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Maybe: Person Last night I lost one of my three phones somewhere in the house, so I called it with one of the other two, and the call came up as being from Maybe: Person , and I think it’s because despite looking like, walking like, talking like one, I am always just shy of being  one, always wearing my Personness like an oversized poncho hastily swiped from the back of someone’s chair on a rainy day, or an undersized hoodie reluctantly borrowed from a slighter classmate in a freezing lecture theatre, so that I am perpetually ill at ease, to the point that there is comfort in discomfort, and certainty in uncertainty, or maybe I just need to fix the settings on my phone, maybe.  Poem in which I justify my unfounded yet fervent beliefs  Like how I should always say see you later instead of goodbye to people I want to meet again, despite it taking you and me five years to reunite even after I told you the former, because what is half a decade in comparison to an eternity? Or how a bruise must hurt to heal, so I apply balm like I am trying to budge a stubborn smudge, because who’s to say for sure that the eventual recovery is by virtue of the medicine or time itself, not pain? Or that there is some exact amount of want I must perform in order to achieve what I desire, so it doesn’t pass me by for indifference or desperation, even though I have succeeded and failed at random before, whether I was blasé about or burning for it. Because beliefs  in this context is really a euphemism for superstitions , and superstitions need no evidence or logic. Only fear or optimism, and the ensuing brief hushing of the mind.  Waste How human it is, to peruse this lyrical verse turn plain prose turn trailing lines, and rue— what a waste . What a waste of time, and effort, and love; all that precious intangibility expended, only to yield not even crescendo, let alone conclusion. And how human it is, to then immediately refute the self, and demand— must writing always yield meaningful outcome? Must it always make coherent sense from start to finish; come to tangible fruition beyond the page? Could we not have written for the sake of writing; loved for the sake of loving? In that light, then, I do agree it was a waste. What a waste to halt the pen mid rambling sentence; to lift it off the point to it all even in the face of unmeaning. Now let me say this plainly— I do not regret you . You could never be a waste to me.  Hands I.  You are alive, but only in memory. Once cold of your hands magnified thousand-fold in some attempt to extinguish the now scorch of your decisions.  II.  You are alive, but only in imagination. Even in a land of eternal summer, the wind is always wintry, so that the heat of your hands is unceasingly essential.  III.  You are alive, and then you are not. Lilies in lap, I watch them lay you in the dirt. From where I sit, I cannot see your hands. Allison Thung is a Singaporean poet. She is the author of Reacquaint  (kith books, 2024) and Molar  (kith books, 2024). Her poetry has been published in ANMLY, Sixth Finch, Cease, Cows, Gone Lawn,  and elsewhere, and nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, Best Microfiction,  and Best Small Fictions.  Allison is an Assistant Poetry Editor at ANMLY . Find her on Instagram and Bluesky @poetrybyallison, or at www.allisonthung.com .

FOUR ELEMENTS for Magi Pierce Air, fire, water, earth: each element  matched with a cardinal direction. Air with the East. The inhale is inspiration, expanding breath, a promise not yet embodied. Fire with the South. Breath at the apex,  burning with creation and destruction. Water with the West. Movement and memory, the sinking sun, the passing of life. Earth with the North. Emptiness and eternity, the ground underfoot, cessation of breath. The exhalation is the letting go. The emptiness is what is left. Think of an ice cube lying on the ground on a neutral day. The fire of the focusing mind fed by the air of the breath softening ice into water, melting and moving, unlocking memory  petrified to habit. NIGHT MUSE for Marna Williams I sat listening to you  play “Moonlight Sonata”  with the lights off because you knew the music by heart.    The room was narrow,  paneled in pine with one wall of windows. Outside were pine woods  growing down a steep slope,  inky black below the night sky.  Inside, flickering candle flames reflected in the window. You sat at the piano, your back to me, your light-brown wavy hair catching the candlelight. I closed my eyes and let the music fill me with inexpressible longings, the possibility of happiness imprisoned inside me for its own protection. After the music, we discussed art and literature. I remember your breathless way  of speaking, the words tumbling  in excitement, the quality of your mind. Fifty years later,  you say you never knew  the miseries I fled from. TIDES OF THE BODY Breath, shape-changer, the organs gently swaying in their fascial hammocks like the flora and fauna of an undersea world— the yellow of the small intestine,  deep coral of the liver, green bile duct, pancreas the color of the ocean floor. Blood circulating through arterial rivers in an endless loop. Gently I placed my fingers  over the openings of my ears. The sound of my breath inside my throat was like the echo in a seashell, ever-present, softly audible. I tuned out the world for a moment so I could listen. Anne Whitehouse is a writer. She is the author of five poetry collections— The Surveyor's Hand, Blessings and Curses, The Refrain, Meteor Shower,  and Outside from the Inside , and four chapbooks— Bear in Mind, One Sunday Morning, Surrealist Muse,  and Escaping Lee Miller . She is the author of a novel, Fall Love , as well as short stories and essays. Of Fall Love , First Draft 's reviewer reported, Whitehouse's "poetic handling of language and of sensuous detail is superb... She conveys powerfully the cruel effects of all those coincidences of life."   Radcliffe Quarterly  said of The Surveyor's Hand  that the poems "combine a precise intelligent observation with a personal voice and sensibility." She has also written short stories, essays and feature articles , and book reviews .

February 3rd, 2049 “My fellow Pluribans,” said President Percival Bower into the live broadcast camera. “Today, I stand before you as a humble servant of this honorable country to urge you all toward this nation’s divine purpose—” “ Psst. Psssst.”  The President felt the tiniest of tugs on his upper ear, like a little hand pawing at the loose skin of his cartilaginous fold. Only he could hear the whiskered whispers: “Stay on script, Percy! You want the protests to end, don’t you?” He loosened his shirt collar and flashed one of his election-winning smiles at the camera, the thin, aged skin around his mouth and eyes wrinkling backward. “In these times of uncertainty, I tell you this: just as a wheel of cheese draws its character from the land where it ages, so shall the Pluriban people draw their strength from the land’s rolling hills and roaring waters. We are a nation of inventors and builders—of talented hunters and resourceful scavengers. Together, we can craft a future that’s as round as the finest Brie and as robust as Parmesan…” President Bower addressed his nation with an unerring poise and grace. The words on the screen meant nothing to him; his focus was entirely on the hypnotizing diction and confident delivery that won him the hearts of the people and a third consecutive term in office. But as he spoke from the comfort of the executive’s chair, his staff knew time had taken its toll on poor ol’ Patient Percy (a nickname earned during his first term that was plagued by an endless chain of filibusters). Before the broadcast, a brigade of cosmetologists caked his gossamer skin and varicose veins in a slurry of powders, primers, and concealers, all several shades darker than his now naturally cadaverous complexion. To the camera, he was as young as ever, but to the surrounding staff, Patient Percy was an aged sculpture, a disintegrating monument of the past better off in a museum than in office. It was sad, really. The halls of Pluriba’s Capitol building wfilled with snickers and jeers as Percy passed. The geezer ignored them as best he could, the presidential punchline in a building full of would-be comedians. Beyond the physical superficialities of age, there was a hollowness to Percy’s visage, a blankness to his gaze. Where once stood a proud and passionate man, now sat a well-trained ape, a sideshow act performing for the camera. He spoke with his mouth on autopilot as his mind drifted back in time. Soon, he was in his twenties again, donning his prized Calvin Klein denim jacket and taking his date to a drive-in movie in his ‘77 Chevy Chevette. He tried to remember his date’s face, or who she even was, but the drive-ins were his go-to, a favorite in his playbook, and ol’ Percy could not for the life of him tell one memory from another. Her identity faded in his synaptic storm, blending together with all the dates, movies, and drives he’d experienced across his lifetime. Now, nearly 90 years old, he chuckled (mentally) at the thought that he sympathized more with the jalopy Chevette lurching anemically up the hills to its romantic roadside rendezvous than with his younger self. “…Let us live up to the namesake of this historic nation. Let us grate away the doubts. Let us melt down our differences into a fondue of common principles. In this, we must succeed, or Pluriba will crumble feta-like under its own inaction. E Pluribus Unum—out of one, many. We shall prevail.” Percy held his freeze-frame smile until the camera operator gave the thumbs up. The live broadcast was over, the rest of Pluriba now enjoying a prerecorded  “brought to you by the Von Rattenspieler Foundation”  PSA. “I cannot believe,” said the voice in Percy’s ear, “that you almost bastardized my perfect script.” The President’s hairpiece shifted and undulated awkwardly, as if caught in an ocean wave. From beneath the toupee crawled an albino rat, fully clothed, donning a fine Italian suit, teal tie, and a top hat, all perfectly tailored to its unique proportions. The rodent scurried down the President’s arm and onto the desk in front of them. None of the staff in the room even batted an eye at the furry creature standing bipedal on the President’s desk. Percy Bower slumped his servile, old shoulders. “I’m sorry, Heinrich. It’s getting hard to read the screen and keep my place.” The rat shook his head. “ I’m sorry isn’t good enough, Percy,” said the rat. Heinrich strutted toward his own chair at the corner of the President’s desk and lit a doll-sized smoker’s pipe. His chair was a miniature replica, not of the President’s chair, but of the Golden Throne of Tutankhamun, its projecting lions’ heads replaced with the golden heads of rats. Heinrich snapped the fingers of his tiny paws and the room stood at attention. “Everybody leave and give President Bower and me a moment alone,” he said. The senior staff members started filing out of the presidential office, pausing only when a greenhorn staffer opened his mouth to speak. “But sir,” said the broadcast team rookie, all eyes in the room set dead on him, “we’ll be done and rolled out of here in ten minutes, tops.”  