eyes as she caught her breath. Birds chirped in the distance. After digging under the third bush along the hedge, she unlocked the gate with the extra key. She stumbled around the fountain in the front yard and entered the house. “Sofia?” Julia called, closing the front door. The house sat quiet but filled with sunlight. “Hannah?” Silence answered again. A few dust particles danced in the yellow rays shining from under the half-closed blinds. Julia stumbled across the kitchen and into the family room. “Alex?” She was alone with her thoughts. Then she heard the crying. “I’m coming baby,” Julia called, pounding the stairs up towards her husband’s study. But when she opened the door, the usual cherry oak shelves and five-pound accounting books were gone. Instead, pink flowered wallpaper lined the walls. A soft shag rug covered the wood floor and piles of stuff animals sat in the corner sporting friendly smiles. The crib stood to the left near the window with a mobile slowly twirling above to the repeated but slightly off-tune of Three Blind Mice. She didn’t notice Sofia until a few steps inside the nursery. Her daughter was on the floor in a pool of blood. Her small, lifeless body resembled a discarded, broken doll. The blood splatter extended from the floor to the ceiling. Its streaks reached upwards like claw marks from an animal. Julia opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. She tumbled down and hit the floor. Her knees struck with force, causing a despairing sound to escape her lips. She yanked at herself, her hair, her face. Sticky wetness smeared everywhere. Her hands dipped in crimson. Sofia’s blood. Pain echoed through the house with a groan. There was a rumble and a shake. The mobile fell. Stuffed animals toppled over one by one. Julia plunged into the darkness as all four walls collapsed. “And then what happened?” Julia blinked and stared up at the ceiling of Dr. Taylor’s office. Her eyes came into focus from the hypnosis. She lifted her head from the couch. “And then…and then I, uh, I knew she was dead.” Dr. James wrote feverishly in her book. “And who killed her?” Julia's mouth quickly opened and closed. She wiped away a tear as she sat up. "I did," she said, barely audible. “I believe our work for today is complete,” the doctor said, closing her book. Her brows drew together. She extended her arm and gently tapped Julia's knee. “You did good. We had a breakthrough. The ability to face what you did and accept it is a step towards healing from psychosis. I want you to remember, though, that you tried to seek help. Unfortunately, so many families overlook symptoms of postpartum depression…until it’s too late. My goal is to stop the underlying notion that mental illness is best left unsaid.” She looked at her hands and then back at Julia. “I have news. Perhaps good. Your husband is here.” She stood up and helped Julia to her feet. They exited the office and headed down the puke-green linoleum hall to the family waiting room of the Besboony Institute. In the small room, a chill hung low. Groups of people clustered around tables. There was no sunlight. The only illumination came from the fluorescent tubes hanging from the ceiling. Julia recognized Alex as the man at the half-moon table to the right. “Thank you so much, Dr. James,” Alex said, standing up to meet Julia halfway. “It’s good to get the chance to see my wife again.” “Yes, but I’m sorry our session ran over. You only have seven minutes,” she stated, with a glance at the officer who stood against the wall a few feet away. “Julia,” Alex said. He hugged her long and hard until she pushed him away. “Please take a seat.” He guided her to his table. “Alex, what am I doing here?” Julia asked, staring at her husband’s face. It was much more wrinkled than she remembered. She pulled her robe closed. “Oh, I thought the doctor said you were remembering what happened.” He looked down. His eyes fishing through the emptiness. “It was something about Sofia. She was…I mean, I—” “Yes, I am sorry I didn’t listen to you. You tried to tell me you were having trouble.” His dark eyes watered. “I was only concerned about myself. How it would look if I had a wife on medication or even who had to see a psychiatrist? I thought if I just ignored whatever was going on with you, it would fix itself with time. I just didn’t understand mental illness.” He cupped her hands in his. “For a long time, I didn’t forgive you. But those feelings only held me in my own personal jail of torment. Now, I realize it was my fault, too.” A sob escaped, and then another. “I’m sorry for not paying attention when you said you needed help. I should have listened.” “I forgive you. Sofia would have wanted it that way,” Julia said, wiping Alex’s eyes. She smiled at him. He took her hand and kissed it. “I’ll come back. I promise.” He glanced at the big red clock in the middle of the family room. Other groups were getting up to leave. He looked back at Julia. His eyes softened. “I have to go.” “Can’t I come with you?” She got up to follow, but a firm grip from behind pushed her back. It was the officer. Alex smiled and fixed his eyes on her. “No, you can’t. Even though you needed help and were sick, you still killed Sofia and you must pay for it.” “Alex…Alex?” she called as he left the room. Her voice, high-pitched, cut through the indistinct murmur like a hot knife. Julia sprinted to the window and peered out until she saw her husband walking to the parking lot. Both her hands gripped the cold bars. “Alex!” She screamed until her own voice melted away. Lisa Rodriguez currently lives with her family in Ft. Meade, Maryland. She loves writing flash fiction and short stories. Her works can be found in Cafe Lit, Instant Noodles, and Bright Flash Literary Review. In her free time, she enjoys ghost hunting, Mexican wrestling and loves black coffee with two shots of espresso.