The room fell to a pin-drop. Only the gentle whispering of inhaled air and the subtle crackling of burning tobacco could be heard amidst the staff’s muffled heartbeats. President Percy stared wide-eyed at the young staffer, his head ever-so-slightly turning side to side, his lips mouthing something indiscernible, both vain attempts to save the lamb from the lion.  “What’s your name, son?” asked Heinrich, blowing smoke into the young man’s face. “I don’t recall seeing you around here.” “It’s John, sir,” responded the boy, gulping, “John Mackelby. I was onboarded two weeks ago.” Heinrich stood from his golden throne and walked forward, sucking on his pipe as the nails of his paws tap-tapped on the stained mahogany desk. “Then you know who I am, correct?” “Yes, Mr. Von Rattenspieler, sir. I’m sorry, I’m a big fan of your work and the work of your foundation and—” “And so you come and insult me in my office, is that it?” John looked toward Percy for help, but the shell of a man in the executive’s chair could only stare down at the carpet, avoiding the stress of the boy’s gaze as he gobbled down his medication and breathed in paced breaths. “I asked you a question, boy,” asserted the rat lord, “or are you hard of hearing?” “No, sir, no, I’m sorry, sir, I misspoke, I just, I—” In an instant, Heinrich Von Rattenspieler was airborne, lunging headlong at the broadcaster. He dug his unnaturally long claws through the boy’s shirt and punctured his flesh. The young man panicked as the rat now rubbed its fur against his bare skin, clawing and scratching. “OH SHIT, WHAT THE FUCK!” he yelled, flailing his arms and legs like a Frenchman in 1518. He patted himself down, blow after blow missing as Von Rattenspieler climbed the mountain of human flesh, his claws pulling him up the boy’s back and neck. The office doors swung open and security guards flooded the room, their assault rifles at the ready and their fingers on the triggers.  “HELP!” screamed the Mackelby boy, but in the rat’s nest, no one could hear him scream. At gunpoint, the guards brought the boy to his knees and pinned his arms behind his back. Heinrich, now perched on the side of the boy’s skull, leaned down and whispered into the boy’s ear, “Let this be a lesson, Mr. Mackelby,” said Heinrich. “ Always know your betters. ” # April 18th, 2049 This could all be over so easily , thought Percy, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his forehead dripping sweat as he watched the Foundation’s High Rodentry decide what to make of the boy in their dungeons. Two months ago, he had done nothing as he watched hairless apes in Kevlar whisk away a young twenty-something for asking a simple question. He had, under direct orders from Heinrich, called the young Mackelby’s parents. Using his politician’s tongue, he assuaged all of their fears and suspicions. John is a remarkable young fellow, and an irreplaceable member of our team. Because of his outstanding performance, I have chosen him for a very special, highly secret operation…  The Mackelbys ate it up, none the wiser that their son was  indisposed deep in the bowels below the Capitol building where the rats once slept, waiting. Now, Percy watched them discuss the future of Pluriba, his heel itching in his shoe. One squish and it’s over. And that was true, but he would be powerless against their legacy. “This is the perfect opportunity, Heinrich,” said one of the tiny bureaucrats, a toothpick cane in his paw, his whiskers shaped into a refined mustache. “It’s exactly what we’ve been waiting for!” “Jermander is right,” said another in a red dress, wavy blonde locks sweeping down her shoulders, a pearl necklace around her neck. “I totally, like, don’t wanna miss our chance.” Mr. Von Rattenspieler’s nose twitched as his beady, red eyes leered at the Mackelby boy chained loosely to the dungeon wall. The first week of his sentence was utter madness, with all the kicking and screaming, his neck veins popping from the strain. By the second week, Johnny boy’s voice was hoarse and his clothes torn to shreds by the interrogations . He was nude by the third week, his ribs poking out from his emaciated frame. And now, as Heinrich Von Rattenspieler listened intently to the wise counsel of his Foundation’s High Rodentry, John Mackelby was silent. Silent and numb. “Patience, Vivian,” said Heinrich as he caressed the cheek of the blonde-haired rat. “Breaking a beast takes time.” He glanced back at Percy and smiled, his two front teeth breaking out from their oral prison. Percy said nothing. Heinrich whistled a specific tune, a signal melody, an encrypted command. One of the armed guards broke formation, approached Von Rattenspieler, and extended his arm. The rat lord climbed and perched on the guard’s shoulder. Now at eye level, he turned his attention to his prisoner. “Mr. Mackelby, I must be honest with you. I’ve come to adore our daily discussions,” he said, sitting with one leg crossed as the other dangled over the guard’s collarbone. “Have you given any thought to what we discussed yesterday?” The boy hung there, unresponsive but breathing, his eyes vacant. “I suppose not. We can’t expect apes to do much thinking now, can we?” Heinrich laughed from his gut, and the others followed. “John, you would be spearheading a great organization, giving back to your country in a way that most can only dream of.” The prisoner grunted. “Yes, and imagine how proud your dear parents would be of their son.” John’s eyes lit up at the mention of his parents. “Ahh, yes. President Bower, you’ve spoken with the Mackelbys. What did they say when the President of Pluriba called them personally?” Percy shifted in his decrepit stance. When I lied to them? When I told them everything they wanted to hear? “They were overjoyed,” said Percy. “And what else?” asked Heinrich with knowing eyes. Percy lowered his head, his gaze fixed on the ground before him. “They thanked God for the blessing.” “ They thanked God, ” echoed Von Rattenspieler, “isn’t that something?” The rat named Jermander signed the cross and laughed. Vivian chuckled, twirling her hair around her little, clawed fingers. “I pray to God every night that I don’t wake up like one of those fat, disgusting little hamsters up north.” John grunted again, louder, his lips cracked and bleeding. For a moment, the boy’s face morphed and it was Percy’s own son chained to that wall, young again and crying for his father. But with a blink, the illusion collapsed. “Oh, Vivian, my sweet,” said Heinrich, “there is not a God in Heaven that could ever make you as ugly as those vermin .” The lady-rat melted with the compliment. Percy imagined that, if he could see through her fur, she’d be blushing. Can rats even blush?  It’s interesting, the way perceptions color our language, and while the rats interrogated their prisoner, Percy mulled over how unsurprising their methods truly were—inhuman aristocrats with inhumane procedures. In the end, the behavior of the rats surprised him less than humanity’s own propensity for cruelty. We were supposed to be the humans, after all. “Do you believe in God, Mr. Mackelby?” asked Heinrich. The prisoner hesitated and closed his eyes. He nodded in agreement, a single tear trickling down his dusty cheek. “Human or rat, we are all God’s children, correct? In his image made, the three of us rats surely were not, and yet here we are, speaking with you on our  terms. Did you know that some sects of Christianity teach that Earth’s animals, God’s creatures, were created for  humans? Yes, it’s true! Whether as a source of food, or a source of furs, or even a source of companionship, it’s a belief held dear by many members of your species. What interesting turn of events, then, for an entire species to historically be regarded as worthless pests despite such an allegedly holy inception, don’t you think?” The Mackelby boy let out a deflating moan, the airy sound of heat-breath escaping from his lungs. “But God works in mysterious ways.” “Mysterious indeed!” said Jermander. “And eventually,” continued Heinrich, “your species found a place for us in your labs, just as the tales told, our existence solely justified by our usefulness in humanity’s little tests. But curiosity is an addictive devil, isn’t it? I wonder how it felt when your scientists stared deep into our eyes and found… competition. ” The boy drifted in and out of consciousness, his eyes glazing over and falling back into his skull as Heinrich spoke. Percy crossed his arms, hugging himself and pinching at the loose skin of his arms.  “Heinrich,” said Percy, “the boy is fading. He needs to eat.” “AND HE WILL!” growled Von Rattenspieler, his red eyes slicing through the thick air. The other rats recoiled instinctively. Heinrich paused, took a deep breath, and adjusted his tie. “He will eat,” he said calmly, “ once he agrees. ” “Heinrich, you can’t—” cried Percy, stepping forward. “I can’t, what ?” Percy froze, his words stuck in his throat. He stepped back, crossing his arms again. Von Rattenspieler smiled a wild grin and turned back to his younger prisoner. He flicked the ear of his human steed. The guard reached into one of his many pockets and revealed a sizable chunk of rich, aged Manchego. John’s eyes shot open from the sharp aroma alone, his mouth watering with Pavlovian submission. “You won’t have to do anything, Mr. Mackelby,” said Heinrich. “Jermander will handle it all from the comfort of your hairline. Just play your part.” “Yes,” said the boy weakly, “yes, yes, yes. Anything, Mr. Von Rattenspieler, sir. I’m sorry, please, anything you want, the cheese, please, I need the cheese, I need—” Heinrich snapped his fingers and the guard tossed the Manchego. The cheese chunk collected dust and dirt as it bounced toward the boy’s feet. John descended upon the slice, devouring it like an animal as Jermander climbed up his spine and nestled deep in his curly locks. # May 27th, 2049 John Mackelby, now dressed in his finest Italian suit and holding a briefcase, adjusted his tie and stepped through the threshold into the executive office, the door locking shut behind him. President Percy, distracted from his important presidential business by the intrusion, gawked at the unrecognizable man standing before him. How long ago was it when—? It felt like a lifetime ago. He stashed the Faustian memory away and hid it behind lock and key, determined to forget the day he traded his denim for tailored suits—his freedom for power. Yet as he sat there and watched Von Rattenspieler inspect their newest pupil, Percy felt the most powerless he had in his entire life. “What a wonderful man you’ve become, Mackelby!” said the rat lord. “And in record time, too. Jermander, I am impressed.” Out crawled Jermander from beneath the boy’s gelled back hair. “Thank you, sir,” said Jermander as he stroked his mustache. “John here is a remarkable young man. He understood his role in things very quickly and, once the growing pains subsided, excelled beyond my wildest imagination. He’s a natural-born speaker, this one.” Jermander patted his pet on the shoulder and Mackelby smiled shyly, blushing. “You flatter me, sirs,” said the boy dressed as a man. “I am doing my best not to let your gratitude go to waste. I thank you both, and all the High Rodentry, for this amazing opportunity.” Amazing opportunity?  thought Percy. Poor ol’ Patient Percy—he’s lied so many times throughout the years that he’s forgotten what the truth even tastes like. For as long as he could remember, he and Heinrich were of one mind, one body, united by shared ambition. But when did he last know the rat lord’s plans? When did the strangers start coming and going from his office, no invitation from him, there to see Heinrich, and only Heinrich , Percy just an ornament on the walls, window dressing for the rat lord’s empire? His pulse climbed, his heartbeats shaking his aching jaw as his breaths shortened to painful whispers. He reached for the bottle of pills in the desk drawer and emptied two tablets into his mouth, chewing them raw. “Heinrich,” said Percy softly. “What is this about?” Von Rattenspieler and Jermander shared smiles filled with cunning and subterfuge—the type of smiles flashed among parents before they lie to their children about Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. “Oh, Percival, you’ve seen the same videos we have,” said Heinrich. “All over socials, it’s no news that the public has been rowdy since our most recent odds-defying reelection. As you focused on your presidential duties, I took it upon myself to ensure the safety and security of the Pluriban people.” “Yes, yes!” said Jermander. “Just establishing the groundwork for a minor restructuring of Pluriba’s civil security services, that is all.” Percy stood from his chair as suddenly as a man his age could. “And neither of you felt the need to tell the President of the country any of those plans? A restructuring, Heinrich?” Protests, both peaceful and otherwise, were ravaging this once peaceful country. Rumors of an infiltration by foreign powers spread across the Internet during his last term in office. The reelection only added fuel to the fire, raging across the message boards and chat rooms where reality meets fiction, the perfect breeding ground for conspiracy theories. It wasn’t long before the public linked the Von Rattenspieler Foundation, a primary sponsor of Percy’s campaign, to a series of biological testing facilities and genetic manipulation labs across the world. Then, likely in a moment of regret and panic, anonymous whistleblowers planted the budding seeds of truth in the public consciousness. These are not ordinary rats,  they said. These are evolution incarnate. And if all the science fiction in the world taught Percy one thing, it was that humanity cannot handle being second to another. It seemed inevitable that Homo Sapiens would choose its own destruction over its subjugation. Von Rattenspieler sighed and waltzed back to his golden throne at the edge of the desk. “Percy, you’re right,” said Heinrich. “He is?” said Jermander, astonished. “Yes. I should never have hidden this away from you, Percy. The truth is, I hid it because I was worried about you. At your age, there are complications, are there not? Your heart weakens with every passing day—we hear it, the beating—we all can hear it, Percy. Our ears are tuned well that way.”  Percy sank back into his cushioned chair. “We’ve grown together,” continued Heinrich. “We’ve risen from the depths to the stars, and I simply could not imagine running this country without my dearest and oldest friend by my side. There will be no more lies from here on out, I promise you.” Percy buried his head in his hands. “I thought the public had warmed up to us. I haven’t seen or heard of any protests or riots for months.” Jermander turned to Heinrich, unsure of how to proceed. The rat lord nodded, and Jermander tapped the shoulder of the Mackelby boy with his toothpick cane. John Mackelby placed his briefcase on the desk and unlocked it. From inside, he pulled out a tablet computer and turned it on, fiddling about with its touchscreen controls as Percy sat there, confused and dumb, like a toddler watching balloon animals made for the first time. He flipped the screen over and held it as Percy watched the recorded news coverage in horror.  The protests had not only continued, but had turned into organized, riotous displays of restless dissatisfaction. In a matter of months, armed militias formed across all the major cities, determined to spread awareness of the truth at all costs. The people lived in constant fear that they or a loved one might be caught in the crossfire between rebel militias and local law enforcement. Schools were shut down, hospitals were over capacity, his country was ripping apart at the seams, and the question on everyone’s lips was “Where is my President?” But he wasn’t there to answer them. A new nickname replaced the old, and Patient Percy was no more. It was Puppet Percy now, and those crowds chanted his new name with disgust as they filled the streets, rifles in hand, demanding change. Percy remembered John’s cries for help in this very office just a few months ago. He sat and did nothing then, too. Was this even John anymore? he thought as he stared at the man holding the screen for him. I’m sorry Mr. And Mrs. Mackelby. Your son is dead. “Turn it off,” said Percy as he chewed down two of his pills. “Do you understand, now?” asked Heinrich. “They’ll never accept us or our whiskered faces. But there’s still hope.” “How?” asked Percy. “Because there’s a silent majority out there, waiting for their President to address their concerns and do whatever is necessary. They’re waiting for you to lead them as you always have.” “Then how do we proceed?” Heinrich’s serrated smile stretched across his furry face, punctuated by his beady, red eyes. “With a show of force, Percy,” said Heinrich. “Mr. Mackelby here is to act as director of a new civil security department. Once the necessary measures have been taken, all you’ll have to do is what you’ve always done—read the script, flash your smile, and garner support. Your people will love you for it.” # September 19th, 2049 The summer was brutal and hot, and as it ended, Percy wondered if his country could ever truly heal. Director Mackelby’s new position heading the Government Office of Unity, Diplomacy, and Amity, or GOUDA, has proved essential to maintaining order. With the establishment of several state-of-the-art federal prisons across Pluriba and the proliferation of undercover GOUDA agents throughout the territories, political agitators have scurried back underground like the vermin they are. Schools reopened as violent crime plummeted and reached record-breaking, all-time lows. “ We cannot become complacent,” warned Jermander. “The dissidents will rise and strike again, more organized than they ever were before. We must stay vigilant.”   Percy   knew this—felt it in his bones—but Jermander was the one to say the quiet part out loud. It was the calm before the storm, and everyone was on edge. Perhaps that’s why Percy lent his signature to a parade of Heinrich’s newly parented  hires, a mess of directors, generals, ambassadors, consuls, secretaries, and judges, all under the watchful advisory of a High Rodentry official. When the Foundation’s Vivian de Tableau entered his office, riding on the shoulder of a former preschool teacher, it was fear that decided Percy’s silence. When Heinrich explained that the young woman’s blonde, Barbie-like looks and slender frame lent themselves well to the camera as Pluriba’s new Press Secretary, he’d only nodded and signed on the dotted line. Day after day, signature after signature, the halls of the Capitol building, once lively and filled with laughter, fell silent as these strangers shuffled about their daily routines. And like Mr. Mackelby, they strolled around the Capitol campus with vacant eyes and eager grins.  I’m sorry, sir or madame, your partner will not be returning home for the foreseeable future. I know you’d wish for them to be there, watching the children grow up, but their country needs them now. Please remember on every passing birthday, every quiet Thanksgiving, and every Christmas missed, their sacrifices are for you. Sincerely, President Percival Bower. Percy hand-wrote the letters himself, the throbbing arthritis in his hand acting as a sort of flagellant penance. He deserved it, all the aching, the burning, and the swelling, for his impotence. Yet as he penned those letters, he enjoyed the comforting embrace of the leather-bound executive’s chair tucked safely away in the ivory tower of the Capitol building, high above the chaos below. A gaggle of Heinrich’s guards barged into his office in pairs, each carrying five-by-ten-foot thick glass panes as they muddied the Persian rug with their boots. “What are you doing? What is all this?” asked Percy. “Careful!” cried Heinrich from the shoulder of one guard. “Don’t let the sharp corners get caught on the drapes! If they rip, I know none of you can afford to replace them!” He leaped off the man’s shoulder and onto the executive’s desk.  “Heinrich, what’s going on?” “Preparation, Percy. Vivian has been hard at work garnering support online for the administration and GOUDA. Please, look at this.” Heinrich crawled about the desk, turning on the desktop computer that Percy barely knew how to use. He scurried on the keyboard on all fours and navigated to the official social media accounts of Pluriba’s federal administration. “At first, we struggled to gain any meaningful traction on the algorithmic tides. But then Vivian had a marvelous breakthrough.” He jumped off the keyboard and onto the mouse, riding it like a skateboard, and clicked on a video posted two weeks ago. In it, Vivian’s human mouthpiece was walking through a cell block of one of the new GOUDA prisons.  “This isn’t even really a prison,” she says in the video, vlogging her visit. “It’s more like a resort than anything. I’d like, totally come here even without getting court ordered.” The video cuts to the Press Secretary face-to-face with a man behind steel bars. “All of Pluriba wants to know,” she says to the man, “what are you  being re-parented for?” She stared into the camera blankly, more concerned with the integrity of her makeup than the man’s answer. The prisoner looked into the lens, his cheeks hollow, his eyes stained red by tears that have run dry. “Please,” he begged. “Let me go.” “Nuh uh, buster! Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time! Now answer the question for the good people of Pluriba.” “I-I’m just a geneticist, I worked for the Foundation, please,” the man begged. “I did what I was told, I ran the tests exactly as ordered, I don’t understand what is happening, but I heard them! They can speak, damn it! I know they can!” The man broke down and fell to his knees, groveling. “But those lies you keep telling, honey, they have consequences. People believed you and got really mad. They destroyed stuff and hurt a lot of people.” “Please… I only want to see my family…” “Well, that’s a bit cheesy, dontcha think?” said the woman, giggling as the video ended. “Heinrich, why would you show me this?” asked Percy. “How does this lunacy help us garner support?” “Look here,” said the rat, pointing at the post’s engagement metrics. It sat at twenty-seven million views, dwarfing the several thousand that official accounts normally accumulated. As Heinrich scrolled through the comments, Percy’s mouth gradually opened. He expected outrage, calls to arms, petitions for his head to be first on the guillotine, but instead the screen filled with comment after comment of snarks and banter. “ OMG! I can’t believe this monster’s a father!” “Angels like her shouldn’t be around such horrible men.” “What a loon! Hope he gets the help he needs!” “A man that cheesy would make a great rat meal.” Percy shut the monitor off. “That’s enough, Heinrich. I want nothing to do with this.” The rat lord climbed up Percy’s torso and sat atop his head. Leaning into the President’s ear, he whispered, “That’s the beauty of it, Percy. You don’t have to lift a finger, and your people will still love you. Post after post, they joke with us, laugh with us, all about the sheer insanity that rats could ever talk. They believe the rebels are mentally ill at best and bloodthirsty criminals at worst, a common enemy to ostracize, regardless. Humor, it seems, is a winning strategy.” “But what about the glass?” he asked, glancing at the guards still out on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. “Oh, that? Precaution is all—bulletproof glass for next weekend when we invite your loyal public to a live address that their dear president will give.” “A what?” Percy said, quaking as he reached for his pills. “Once the word spreads, the agitators are sure to come show their disapproval. Jermander and his GOUDA agents will be here when they do, and then the hearts of the people will be ours forever.” # September 24th, 2049 Hundreds of thousands of people piled into the crowded courtyard to hear their precious leader speak. Men and women alike showed their support for the administration in their own ways. Some cheered Percy’s name and waved Pluriba’s flag above them as their children climbed atop their shoulders for a better view. Others sang patriotic folk songs, strumming their guitars as crowds formed around them. “They say the rats done come to take our freedom today, oh darlin’ they can’t be helped, just lock ‘em away…”  Signs and banners dotted the crowd. “The real rats are in the schools teaching our kids!” read one. “Rats can’t talk! IT’S JUST FACTS!” read another. And throughout the ridiculing, uproarious crowd, several onlookers showed their support with rat costumes. Many wore those cheap, rubber Halloween masks with chemical smells that leave you questioning their effect on your health, while others wore full-body fur suits complete with paws and a tail.  Percy rehearsed Heinrich’s speech for days, obsessing over the details. Where should the pauses be? Where should I chuckle? Any frowns? Any smiles? Look left? Look right? Remember the hand gestures, always punctuate with your hands. The words now flowed effortlessly from his mouth, devoid of meaning, if they ever had any to begin with. He was ready to play his part. Inside the executive’s office, the entirety of President Percy’s newly appointed entourage was present, each with their own High Rodentry adviser perched proudly on their head. One by one, Percy shook the shallow hands of his cabinet members. “Sir,” said Director Mackelby as Percy shook his hand. Jermander stroked his mustachioed whiskers and nodded in agreement. “You’re gonna do great, sweetie,” said the Press Secretary. “Break a leg!” echoed Vivian. Percy made his rounds through the room, then stood before Heinrich Von Rattenspieler’s golden throne and extended his arm. The rat lord inserted a wireless, two-way radio in his ear and crawled up through his sleeve, stashing himself beneath the President’s toupee.  “It’s time,” said Von Rattenspieler on the radio for all officials and guards to hear, “to make Pluriba proud.” Percy swung open the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony, the bulletproof glass panels towering ten feet high and bordering him on all sides. He felt safe behind those thick shields, yet exposed, like an aquarium fish with no rock or plant to hide in. GOUDA agents flanked the crowd in each cardinal direction. A handful of agents hid on the Capitol building’s rooftop, deploying sniper rifles. Armored trucks with reinforcements stood elsewhere at the ready. Percy approached the podium at the balcony’s edge and tapped on the microphone. The crowd dropped their diversions and fell quiet as they turned their attention up toward their President. Only the occasional cough and baby babble broke through the respectful silence. Percy leaned in and spoke. “I am President Percival Bower,” he said, “and I want to welcome you all to the first annual Ratter’s Day Rally.” The crowd erupted in cheer. “PER-CY! PER-CY! PER-CY!” they chanted, and for the first time in his life, Percy felt like he had achieved something real. “Earlier this year, a few sick, so-called experts ,” said Percy, making sure to use air quotes for emphasis, “chose to spread traitorous lies about the Von Rattenspieler Foundation and my administration. At first, we chose to respect their right to live in a fantasy world of their own creation. It was freedoms like those, we thought, that made Pluriba the greatest nation on Earth. I will be the first to admit it; we were wrong.” Light cheers and whistles flitted through the crowd. “A few months ago, a vocal minority of Pluribans took those lies to heart. They began rallying and marching, demanding that the government and the rest of the public bend to the will of their delusions. I am proud to say, my administration never did, and never will.” “Let’s go, Percy!” yelled a supporter in a rat mask. “We love you!” The radio in Percy’s ear sprang to life and a rooftop agent reported in. “Tangos on route, azimuth one-nine-five, standby,” said the sniper. “Affirmative,” replied an agent on the ground. Percy’s heart sputtered in his chest. “And when their demands fell on deaf ears,” continued Percy, lightheaded, sweat beading on his face, “these terrorists , yes, terrorists , not rebels , not revolutionaries , these terrorists  threw the largest, most violent tantrum in this nation’s history. Their armed riots shut down entire cities, cost innocent citizens their lives, and did irrevocable damage to our communities—all to somehow convince us that rats can talk!” The crowd burst into laughter at the thought. “Tangos in the open,” said an agent on the private channel. “Weapons visible.” “Our GOUDA agents have done marvelous work restoring order across the country. And so, as you enjoy the festivities of the first ever Ratter’s Day celebration, remember those brave men and women holding our nation together. In honor of them, and the insanity we’ve all endured this year, I declared September 24th National Ratter’s Day—the day sanity prevailed. E