1 I’m trying to remember the last time I actually spoke to Craig. I’ve got a text on my phone which reads: Mate! At a wedding and I think we’ve got a real-life jilting on our hands, no shit! Followed by another, ten minutes later saying: Oh no wait, she’s turned up :-( That was five years ago. I never replied, probably preoccupied with some other thing of great importance which I’ve long-since forgotten and, looking at it now, I feel a sharp pang of guilt for my old friend, sitting on his pew, ignored and doubly disappointed. “Are you ever going to indicate?” I ask my wife, ex-wife, Helen as she swerves her Volkswagen Tiguan off the M40 without so much as a passing courtesy towards other road users. She’s a terrible driver but a nervous passenger and so insisted we take her car. “I don’t need to indicate, David, I know where I’m going,” she replies. This is the sort of thing that makes sense in her mind, so I let it slide. “Now look,” I say, “when we get there, you ought to know there may be some…awkwardness.” “When is there not awkwardness with Craig? I still don’t really understand why we’re going.” “Legal matters. He’s our solicitor.” “He’s your solicitor, your friend.” “Our friend. Used to be anyway, and I know he’s a tad unconventional at times but he’s never steered us wrong through…everything. And unless you want our children’s entire estate to consist of your beloved Doug Hyde paintings and your grandmother’s cursed ruby necklace then we need to go and see Craig.” “You’re not dying are you?” “We’re all dying. And death does seem increasingly imminent the longer I spend in this car. You know this is a forty limit don’t you?” “Do you ever stop complaining?” “Look, it’s the will, my next of kin, power of attorney now that my brother’s dead, blah, blah, blah, et cetera. I explained all this in my email.” “Yes, yes. What I mean is, why do we actually have to go and see him? Couldn’t this all have been sorted out online?” “He insisted. Said it was his fee. I think he’s lonely, to be honest with you. I haven’t been a very good friend over the years, truth be told.” “You don’t owe him anything, David. And I’m sure a man of Craig’s means can find plenty of ways to amuse himself.” “I think he probably gets bored of amusing himself, hence the invite.” “Why the awkwardness then?” “What’s that now?” “You just said there may be some awkwardness when we see him.” “Ah, yes, well. Last time I saw Craig, if memory serves, it was at one of his parties, I’d had rather a lot to drink and…” “Yes?” “I was sick on his dog.” “Brilliant.” 2 By some act of divine benevolence, we arrive at Craig’s house unscathed. The satisfying crunch of golden gravel welcomes us, and the Tiguan’s overtaxed drivetrain sighs its relief after completing another perilous journey against all odds. We’re balls-deep in the heart of the Oxfordshire countryside. Surrounded by wildly overpriced greengrocers calling themselves ‘lifestyle emporiums’ for tory-funding, Brexit-loving disaster capitalists and media luvvies in tweed jackets peddling craft gin, organic condiments and artisanal, scented homeware products, building their own disposable empires on the backs of underpaid labourers and disenfranchised bees. The sight of Craig’s magnificent Georgian residence, lavishly draped in wisteria, never fails to hit me like a cricket ball in the nuts. I don’t possess the gene, the specific DNA coding or neuro-pathway, or whatever it is, that allows one to be happy for other people. “Darlings!” Craig throws open the door theatrically and I am incensed to see that he has aged well. The pale complexion of the habitual substance abuser subtly masked by a golden tan. The jet-black hair has turned silver but maintained its thickness and lustre. The fine stubble on the cheeks like twinkling morning frost. The eyes bluer, more piercing, the physique noticeably toned, even beneath a chunky-knit cardigan. Being rich really is good for your health. One hundred percent of doctors recommend it. “Helen, my God you look stunning!” Craig gushes, kissing her on each cheek in that irritating, luvvie way. “You haven’t aged, why haven’t you aged? Never mind, come in, please come in.” Helen hasn’t yet had a chance to utter a word in reply but steps in anyway and I follow. “Ah-ah.” Craig wags a finger and stops me in my tracks. “Not you, young man. You owe someone an apology first.” “What for?” “You know very well.” “Look, I said sorry at the time, didn’t I?” “It’s not me to whom you must apologise.” Craig places two fingers under his tongue and whistles. The sound is closely followed by the skittering of tiny claws on hardwood floors. A fluffy Pomeranian runs up to Craig, who scoops it into his arms, cradling it like a baby. The little gremlin-dog licks Craig’s face with its slimy tongue while regarding me with its black, marble eyes. “Apologise to Mr Pickles.” “Really, come on Craig for goodness’ sake just let me in.” “Apologise to Mr Pickles. He was traumatised, yes he was, he was traumatised.” He speaks to the dog in that weird, childlike voice dog owners use. “And do you know how difficult it is, both logistically and emotionally, to clean red wine vomit out of a Pomeranian’s coat? Look how fluffy it is! I had to cut the chunks out with nail scissors, while we both wept.” Helen is standing behind Craig, clearly loving every second of my humiliation. It’s the most I’ve seen her smile in years. “Fine,” I sigh. “I apologise.” “No, no, no, no, no. That won’t do at all. Apologise properly.” Craig places Mr Pickles down on the floor and says, “Sit.” For a second I think he’s talking to me, but the dog obliges and Craig produces a treat from his pocket which the dog munches like a rabid gerbil. “You get down to his level, on your knees please.” I know this could go on indefinitely, and I do need to make amends. So I play along. I drop down to my knees and stare directly into the miniature bear-face of the Pomeranian. “I’m sorry.” “Mr Pickles,” says Helen, joining in. “I’m sorry, Mr Pickles. I wholeheartedly apologise for any trauma and pain I may have inflicted upon you. I deeply regret my actions and although I can in no way make up for the hurt I have caused, I hope you will allow me to enter your home and try to prove I am no longer the same man who violated you in such a heinous manner.” Craig bursts into a fit of laughter. “Oh my God that was amazing! Get up you stupid arsehole, this isn’t even the same dog. Christ, what was that, ten years ago? That was Sebastian Krug, my old dog, he’s been dead for ages. It wasn’t Mr Pickles, was it? No it wasn’t, it wasn’t Mr Pickles was it?” The dog is back in Craig’s arms, furiously licking his face with a renewed fervour. “Come and give your old buddy a hug! God it’s good to see you man.” Craig wraps me in an embrace. He smells fantastic and I must admit, it really is good to see him. 3 True to form, Craig has allowed himself to become overexcited. After we arrived, he immediately proclaimed he was making us some martinis and dragged us into the kitchen where a bottle of Pol Roger was already opened, on ice, for us to drink while we waited for Craig to mix the martinis. We told him about our eldest getting engaged and he launched into the usual, nostalgia-drenched reminiscence, “My God it barely seems like two minutes since Amelia was born, do you remember when you first brought her to the pub?” “Yes,” Helen replied. “You were carrying her round in one hand, with a pint and a fag in the other.” “To be fair, it was a different time,” I interjected on Craig’s behalf (I would’ve undoubtedly been doing the same so needed to deflect). “And you were quite partial to a menthol ciggie and a G&T if I remember correctly.” Helen bristled of course, but then seemed to soften. Whether it was the warmth of the memory, or just the quality of Craig's champagne, I’m not sure. “Yes, well,” she said, “I only smoked when we were outside in the beer garden. As you say, it was a different time.” It felt to good to catch up, sitting on stools at the breakfast bar, beneath the glass-domed ceiling of Craig’s orangery-style kitchen, the stars beginning to twinkle in the lavender dusk. Like old friends, old times. I did ask about legal matters but Craig just waved his hand and went ‘Pfffttt, we’ll get to that…’ And now he’s absolutely hammered. He’s been attempting to make Beef Wellington since about eight-thirty and it’s now nearly ten. As usual he’s a victim of his own ego — Wellington is an impressive dish if you get it right but it’s a heck of a lot of faff and can easily go wrong, and Craig is in the long grass. I’ve kept a close eye on him, and exactly as I predicted, he’s deemed the addition of a crêpe to be unnecessary and therefore, even if he does get it in the oven before midnight, I’m confident it will be a disaster. He’s coked off his nut as well. Keeps nipping off to the bathroom every fifteen minutes, his jaw flapping around like a Great Dane chasing a tennis ball. “A lot of people are intimidated cooking a whole fillet of beef,” he says, at a volume well above that which normal conversation requires, “BUT I’VE GOT A MEAT THERMOMETER AND I KNOW MY OVEN!” I’m not offering to help, Craig is exactly the sort of prick who’ll say oh yes, could you be an absolute superstar and just knock up a quick salad? which he’ll then forget to serve. He’s elbow-deep in mushroom duxelles, splurging out of his pastry as he attempts to roll the whole thing up like a bad joint. He gives up, exasperated and says, “red wine!” like he’s just arrived at the answer to the universe and then fucks off again, ostensibly to the cellar but most probably, the bathroom. 4 “Why do all men think they’re professional chefs?” Helen asks. The question is directed towards the heavens above us, rather than me, but I answer nevertheless. “Because we are.” “He’s doing exactly what you used to do, getting all his ingredients out into little bowls before he starts. He’s spent an hour just faffing about arranging everything.” “It’s what the French call Mise en Place, meaning ‘establishment’ or ‘putting in place.’ You have to prepare before you cook.” “You used to do it on purpose, take forever to cook dinner to avoid putting the kids to bed.” “That is an outrageous accusation. Besides, you were better at bath and bedtime, they never wanted me. I strived for perfection, so that you might have a delicious and nutritionally-balanced meal at the end of the day. That’s not nothing, you know.” “Sure, when you eventually got it ready. I’d come downstairs completely frazzled from wrestling the children into bed and you’d be there quaffing Chablis and massaging the starch out of your fucking risotto. Then you’d plate yours before mine!” “No I didn’t.” “Yes you did! You’d spend about five minutes making yours look all pretty and then just chuck mine on as an afterthought.” “Well, if I did, it was only so yours wouldn’t get cold.” “What?” “I liked to plate mine true to my vision, sure. But I always left yours in the pan until the last possible second because of your weird obsession with incredibly hot food.” “My obsession with hot food?” “Yes, your asbestos mouth. If anything dipped below the core temperature of the sun you were whacking