Pluribus Unum? No. E Pluribus Ratterkind!” The crowd was in an uproar, their cheers and shouts shaking the glass panes that wrapped around the balcony. “RAT-TER-KIND! RAT-TER-KIND!” they chanted, jumping up and down and hugging each other as tears streamed down their smiling faces. As the people celebrated, rebels approached from the southwest, armed and carrying an enormous banner that read “The Truth Shall Set Us Free.” They pushed into the crowd, forcing back the celebrating masses with intimidating chants of their own. “Snipers,” said Heinrich Von Rattenspieler on the radio channel, “neutralize the banner carriers.” A single shot rang true as a banner carrier fell to the blood-stained ground, the banner crashing as the others prepared their weapons. A cavalcade of armored GOUDA trucks encircled the agitators and opened fire. Blood rained down on the crowd as they zigzagged in all directions, desperate to escape the massacre. The more patriotic attendees joined in with the GOUDA forces, tackling the rebels and wrestling their rifles away. Percy watched the chaos unfold from the balcony, his face pallid and numb as bullets ricocheted off the glass. A costumed attendee reveled in the carnage, his ratty fur suit soaked from the slaughter. He snatched a rebel’s rifle, cackling as he unloaded it point-blank into the rebel’s now mutilated face. “ This  is the new Pluriba!” declared Heinrich on the radio. “Look at how my people love me!” Percy scrambled back inside, the world melting away as sweat dripped down his face, his heart beating out of his chest. He threw himself at the executive’s desk and opened the drawer. “My pills!” said the ragged old man. “Where are my pills!?” He collapsed to the floor, gasping in short, punctuated breaths as his cabinet stood there and stared at him, inhuman smiles on all their faces. Help me, he thought, but he could not speak. He clutched his heart. Please…  Heinrich crawled out from beneath Percy’s hairpiece. “You did great, Percival,” whispered the rat lord in his ear, “but it’s a new era now. I’m sure your son and grandson will make fine, fresh faces for my new regime.” Heinrich’s cabinet left the room, leaving the two alone. “Shh,” whispered Von Rattenspieler as Percy’s world faded black, “it’s alright. It’s okay. Now you will never question me again.” Percy’s eyes widened as his arms grasped at ghosts in the air. Von Rattenspieler nestled in even closer to his dear companion’s wilted ear. “ Always ,” he said, his serrated teeth brushing against Percy’s cochlea, “ know your betters. ”

‘jumentous’ means resembling the urine of a horse, especially in odor  lately I have been having too much fun throwing stuff away. way too much fun disregarding anything that might prove useful in the near future. (maybe because there won’t be one?)   blank picture frames on white walls. every room a wide space filled with nothing. some rectangular plain to get lost in. spending all my money on lottery tickets and sex chats with bored college students. deleting photographs. terminating keepsakes like dirty little pests found at the back of my drawer. overriding memories with useless information, words, definitions. ‘nudicaudate’ means having a hairless tail. there. another one gone. maybe from a nice summer day, fifteen years ago, where everything was quite alright. in those lukewarm hours of unspecific delight filled with terabytes of brain-rotting entertainment, energy drinks and this youthful apathy towards life’s virginity, where the urge to eradicate the self was still somewhat underdeveloped, still in its larval state. but since then, it has grown into this elephantine creature. and even now it keeps on growing. so I have to make room for it. I have to. otherwise I’m done for. at least that’s what I tell myself as I think about cutting off one of my little fingers. because who needs one of those anyway. am I right? by the way, ‘fabiform’ means shaped like a bean. childhood dreams of a kid who fell on his head one too many times when I was young, I always wanted to become one of those old farts I had seen so many times strolling through my hometown. I’m speaking of those scruffy, ugly, depraved motherfuckers wearing nothing but checkered boxer shorts and those gray, washed-out undershirts that always show off their bulbous belly in such an elegant way. those exiled warriors of a war never fought who have already downed five beers and finished their first pack of cigarettes by 8 a.m. forever leaning, hunched over on the balustrade of their withered first-floor balconies. sometimes belching, other times scratching their asses but always observing everyone who dares to pass by. staring at them with nothing but godlike disgust on their smoke-veiled, wrinkled faces. if you color the bars of a bar chart gray and make them all identical in length, you got yourself a nice digital prison door and some of us only grow up to slightly alternate some random digits in a statistic about suicide created by an overworked social worker who has to use a pirated word processor because one cannot simply make ends meet by being overtly compassionate.    crunching numbers in the face of despair.  speaking of senseless acts:   for years now I’ve thought about   a fitting death poem   for my crooked existence. there were kitsch drafts about burnt flowers destined to dissipate with the next morning breeze, similes about dead pit ponies decaying in abandoned mine shafts, the usual raunchy bullshit about porn, sluttishness, and the glory of the premature ERUPTION. but all in all, nothing substantial came to mind. I guess, my fate truly is to just become one with certain numeric undulations.  we will dance with the devil until mushroom clouds darken the horizon and even then we won’t have enough of this sweet waltz they’re speaking of brownouts in Japan, cows with wooden tongues, massacres in Myanmar, child-raping priests in the U.S., the possibility of a NUCLEAR WAR, shortages, bankruptcies, famines, vaccines, some pretentious artist and his latest ground-breaking vernissage, the health issues of too much sleep, of too little sleep, of no sleep at all.  they’re speaking about the ATOMIC BOMB. they also like to gossip about red meat. and that it causes CANCER. about poisonous chemicals in the water, in the rain, in your spit and how all of them cause CANCER too. about oral sex, cell phone radiation, multivitamin pills, sugar drinks, avocado shampoo... and, you guessed it, sooner or later they all cause CANCER.  everything seems to cause CANCER nowadays and we can’t do shit. it’s the age of information, baby. there is simply no escape. they will tell you that you simply NEED this new spectacular high-class blender in your phony kitchen set-up because otherwise why bother being alive? oh wait, too poor for that? no problem. they tell you how to save money preparing your instant ramen with your used bathwater. they also inform you in which intervals you should eat, shit and fuck, even give you advice on how to potty train your child, dog or husband.  whatever you do, they know what’s best. kind of like God.  and though you might outgrow the Almighty you can’t get away from being informed. ever.  they are so omnipresent you can’t even rub one out without feeling like they know exactly what made you do it.  the feet pictures of the teenage actress, the man in the supermarket holding a cucumber, your co-worker stretching his back and letting loose an all too suggestive moan. extra! extra! dirty little freak on page one! the only good thing is most of us are too insignificant for them to notice. but no need to be down in the dumps.  because watch! they are talking about dehorned elephants in Botswana, a new carrot detox, the climate, the right way to say “he fucking offed himself”, mass stabbings on trains and buses, a new disease that will KILL US ALL, revolutionary room fresheners, the positive aspects of a NUCLEAR WAR, the negative aspects of a NUCLEAR WAR, the new autumn collection and how this ultra-thin chick fell on her bony ass presenting it. look! they’re even speaking about the...  Tobias Seim is some guy who quit school, learned nothing, and now spends his time reading and writing. At least occasionally. Some of his stuff has appeared in A Thin Slice of Anxiety ,  Fixator Press , and  oddball magazine .

Sarah Rhinestone had skin on her mind as her train pulled into Los Angeles Union Station after a day trip to San Diego. Specifically, skin wrapped around her entire body, soothing insecure corners and alleviating old fears that it was impossible to achieve a perfect orgasm. She was skilled at maintaining a stoic expression; for all her fellow passengers knew, she was thinking about how beautiful the LA weather was. But once she returned  to her bedroom later that night… well, there would be no need to look so unmoved.  It was a well-known statistic that women generally had a more difficult time achieving sexual climax than men. Maybe it was a matter of biological complexity – their pleasure organs held more nuance than a man’s one-and-done erector set – or it was simply that they had higher expectations. Either way, it frequently left them stranded in the subconscious corridors of fantasy and synthetic vibrations, which was fine enough but still left a lot to be desired.  Most of Sarah’s friends claimed to have experienced at least one moment of bedroom bliss throughout their young adult lives, but these moments were typically with emotionally detached individuals whose physical prowess compensated for their apathy. Sarah knew this would never work for her; a genuine emotional bond was essential to maximum pleasure. Which of course implied an uphill battle; physical compatibility was tough enough to find, but emotional and spiritual synchronization? Forget about it.  *** “Any action lately?” her reliably candid friend Jenny asked her one semi-tipsy evening at their favorite neighborhood bar. “Nothing worth noting.” “You really should get back on the apps.” “No thanks.” “Oh, c’mon, Sarah! You haven’t had any bad experiences on them.” “But I haven’t had any good ones.” “Well, you just have to be patient!” “If Tinder cared about patience, they’d have a very different business model.” Sarah took another sip of whisky and closed her eyes, wishing she could float away at this very moment. Jenny was nice enough company, but she’d also had enough of “nice enough.” Was it truly that impossible to be understood by another person?  “You’ve got to stop being so philosophical about everything!” “And you’ve got to stop being so shallow about everything, Jenny.” Alcohol often brought out bitterness in Sarah, something she usually regretted the morning after.  Jenny looked offended but immediately searched for a synthetic scapegoat. “I think you’ve had too much to drink.” “I’m barely tipsy, actually.” “Even so. Do you really think I’m shallow?” Sarah thought about this for a moment, her sober mind seeming to agree with her inebriated one. “Maybe ‘shallow’ is too strong a word. But I do think you could afford to be a little more philosophical.” “I’ll try. But I’ve always thought philosophy was overrated. Life is too short to think deeply about everything.” “But don’t you see? Even that qualifies as a philosophical thought. You’re more deep than you think you are.” “I suppose so.” Jenny took one last sip of her drink and then stood up, ready to go. “But I’d rather stay shallow for the time being.” “Why? Life is so much more fulfilling when you think deeply about everything.” “And much more miserable.” This struck a chord with Sarah; she knew it to be true, even if she didn’t want it to be. “Well, sometimes sadness is the price of genuine happiness.” “Who the fuck said that?” “Me.” “That doesn’t make any sense.”  “It will in time.”  “I doubt it.” Jenny started to dance awkwardly, the need to relieve herself overtaking her. “I really need to pee before we go.”  “Me too.” They both proceeded towards the bathroom, Jenny continuing her awkward dance with Fred Astaire-levels of brilliance. On their way there, Jenny spotted a hot-enough guy and suddenly felt relieved of her need to relieve herself.  “I’ve got to talk to him,” she whispered to Sarah. “I thought you had to pee!” “It can wait.” Jenny made sure she had enough cleavage showing and then strutted over to the mysterious hot-enough dude. Sarah just rolled her eyes and disappeared into the bathroom, not expecting to see Jenny right away when she came back out; the girl had a knack for hooking up with strangers instantly. She was a little jealous of such kinky charisma, but simultaneously grateful she didn’t possess it herself; genuine emotional connections were too important to her.  She decided to sleep over at Jenny’s one-bedroom apartment but instantly regretted it, kept up all night by the sounds of pleasure in the adjacent room. For a little while she tried to match the delectable decibels by engaging some fantasies of her own accord, but they couldn’t possibly compete without a flesh-and-blood person . Discouraged, she took one last mental snapshot of what she imagined her college crush looked like naked, then drifted off into the land of subconsciousness, praying for an erotic dream. When she woke up the following morning, she felt emptier than she usually did. Jenny seemed so too; her one-night date had left at 6 AM for his coffee shop gig, and it was beginning to sink in that she didn’t really want to see him again.  “Well, that was interesting,” Jenny confessed, hoping to guilt-trip Sarah into sympathetic follow-up questions. “Uh-oh. Did he try some weird moves or something?” “Not exactly. He was actually pretty traditional. Too traditional.” “I’m sorry.” “Nah, nothing to be sorry for. I didn’t really like him that much anyway. He kinda had big dick energy. But usually that means he also has a decent-sized set of utensils.” “And did he?” “Not as big as his energy. I had to fake it, then look up my favorite video when he was sleeping.” “Well, better luck next time.” “I think I’m running out of good luck. My beginner’s streak is wearing thin.” “I’ll bet you’ll have a comeback sooner or later.” “We’ll see. How about YOU?”  Sarah blushed, not really wanting to be honest. “I attempted some mental gymnastics to keep up with you two in the other room. But it didn’t really do the trick.” “You could have come home with someone last night if you wanted to. I saw all sorts of guys looking at you...” “None of them were my type.” “They don’t have to be your type for one fun night.” “Agree to disagree.” Sarah stood up and prepared to head out. “Leaving already?” “Yeah, I’ve got a lot of stuff to do.” “Like what?” “I’m not sure yet, I just know it’s a lot.” Jenny tried not to look too offended. “Okay. If you want to talk more, you know I’m always here.” “Yes, thanks, Jenny. Sorry if I seem grouchy. I’m just tired.” “You’ve been grouchy a lot lately. Unless you’re just tired all the time.” “That probably plays a part of it. I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep lately.” “Don’t you ever try NyQuil?” “Sometimes. But it would be nice to fall asleep naturally, you know?” “It helps if someone else is in bed with you…” Sarah laughed. “You have a one-track mind, don’t you.” “I just want you to be happy.” “I am happy. We just define it differently.” “If you say so.” Having reached a moot point, Sarah and Jenny said goodbye and carried on with their  days. Sarah didn’t actually have a lot of stuff to do, but she wanted to; how could she spend her time productively? A shopping spree was tempting, but she was basically broke and felt like a loser going to Goodwill for a cute outfit. Maybe a movie? Nah, there was nothing out she wanted to see. Perhaps she could be charitable and call her mother or grandmother. But then they’d probably ask her probing questions about her love life, and she’d had enough of that for a week. Best just to relax at home and sink into depression; at least she wouldn’t become any more broke than she already was.   Of course, there was always Tinder… no no no, she’d had enough of fuckboys. Hinge perhaps? Nah, just more fuckboys who were able to hide it better. Maybe she could be old-fashioned and go to a local speed dating event, but those were typically super cringe and filled with desperate people on the cusp of 40. Better to just be lonely and fine with it.  Well, until she started drinking, and loneliness felt like the worst thing a person was capable of being. Why did society seem to punish people for not having lots of friends or a partner? It should be the other way around; loneliness implied integrity and uniqueness, whereas friendship always ended up demanding some semblance of compromise and conformity.  The drinking inevitably led to sensual fantasies, which her artist’s imagination could usually foster without the aid of external resources. Her visions were somewhat traditional despite the occasional kink ; she immersed herself in simulated scenes of corporal and emotional union, the ethereal sensation of being consumed by another person’s mutual desire. Once her fantasies reached a climax, she typically felt a mixture of hope and emptiness; how could any real human compete with such imaginary perfection? *** “Are you ever envious of asexual people?” Sarah asked her therapist Marcia during one rather boring session of “I hear you, I hear you;” even therapists sometimes ran out of wise things to say.  “In what way?” “Like, they don’t feel the pressure to find good sex or true romance like most of us do. They can just enjoy their lives and love themselves without any other person involved.” “I’m not so sure that’s true. Just because they don’t feel much sexual desire doesn’t mean they don’t crave love from another person. I think they have it just as hard.” “If you say so.” Sarah didn’t feel like playing devil’s advocate; in fact, she wanted to wrap up this dead-end therapy session even quicker than usual. “Got any spare advice for my love life?” “Sarah, we’ve gone over this before. I don’t know you well enough to give you good advice about that.” “You don’t know that. Sometimes the best love-life advice comes from people you don’t know very well.”  “I suppose. Well, I know how you feel about the apps. Have you tried going to a speed dating event?” “I did once, and it was super cringe. I think I was the youngest person there.” “Okay, scratch that then. How about randomly approaching a guy you find attractive?” “I’ve never had the courage for that.” “Then just sit back and let them come to you.” “Most guys don’t have the courage for that either.”  “Fair point. Well, it’ll happen when you least expect it.” “Please don’t say that. That’s, like, the most condescending cliche ever invented.”  Marcia blushed. “Sorry, I didn’t know you felt that way.” “It’s okay.” Sarah felt bad for trolling her therapist; she should really just stop going altogether.  “Then it’ll happen when you most  expect it.” “That’s just as bad.”  “Then why do you keep coming here, Sarah?” Sarah didn’t really have a good answer. She felt even more guilty but tried not to show it. “I know you’re a good therapist, Marcia. And I need a good therapist. But I’m also very stubborn.” “That’s an understatement.”  “Okay, prideful too. But pride is essential to human dignity, right?” “That’s a bit too philosophical for me. But I see your point.” Marcia paused for a moment, trying not to let her own pride overcome her professionalism. “Anything else you’d like to share?” “Not really.”  “Well, then I hope you enjoy the rest of your day.” “Thank you.” Sarah stood up and then got out of there as fast as she could, not planning to return. She stopped for a coffee on the way back to her apartment and then started to cry, suddenly overcome by the desire for someone to turn on a Keurig machine just for her. This had never happened in her life, not even when she visited her parents; she’d only started liking coffee a year or two ago, and most people tended to remember their first impressions of her, which meant she would forever be doomed to anti-espresso assumptions. But was there any act of love more genuine than someone spontaneously offering to make a caffeinated drink for you and only you? The Starbucks vanilla latte tasted more like sugar than espresso, and she instantly regretted buying it after her first sip. But she wasn’t about to waste $7, so she suffered through the rest of it and then bought some saltine crackers as a palate cleanser. It was seeming like Tinder-o’clock despite her principled objections; what was the point of having values and convictions anyway? Everyone compromised them eventually; selling one’s soul was often necessary to keep one’s body functioning. Making what was probably her 100th profile in 6 months, she typed in “short term, open to long” just to expand her options and then began swiping like her life depended on it. There were a few promising faces and a smattering of genuinely witty bios, but overall she felt the way she always did after swiping for an hour: empty and sick of mediocrity. If achieved, an average orgasm lasted for what, 30 seconds? Was a half a minute’s pleasure really worth faking interest in a disinterested stranger whose penis might be the most interesting thing about him? IT’S A   MATCH!  The sparkling green words on the screen excited her, despite how pathetic she felt immediately afterwards. Apparently her hook had caught a tall, blue-eyed fish named Daryl with a bio that read, “Poet who loves cherishing the little details about you.” She crossed her fingers that he wasn’t a no-one’s-ever-really-understood-me-before “nice guy” and then decided to take the initiative. “What’s the first little detail you’d like to know about me?” Daryl’s response came even quicker than she expected. “Hmm…What’s something about you that most people don’t know, but you wish they did?” Wow, this was actually a good question! She had to think about it for a moment, then replied, “I hate words of affirmation. The nicer people are to me, the more quickly I resent them.” “Duly noted. Why is that?” “I guess I’ve always associated niceness with abandonment. As long as people are nice, they don’t have to legitimately care about you.” “I can see that. I’ve experienced that from time to time. But people mean well.” Ugh, Sarah hated it when people used “good intentions” as an excuse for all the emotional pain they caused. She almost unmatched with Daryl right away but decided to challenge him, “But who cares if people mean well? The impact is the only thing that matters, not the intent.”  “I guess that makes sense.” Sarah hated a man too overeager to agree. “You guess, or you know ?” “I mean, I’m not sure anyone can really know anything…” Unmatched! Sarah simply did not want to waste her time; she then promptly deleted Tinder, took a shot of vodka, and attempted to entertain her favorite sexual fantasy but was overcome by sleepiness before she could climax. Maybe she’d be lucky and have a wet dream. Or maybe she’d be even luckier and wake up as an asexual person.  The following morning, she walked to her favorite bookstore, not expecting to buy anything but looking forward to the bliss of aimlessly browsing. As soon as she walked in, she was greeted by a new bookseller named Mike, who looked about her age and was attractive in an unconventional sort of way. “Are you new here?” she immediately asked, having gotten to know all the other booksellers on a first-name basis. “I am, this is my third day. Are you a regular?” “Yeah, I come in at least once a week. It’s my favorite place in the city.” “Aww, that’s awesome. I’m Mike.” “I’m Sarah. Nice to meet you.” “Same. What kind of books do you normally like to buy?” “I actually don’t buy anything usually, just browse. But when I do, I enjoy biographies of people who inspire me.” “Ooh, interesting, I don’t hear that very often. I like biographies too. Do you have a favorite one that you’ve read?” “Well, it’s kind of a basic answer, but The Diary of Anne Frank . That girl’s the definition of a hero. I wish I was that mature at 13 years old.” “Haha, agreed. I love that book too.” Mike smiled in a warm, grandfatherly way, as if he was a gentle old man trapped in a restless young person’s body. Sarah found it kinda hot, and she swiftly started imagining what kissing him would be like before grounding herself and continuing the small talk with virtuous detachment, even if she was anything but detached.  “What made you want to work at a bookstore?” “Well, as basic as it sounds in this city, I’m a writer, and I liked the idea of being surrounded by writing. It’s very inspirational.” “That makes sense. I’m a writer too.” “Oh really! I’d love to read some of your work.” “Aww, that’s so sweet of you. But it’s not very good.”  “I doubt that. You’re just too humble.” “Maybe I am.” The rest of the conversation became a blur to Sarah; it was a pretty quiet day at the bookstore, and she soon realized she was the sole focus of Mike’s attention. After they had talked for what might have been an entire hour, Mike inquired: “Would you like some coffee? We have a Keurig machine in the break room.” Sarah smiled, then started to cry messy tears. “I… I’d love some.” Sam Hendrian is a Los Angeles-based filmmaker, poet, and playwright striving to foster empathy through art. From writing personalized poems for passersby outside of LA's oldest independent bookstore every Sunday, to making Chaplin-esque silent films about loneliness and human connection once a month, Sam lives to make other people feel seen and validated. More poems and films can be found on Instagram at @samhendrian143 .

Remember the night we fell in love? A pebble beach under us, stars above.  I leaned in to kiss you and tasted beer and sea salt. Lying on a tartan blanket, you told me no one ever kissed you in a way that made you feel like you were falling, and flying, and spinning all at once. We saw a shooting star that night. Do you remember, Stella? You told me the shooting star was an omen. We were meant to be. I woke the next morning with the corona of your blonde curls tickling my nose, breathing in your salt-tang, sun lotion scent. I longed to trace the constellations of freckles on your shoulders, but didn’t want to wake you and break the spell. I found our shooting star the next day. It was nothing but a star-shaped plastic, helium-filled balloon, its scrunched-up silver foil shell already flaking and faded, the helium half gone, its string snagged in a tree. I never told you that, did I? Your bags and boxes gradually filled my damp little studio. Your lotions and potions cluttered the tiny shower room where I heard you retch and gasp every morning. Too early for that galaxy of cells, swirling and splitting in your belly to be mine. Did you think I didn’t know? You wanted me to believe, so I believed. Because I loved you. I never believed that lie, just the happily-ever-after I wished for on a plastic star-shaped balloon skittering across the sea on a night breeze. You, me, and a tiny nebula of life.  I climbed the tree and unhooked the string, rescued our shooting star. Even though it was plastic, it was real to me. You ate banana and bacon sandwiches in bed. I doubled my hours and bought a crib, saved for a deposit on a bigger place, carried you over the threshold like the bride I promised to make you. Did you have your fingers crossed when you said yes? Or did you mean it, just for a little while? I kept that deflated balloon in my box of treasures. Your number; a neon lipstick scrawl on a paper napkin. A photo of you, round-bellied in denim dungarees, yellow paint smudged on one cheek, the day we decorated the nursery. The promise ring I gave you. Every memory feels like a plastic shooting star. I bought a star-shaped plushy the day Astrid was born. I cradled her while she slept, my heart a starburst of love. You were as distant as the Milky Way. Exhausted, I thought, but there were already light-years between us. Astrid was three when you left, but you’d started slowly slipping away long before; whatever feelings you had for me deflating like that tatty old balloon. You took your potions and pots, your sun lotion and shoes. You slammed the door behind you and drifted off, buffeted by unseen breezes. Astrid, in her play pen, hugged her plushy and gave me a twinkling smile. My true north star. Jude is currently working out what she wants to do with her life after being a full-time carer for several years. She has writing in a few places, including Does It Have Pockets, Punk Noir and Trash Cat Lit. She never says no to tea or cats, is partial to puns and wordplay and has phobias of jelly and squirrels.

Thinks She Sees Everything Ma plucks straight pins from the cushion, grips half between her lips, hems my too-long taffeta bridesmaid’s dress. Reminds me I should be marrying Marvin. Grumbles I’m smarter than my flush frumpy cousin. Grunts the planets are misaligned. Scraps of unasked-for counsel fly from Ma’s lips like a fortune teller in a hurry, one squinty eye on her crystal ball, one on her watch. Tellin’ you, she cautions. Outside, crows flutter, peck on the window.  Ruby  Spit-shines the coins in her penny loafers. Buffs leather. Freshens her mouth with Pepsodent. Brushes for five minutes. Gargles Lavoris. Laughs off those who judge her, blinding them with teeth white as bobby sox. Clicks open her compact, teases her cotton candy hair. Puffs Marlboro rings with her married boyfriend in his Plymouth at the Starlite drive-in, East of Eden ripping on the screen. Breathes  fiery with want, promise fogging the windows. Belly swelling a forecast. After the Glitch and Garble of Their Latest Spat, Rita Looks to the Treetops Jeb unwilling to change into clean clothes for the standing rib roast and scalloped potatoes she’d toiled over all afternoon. Rita stepping out onto the stoop, awaiting a whoosh of wind to lift her up and deposit her into a nest. Rita scrunching cozy into feathers, twigs, and speckled blue eggs a hairsbreadth from cracking. Jeb leaving for work the next morning. Rita waving a wing. Whipping around. Flicking tail. Dropping hello’s  on her husband.  Mikki Aronoff lives in New Mexico, where she writes tiny stories and advocates for animals. She has stories in  Best Microfiction 2024  and in  Best Small Fictions 2024  and upcoming in  Best Microfiction 2025  and Best Small Fictions 2025 .