it in the microwave, ruining it.” “No one likes cold risotto. And maybe I would’ve liked some mise en place every once in a while.” “Well, all of life’s a compromise isn’t it? You can either have mise en place or boiling hot potatoes. Of course, as a man, you are expected to provide both, at all times. Who does the cooking in your house now? Surely not you?” “Yes. As a matter of fact, I’m quite good. Last night I cooked sea bass with gunpowder potatoes and a lentil daal.” “A lentil daal, eh? You know daal literally means lentils in Hindi don’t you? That’s like saying you made a chicken coq-au-vin.” “Really? How fascinating. I didn’t realise you’d studied the language, please teach me some other Hindi phrases…” I don’t know, after all this time, whether we’re bantering or arguing. Somehow, these jocular inquiries into the wreckage of our marriage have become our default means of communication. And it…kind of works? It’s like therapy, in many ways. Because marriage, and especially raising children, inflicts a trauma on two people that is impossible to survive. You lose so many parts of yourself along the way, and eventually you lose the parts which once fit together. Intimacy, true intimacy, is like youth: once it’s gone, it’s gone. But once you break free of the ridiculously unrealistic expectations of marriage, there begins a rebuilding process. You find an alternative way to co-exist. If you give it enough time, you end up as two completely new people and it’s as if none of that awful suff ever happened. In this light, on this evening, holding her champagne flute delicately between her long, manicured fingers, Helen looks more like a French actress than the woman who used to stand at the top of the stairs in a tatty, stained dressing gown, screaming at me for no apparent reason. “David,” she says, interrupting my profitless reverie. “Yes?” “Stop leering at me.” “Sorry.” “Why aren’t you drinking your drink?” “I am.” “No you’re not. I’ve been watching you, you haven’t drunk a thing all night. You’ve been pretending to.” “Nonsense.” “David. What is going on, why are we here? Tell me right now, or I swear to God…” “I’ve got cancer.” “What? No you haven’t. You can’t. Have you even seen a proper doctor?” “No. I checked my horoscope, Helen, that’s how I know I’ve got cancer.” “David…” “Adenocarcinoma of the oesophagus, stage three, they think.” “So all of this, Craig, the legal matters…” “Got to put everything in place before you cook.” “You selfish, arrogant little shit! We finally reach a point where we can be civil to one another and you’re just going to, just…HOW DARE YOU!” Just as Helen is about to unleash the mother of all bollockings upon me for having the temerity to die without her permission, Craig comes staggering back into the room and shouts, “forgot the fucking wine!” He stops abruptly, as if he’s about to turn and leave the room, but he seems rooted to the spot. He’s trying to move his upper body but his legs are going nowhere, then his hand goes up to his chest. Then he falls, face-first onto the kitchen floor. He crashes into two stools as he goes down. Helen screams, “Oh my God!” and knocks over her champagne flute as she jumps up. It falls to the floor and smashes into a million little diamonds, scattered around Craig’s prone body on the mahogany floorboards. Mr Pickles runs in and starts yapping his head off, jumping up and down, trying to lick Craig’s face as he writhes and crunches in the broken glass. “Don’t just fucking sit there David, call an ambulance, he’s having a heart attack!” Helen starts chasing the dog around the room, trying to get the little fucker to safety. “Oh Christ. Jesus. Wait, I haven’t got my phone…” Craig is clutching at his chest, his face is turning bright purple but he manages to speak, “no…ambulaaarrgghhh….” “You’re right,” I say. “It’ll take too long, we’ll have to drive you.” “NO!” Craig cries out through the pain. “It’s ok mate, I’ll be driving, not Helen.” “NO HOSPITAL. CALL MY ASS…ARRGGHHH…” “Call your ass…?” “ASS…IS….TANT…” He struggles with his pockets and pulls out his phone. I hold the screen to his gurning, tear-stained face which it recognises immediately and unlocks. “First…number…Natalia…helicopter…” “We are not getting a helicopter for God’s sake!” says Helen. “He could die!” I yell back, realising that saying the words out loud doesn’t sound very reassuring to Craig, but I am quite excited at the prospect of having him airlifted out of here. He probably has his own paramedics on standby. I open up his recent calls and the first on the list is Natalia. In fact, every call on the list is Natalia. I scroll down, there must be at least twenty entries, at every time of day or night. I hope he’s paying her well. He really doesn’t have any friends, and now his heart is about to explode from all the beak he’s been shovelling up his hooter for decades. I picture a funeral with only Natalia present, her one final task before collecting her P45. Just as I’m about to call, I notice Helen, holding a frantic and thrashing Mr. Pickles under her arm and a brown paper bag from Long Bumlington Farm Shop & Lifestyle Emporium in her hand. “Breathe into this.” She shoves the bag over Craig’s mouth and he starts sucking in the air —  ragged and shallow breaths at first but then fuller, deeper. The bag expanding and contracting like an artisanal lung. Gradually he’s able to gain control over his breathing, and then sit up. “Leave it for a minute,” says Helen. “You’re having a panic attack. But you’re going to be fine, Craig.” Tears stream down Craig’s face as he huffs into the bag. Helen’s eyes are welling up too as she steadies herself on the kitchen counter. I’m still holding Craig’s phone when an alarm pings up on the screen. He’s obviously set it for the wrong day because it says: David and Helen coming for dinner tomorrow!!! [smiley face emoji] Tell Natalia to buy beef fillet and baking powder [winky face emoji]. In for a penny, in for a pound I think, as I open up Craig’s notes app out of morbid curiosity. Sure enough, the first thing I see: Get David to apologise to Mr. Pickles! (icebreaker = funny!). Poor bastard. “Right,” I say. “I’m ordering a fucking pizza. Helen, do you still like Hawaiian?” Truthfully I’ve no idea if she likes it or not. Once you reach my age you forget who’s who and which pizza is which. Maybe I’m remembering everything wrong, or imagining a completely different person altogether. Either way, I reckon I’ve got about a fifty-fifty chance. Rick White is a fiction writer whose work has been nominated for Best British and Irish Flash Fictions, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions and the Pushcart Prize. Rick’s debut collection, ‘Talking to Ghosts at Parties’ was released in 2022, he is currently working on his first novel. Rick lives in Cheshire with his wife and daughter.

1.) Wake up. It is important to first wake up. Set your alarm for 4:59 a.m., but wake up at 4:58 a.m. This will establish your dominance vis-a-vis your alarm, and so you will wake up feeling like a strong, independent individual right off the bat. When you wake up, open your eyes. After you open your eyes, shout, "I'm awake bitches!" as loud as you can. Then twist your body violently so you fall out of bed and land on the floor in a push-up position. Do seven to eight push-ups. Stand up and say, "I'm an independent and dominant individual." Brush your teeth using toothpaste with fluoride in it. Put water on your body and then put soap on your body and then put water on your body and then wipe off the water with a material of your choice. Put on clothes, look in the mirror, and say, "I'm an independent and dominant individual." If you have a dog, pick up its food bowl and say, "I'm an independent and dominant individual," and then put its food bowl back down. If you have a cat, throw it out. Cats will never consider you a dominant individual and so they will just lower your self-esteem over time. If you have a cat, place it lightly in the trash. 2.) Now that you’ve established dominance, it's time to attend to your body's needs. Go to Trader Joe's. Grab a cart. Push the cart and put things into it. Put only brown or green things into the cart. Brown or green things such as broccoli, such as peas, such as potatoes. This will keep your body slender and strong. Put about fifteen brown or green things into the cart. Do NOT put in any tomatoes (regardless of whether they still have some green). We will be buying our tomatoes elsewhere, for reasons that will become evident in time. I’m holding back the information on the tomatoes for now for tension-building purposes. Who knows what’s up with this tomato situation? Keep this as a lesson: Add mystery and intrigue to your life wherever possible by withholding minor details of it from your friends and family. If your parents ask how your weekend was, tell them you will let them know in one year. Push your cart to the checkout person. Now that you’re interacting with another human being, it's time to shift from an independent mindset to a loving-kindness mindset. When the checkout person asks how you are, say, "I am a loving person." While they put your food into bags, compliment them in various ways. Say things like, "Wonderful form!" and "Great bagging!" and “Oh yeah, oh wow, oh yes, that’s right on!” For even better results, you could adjust your comments for gender. If the bag-person is a man, you could say, “Looks like you’ve been working out!” If the bag-person is a woman, you could say, “Thatta girl!” If the bag person is non-binary, you could say, “Go get 'em, tiger!” This will make the bag-person experience feelings of Gratefulness and Warmth. They may even thank you directly. If they do, it is important to stay humble. Humbleness is essential for living a properly fulfilled life. To be humble, reply to their thank you with something like, “Oh no, oh no, I’m just a normal person, haha, oh no, I’m nothing special like you say, not an angel, haha, just a normal being.” 3.) Back at home, grab a packet of sugar substitute. Pour a few grains of sugar substitute into your palm. Lick your palm. Note how it tastes. Then look at your phone and get mad at something on your phone. This can be a news event, a text from an estranged family member, or a social media post from a stranger you disagree with; you’re even free to get mad at the phone itself for opening up applications too slowly. Just get angry at something on your phone. It’s important to feel the full spectrum of emotion in this life. You cannot understand the good without the bad. This exercise will allow you to experience the bad in a controlled and productive manner. Once you’re nice and angry, turn off your phone and put it in a corner. Spit at your phone until it's covered in a thick mound of saliva and call it names. For example, “Silicon bitch.” Flick your phone with your finger; this, considering its size, will be a pretty devastating blow. Tell your phone to think about what it's done. Now that you've experienced a bad emotion like anger, grab the packet of sugar substitute again. Pour another few grains of sugar substitute into your palm. Lick your palm. The sugar substitute will now taste approximately 250% better. 4.) No life can be completely fulfilled without a friend and/or lover. But how to find one? Simple. Go to a medium to large-sized park. Look around for a person you would like to be friends and/or lovers with. Take a look at their attributes. These can be things like cool hats, or rockin’ sneaks. Or even, how their face looks. Once you spot someone you like, pick up a stick and throw it at them. Make sure to throw it at their back. Then run up and say you saw who threw the stick at them, but that you chased the assailant away. The victim will be profuse in their gratitude. If you want to be their friend, respond, “It was nothing. Just a friendly little act.” The use of “friendly” in your statement will subconsciously plant the idea in their mind that you will become great friends. If you want to be their lover, respond, “It was nothing. Just wanted to help someone out on such a lovely day.” Subconsciously, the person will now be brimming with sexual desire. Tell them you’d love to get their number, but unfortunately you’ve left your cell in a corner of your home, drenched in spittle. Invite them over to see it. 5.) On the way, approach a fruit and vegetable vendor with your potential friend or lover. Yes, it’s tomato time! Shake the hand of the fruit and vegetable vendor. Say something completely random to the fruit and vegetable vendor, something like, “Two lakes don’t make a brick, saw them today, no cap,” and laugh. To your potential friend or lover watching, this will make it seem like you are a super sociable person who has inside jokes with all the local fruit and vegetable vendors. Then say, “I would like to buy a tomato.” Buy one firm, plump, red tomato. Turn to your potential friend or lover and show them your prize. Even if they don’t externalize it, inside they will be extremely impressed. 6.) Enter your kitchen with your potential friend or lover. For a potential friend, make a delicious tomato salad with the tomato. While making the salad, recite some movie quotes. For example, you could say, “You're gonna need a bigger boat,” or “Open the pod bay doors, HAL." People love it when someone can recite movie quotes. It shows the quoter to be a fun-loving and cultured person. Bonus points if you can say the line in the same accent or inflection as the actor! Eat the tomato salad with your potential friend and play different board games based on their likes and dislikes. For example, if your potential friend is a money-hoarding psychopath, play Monopoly. Or, if they really like ladders—steel ladders, plastic ladders, all types of ladders—play Chutes and Ladders! By the end of the fourth or fifth game, you will find that your potential friend is now just a friend. Turn on your phone and make them punch numbers and letters into it. For a potential lover, do NOT make tomato salad. Instead, on entering the kitchen, ask your potential lover if they would be more comfortable with their clothes off. Explain that your home is a clothes-free—no judgment—zone, and it is totally fine with you if they'd prefer to go clothesless. If they’re shy, explain that it’s really no big thing, and take off your shirt to make them feel welcome to do the same. Your potential lover will now feel Supported and Secure. Once you're both naked, say, “Well, since our clothes are already off, any chance you’d want to make love?” Your potential lover will respond “Yes” before you can even finish the sentence. After you receive their consent (remember, consent is sexy!), tell them to lie down on the floor. Cut the tomato into bite-sized chunks and place the chunks at diverse points on their body. Enter a sexual/romantic mindset. Stand above your potential lover and concentrate. If they ask what you’re doing, say, “I am trying to enter a sexual/romantic mindset.” You will know you’ve entered the mindset once your groin area develops a thin film of perspiration. When this happens, begin to slurp the tomato chunks off your potential lover's body. Save the last slurp for the tomato chunk(s) you placed on their genitalia. Then slurp their genitalia itself. Rub your genitalia—with proper protection!!!!!!!!!!!!!—against/in/around their genitalia in traditional and novel ways. In this matter, it’s important to be well-read in both the latest issues of Cosmopolitan and Hustler, as well as to have an ear to the streets. Your potential lover will now just be your lover! Give them a little kiss on the cheek and say a movie quote. “It's alive! It's alive!" *** To read the remaining steps, you need to sign up for my newsletter. The “How to Live a Fulfilled Life Newsletter.” What? Did you think I’d give out all the secrets of fulfillment for free? You dumb stupid idiot? You miserably unfulfilled toad? Become a platinum-tier member on my website, HowToLiveAFufilledLife.com, for only $299.99 a month(1), and get not only the newsletter but also free admission to one Fulfillment Seminar™ a year, where I will personally read these steps to you while standing on a stage. You will be sitting on a gray metal folding chair many feet below me. You cretinous, grotesque worm. Buy within the next twenty-four hours and receive your membership half off!(2) Until then: so long! _______________________ 1 $24.99 processing, $14.99 wellness, and $789.99 maintenance fee not included in figure. 2 Price reduction applies only to wellness fee.† _______________________________________ † Wellness fee discount applies only to first month of membership. Tyler Plofker is a writer in NYC. In his free time, he likes drinking water. He tweets badly @TylerPlofker.

Among the many striking elements of Jane Ayres’ rich, multi-faceted poetry, none is more apparent than her use of imagery, the intricate dance that effortlessly changes lead from description to personification and back again. In her latest collection, my lost womb still sings to me, this back-and-forth exchange moves slowly and fluidly through her retelling of a major surgery and subsequent life change, and it lands not softly but defiantly. It is a blistering ode to the art of life, whether that comes singing or screaming, and does not shy away from its seasons and their constant, inherent shifts. From hidden in plain sight: she wears the cloak of invisibility well a woman of her age if the cap fits they say perhaps that’s why you favour rougerage/vividpinkneon/viole(n)t disguise over silver ash made volcanic to be noticed seen not lost in a feathered tangle of word-holes spilling suns & daughters From another hot flush: & despite my debt to the suffragette sisterhood despite the feminist fight despite myself I capitulate comply & simply wait for the blistering heat to subside let it pass (again) one day this volcano will erupt On the surface, each piece is a chapter in verse, the story of the sometimes-hell that is womanhood. In truth, it’s a reflection of everyone who has examined themselves and been surprised to see someone they didn’t recognize; or, equally as likely, someone else that they do. From eggs: when I look in the mirror I see your face me become you become me splinters of maternal love jagged beneath my skin the comfort & fear of inevitability the future foreshadowed no more eggs for me While teetering between acceptance (because what choice do we have?) and raging against the cruelty of aging, implied or inescapable (or both), this work is meant to resonate. Beyond that, it serves as a reminder that we don’t have to lose ourselves fully along the way. From care taker / private property: lacerations  /  the memory of a thing more real than the thing itself sniffing at the way the light still shines / stringing the lines watching your cadence drawing a veil i am empty but my hunger grows my lost womb still sings to me is available now through Porkbelly Press: https://porkbellypress.com/poetry/lostwomb UK based neurodivergent writer Jane Ayres re-discovered poetry studying for a part-time Creative Writing MA at the University of Kent, which she completed in 2019 at the age of 57. In 2020, she was longlisted for the Rebecca Swift Foundation Women Poets’ Prize. In 2021, she was nominated for Best of the Net, shortlisted for the Aesthetica Creative Writing Award and a winner of the Laurence Sterne Prize. Her first collection edible was published by Beir Bua Press (July 2022) and her work has appeared in over 100 publications that include Lighthouse, Streetcake, Magma, Ink Sweat & Tears and can be heard on Eat the Storms, Upload and Blue Door to the Cosmos. She has been guest poet at O Bhéal and Medway River Lit and recently started combining her words and images on her YouTube channel because it’s fun! Website: janeayreswriter.wordpress.com Twitter: @workingwords50 https://www.youtube.com/@slowgallop451

While reading through A.R. Williams’ debut collection A Funeral in the Wild: Poems, I became haunted by the concept of a sense of place: of roots, where they attach, and what happens when those things change. Human nature dictates a need for some semblance of structure, of routine — we adapt to people and places, adjust to circumstances, find comfort in everything from reliable seasons to building structures to curtain colors. We acclimate, “bloom where we’re planted” to quote a cliché, for better or worse. A harsher truth dictates that nothing in life is static. Williams reflects tenderly on life’s impermanence in this work, chronicling painful absences ranging from human presence to former homes to love lost in the tide and the remnants we reckon with in their wake. From The Newlywed: As I stare at another feeble attempt to delay the inevitable, I am reminded of my early years of marriage. I was young, broken, hurting, and confused, trying to love another, while lacking love for myself. Self-help books, prayer, empty promises— bungy cords, ropes, zip ties. From On My Porch: A breeze wafts its earthy, chemical breath on my porch. Here, I taste your nebulizer drug just as I did those many winter eves. From Dog Tag Necklace: A blissful boy, I wore your pride around my neck, until the chain disappeared from the pool that summer. Today, I saw a cadet at the pharmacy and recalled the pool, wondering whether your approval was still there. If nothing in life is permanent, that also extends to despair. Constant shifting of circumstances means you find what is good and beautiful again even in the wake of loss. A Funeral in the Wild: Poems is not merely a documentation of destruction but an observation of that shifting, like the changes in a beach’s appearance at high and low tide. From What Gives Me Hope: But that was before the pizza became cold, the ballpark expensive, and this house, too small. Now, we long to bud where we were first planted. But today our neighbor— the gardener—said that of all weeds, dandelions can withstand the harshest growing conditions. A Funeral in the Wild: Poems by A.R. Williams is scheduled for release in February 2024 through Kelsay Books. A.R. Williams (PhD, Bangor University, Wales) lives with his family in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. He has been widely published in poetry journals, magazines, and anthologies. He is also the editor of East Ridge Review. A Funeral in the Wild: Poems is his first poetry collection. Twitter @andrewraywill

We sell popcorn. It’s our job, even if it’s not a sufficient economic provider. We abide by rules and maintain standards and report to an employer that doesn’t care about us, but something brings us back every day. We load the machine. We scoop out the popcorn. We fill the variously sized boxes. We speak to customers, naughty and nice. We tidy shelves. We sweep floors. We do toilet checks. We change and take out bins. We scour the showtimes for typos. We count the money. But we also sneak into films. Sometimes, we’re given permission to sit in on screenings. Other times, we go in anyway. For those pockets of 90, 120, or 150 minutes, we’re defibrillated. We’re on stilts, watching from high above ground, untouchable by the miserable shift manager or overqualified duty manager who otherwise have the power to relegate us to floor level. To popcorn machine level. To cash register level. We sneak into commercial blockbusters and arthouse gems. Films that make us smile and films that make us shout. Films we disappear into the crowd for, glad to not be responsible for people’s experience. Films that less successfully distract our terms of employment – that we discretely scoop up popcorn during, wipe down a seat with an anti-bac cloth during. Those films repel us. Others invite us in. The doors to screen 5 are unguarded by a ticket checker. This is a weekday matinee commonplace, for anything higher than screen 2. 20 minutes after the advertised start, I’m in screen 5, seated on the back row, momentarily pretending to dustpan and brush spilled pick ‘n’ mix. 10 minutes later, after the post-advert trailers have turned back into adverts, I stop pretending to dustpan and brush. Mick – the team favourite – is shift manager today, meaning we could gut a patron, move the body, and clean up the mess (negating the possibility of a crime scene) and he wouldn’t notice. His head would be in a crossword or his attention on a YouTube tutorial for sushi making. His feet up on his “desk.” The door to his “office” closed. 5 minutes later, I escape with Scarlett Johansson to Glasgow. She’s an alien taking human form; I’m an idle spectator, at the mercy of whatever instructions or advice or warnings her character and the film wish to give me. Johannsson’s alien seduces Scottish men and traps them in an all-black void, where they become submerged in a liquid abyss. I only sink into the fabrics of my uncomfortable red seat. I think of my Dad leaving my Mum a year ago. I wonder where he is. I think of the deferred university place I’m soon scheduled to take up, a year later. I think about whether the transportation from one world to another and the permanent closure of my comfort zone are worth it. I think of the corn kernel which expands and puffs when heated. I think about whether sales of sweet will outdo sales of salted today – and about who will bother to record this information for Mick. Sweet or salted… salted or sweet. George Oliver has just finished a PhD on contemporary transatlantic literature at King's College London, where he also taught American literature for three years. He is both a short fiction and culture writer. His short stories have recently appeared in The Bookends Review, BRUISER, Clackamas Literary Review, Eunoia Review, and Querencia Press.

My nana used to have a patio at her apartment that was full of lush, green potted plants.  I remember her taking such pride in opening the sliding glass door to take her full watering can to her little suburban jungle.  She quenched each of them until the water spilled over the sides of their pots or through the hole in the bottom.  Her concrete jackrabbits guarded the big pots on the ground and the hanging plants swung slightly with the North County San Diego breeze and visiting hummingbirds.  Nana’s apartment was a magical place with a warm, clean scent like vanilla and dryer sheets.  Her bedroom closet floor was coated in a couple of layers of shoes she always let me try on.  Her hall closet was full of Mary Kay products.  Lots of formula 1 skin care and night cream.  Nana used to make me peanut butter and banana sandwiches, sometimes with honey drizzled on the bananas. We watched the 1970s version of Romeo and Juliet when I spent the night one time, after we watered her thriving plants.  Memories of Nana, now that she is gone, hit me at unexpected times.  One of these times, I thought it would be a good idea to grow some plants.   Evelyn and I decided to plant some seeds.  I thought we were doing well with our plants.  They were growing.  Then, we went on a long weekend out of town.  Now, the plants are withering as fast as I am. CLS Sandoval, PhD (she/her) is a pushcart nominated writer and communication professor with accolades in film, academia, and creative writing who speaks, signs, acts, publishes, sings, performs, writes, paints, teaches and rarely relaxes.  She has presented over 50 times at communication conferences, published 15 academic articles, two academic books, three full-length literary collections: God Bless Paul, Soup Stories: A Reconstructed Memoir, and Writing Our Love Story, and three chapbooks: The Way We Were, Tumbleweed:  Against All Odds, and The Villain Wore a Hero’s Face.  She is raising her daughter and dog with her husband in Alhambra, CA.