This story was originally published by Free Spirit “Speak of the Devil” Anthology. The casting director guided the girl with glasses in the wheelchair down the hallway of Cavern Studios. “You’ll want to get a snack and a coffee in the breakroom, where you meet the other actors,” he insisted. “Filming for the next slasher movie begins in fifteen minutes.” The girl with thick glasses reached out to get the door, but a gangly kid with a wild mop of black hair held it open. “Hi,” he said with a voice cracking. “I’m Guy Hopkins. Welcome to our only interlude from dying today.” ### The girl in the wheelchair looked around the room to see an ivory refrigerator covered with death notices. There was a messy microwave, a coffeemaker that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the days of Juan Valdez, and a half-consumed jar of peanut butter. There was also an oven and stovetop covered with a few kernels of popcorn. A dull fluorescent light above gave the room the look of a creepy sanitarium. To her left, a guy with too much gel slicking back his brown hair gave her a thumbs up. He was wearing a letterman jacket from the local college. Next to him, a cheerleader in the same school colors had her head buried in an issue of the National Enquirer.  She gave a wave without breaking concentration from the tabloid. “That’s Rusty Nailor,” Guy pointed to the muscular kid in the letterman jacket. “All-Conference at everything, including the first to be killed in every slasher flick. Next to him is his girlfriend, Suzanne Copy, head cheerleader, who currently leads the school in the number of times being kidnapped.” She rolled her eyes, then showed her wrists, the only blemishes on her otherwise perfect skin. “And what’s your character?” the girl in the wheelchair asked the guy who opened the door for her. “Everyone calls him ‘Hot Pocket,’” Rusty explained. “Why?” “Because in high school, my mom packed them in my Scooby-Doo lunch box. I’m always spending my lunchtime looking for a working microwave on campus,” Guy said. Suzanne put down her tabloid after having circled her horoscope. “He’s the goofy sidekick to either the hero or the ‘last girl’ heroine, hon.” “Except I never make it to the end,” Hot Pocket whined. “I’ve been killed in these films so many times that I think it’s illegal to sell me life insurance anymore.” “In other words,” Suzanne explained. “We’re the slasher film victim archetypes.” ### Rusty stood up. “They’ve got us all typecast. And they own our contracts, so we can’t get out of here.” Suzanne pointed to the doors. “The director, Warren Cavern, has guards who won’t let us leave the set of the films. So we’re stuck here physically, as well as financially.” Hot Pocket groaned. “We keep getting killed off on stage, but he uses dark magic to bring us back to life every time. It’s like that movie Groundhog Day , if it took place on Halloween or Friday the 13th.” The girl with glasses gasped. “So I’m stuck here?” All nodded in reply. Rusty stood up. “But, you know, I’m more than just a man of strength, speed, and stamina. My real dream is to perform on Broadway, singing classic show tunes.” Suzanne and Hot Pocket put their hands up to their ears a second before the jock broke into a rendition of “Memory” from Cats, sung out of tune, along with an unnecessary key change. The girl with glasses quickly covered her ears as well. The cheerleader took her hands away from her ears once her boyfriend finished and started combing her hair. “I’m not just about being pretty and perky all of the time. I’ve got a dream too. I want to start a church camp where I direct the kid campers in morality plays. I want them to make the right decisions when they go to high school.” “Yeah,” Rusty laughed. “And not get drunk and make out with me after skinny…” “Shut up, Rusty!” she snapped. Hot Pocket jumped in. “I know I’m always joking around, but I’ve got big plans too. I want to be a game show host, like Bob Barker, Alex Trebek, or my favorite: Steve Harvey!” “He does like to joke around a lot,” the jock noted. “Yeah,” Hot Pocket replied. “I’ve been killed so many times in slasher films that I think I qualify as an honorary red shirt.” Suzanne gave him a side-eye. “What do you mean by red shirt? You always wear blue.” “It’s a Star Trek thing, I think,” Rusty guessed. Hot Pocket ignored them. “So who are you?” The girl with glasses in a wheelchair gave a nasal-sounding giggle. “I’m Marie Lovelace, named for two leading scientists, Marie Curie and Ada Lovelace. In high school, I won the science fair, the spelling bee, and the award for most hospitalizations for accidents. Just clumsy, I guess.” “Well, welcome to hell,” Rusty sighed. He pulled back his jacket to show stitches around  his neck. “I’ve had more injuries in these films than in my football-playing days.” Hot Pocket pulled up his t-shirt to reveal a myriad of surgeries. “I’ve had more organ repairs than a cathedral.” “No offense” Marie smiled. “But I’m the brain, so when I’m out there in the slasher movies, I’m going to outsmart the villain, or at least not fall into his traps.” “Good luck,” the cheerleader offered. ### 28 days later, Marie joined her fellow archetypes in the breakroom for another coffee break.  “Speak of the devil….How’s that outsmarting thing going?” Hot Pocket asked, eating a handful of Green M&Ms. The brain in the wheelchair sighed. “You’d think my I.Q. would make a difference, but no. Every time, the slasher wins.” “Warren Cavern writes all these scripts, so he decides who lives or dies,” Rusty the jock explained. “You can’t live through one of his horror flicks unless he allows it.” “I think he’s acting out his pathetic high school angst,” Suzanne opined. “Got bullied by the jocks and turned down by cheerleaders like me for dates to prom. Plus, he wasn’t as extroverted as guys like Hot Pocket. He kills us off to get even.” “Wait,” Marie held up her hand. “Can’t live through one of his horror flicks,” she repeated Rusty’s words. “That gives me an idea. What’s the schedule of movies that we have to shoot tomorrow?” Hot Pocket moved to the newest addition, a room with a small TV with streaming options—and hit a button on the remote. Don LaFontaine, the male voice from countless film previews, began his dramatic synopsis. “When angry parents killed Frankie, a corporate executive for marketing dangerous toys, they unleashed ‘The Nightmare on Wall Street,’ where this killer slays unsuspecting kids watching television with deadly subliminal advertising.” Only Hot Pocket laughed. Red-faced, he pushed the fast-forward button. A woman sounding like Nicole Kidman provided the chilling overview. “Tuesday the 26th is twice as unlucky for these Space Camp boys and girls when Justin Boorhes, an astronaut trainee who died in a tragic centripetal machine accident, exacts his revenge upon counselors and children alike.” Everyone looked at each other as if to say: “Is this for real?” Hot Pocket pressed the button, and the next preview was queued up. Michael Pena, of Ant-Man movie fame, gave his rapid-fire description. “Based on a college student film project, the scariest horror film of the summer features Fiberface stalking his victims in the desert with a deadly weapon in The New Mexico Weed Whacker Massacre .” Everyone’s jaws dropped, stunned into silence. Hot Pocket shrugged and hit another button. Keith David, the deep voice from Batman: The Animated Series fame, introduced the last film. “Arbor Day will never be the same as the ghost of lumberjack Mark Mayers uses his axes and saws to target teens camping on their spring break in Pisgah Forest …” Marie took the remote away and shut off the television. “Good God, is anyone going to watch this shlock?” Rusty shrugged. “Guess so.” “Slasher flicks sell, or they’d never make twenty Saw  films.” Hot Pocket pointed out. “You know, I was reading in Psychology Today  where Dr. Aloysius Hardee speculates that people compensate for misery in their life by watching popular entertainment where others suffer even more,” Suzanne stated. All looked at her with greater shock than they did for the film previews.   “What?” Marie waved off the cheerleader’s comment. “While I was in surgery for the tenth time this week, I got an idea about how we can get out of dying in these films by flipping the script and escaping this personal hell Warren Cavern has us in, contractually. And we’ll do it with each of your special secret skills and dreams.” “How?” Hot Pocket wondered aloud. Marie pulled out a notebook with no shortage of scribbling in it. “I’ve been working it out. Here’s our plan.” ### The scene opened with Rusty staggering into his dorm room, football uniform still on. He slumped into a chair, turned on the television, and stared at it as if hypnotized. Frankie appeared on screen and rubbed his hands together, ready to work his subliminal magic. “You want to go buy a set of Ginsu Steak Knives and stab yourself with all of them,” the cruel businessman commanded. At that moment, Rusty sprang from the comfy chair and sang out dramatically. “Why must I be stuck Watching the T.V. box? When I could play With the other jocks!” He pranced around the room while Frankie stared at him open-mouthed. “What the hell are you doing?” the evil corporate executive snarled from the TV. “You’re supposed to die watching me.” The athlete continued to pirouette and sing “Whatever do you mean? You poor dumb slob? Nobody dies in a musical Unless it’s Les Misérables!” Frankie tried to scream out from the television tube but found himself instead singing “The lyrics are so bad And the plot is worse. I can’t really kill you Or even so much as curse!”  Frankie groaned, trapped in an endless song-and-dance spoof of his own slasher movie. ### Along the windswept desert sands, Fiberface stalked his pretty target. I’ll tie her up, gag her with her scarf, and torture her with my trusty weedwhacker , he thought, as she approached a low ridge. He carefully uncoiled the rope. It would be all too easy . But as he rushed forward to bind her, she spun around and deftly dodged him. Fiberface tripped over a rock, fell in a tangle of ropes, and rolled to the base of the ridge. As the slasher struggled with the bonds, Suzanne waved over several children to the top of the short ridge, which served as a sitting place for an impromptu lecture. “Good afternoon, children,” the cheerleader sang out. “Today we’re going to talk about good choices and bad choices. Mr. Fiberface here tried to kidnap me. Is that a good choice, or a bad choice?” A little girl’s hand shot up quickly. “It’s a bad choice. You could go to jail for that.” “That’s right, little Kimmie. It can get you several years in prison, depending on which state you’re in. And in New Mexico, they tack on another ten years if you torture the victim.” The children nodded in unison.  “And do you know what, kids? I looked at the script ahead of time. It turns out his older sister used to tie him up while she was babysitting him for trying to sneak out of the house.” Fiberface grunted, trying to free himself from the ropes to no avail. “What should Mr. Fiberface do, instead of kidnapping young ladies?” Suzanne asked her class. The students looked stumped until one little boy named Randy raised his hand slowly. “Maybe he could talk with his older sister, and work out their problems with words, not bad choices.” “That’s right!” Suzanne beamed. She reached over and placed a gold star on boy’s head. Randy smiled. Fiberface vainly tried turning on the weedwhacker to get out of his bindings, but it merely sputtered and failed to start. “Gee—having performance issues today, aren’t we, Mr. Fiberface?” Suzanne cooed. “You can’t get me in an ‘ABC After School Special.’ Didn’t you know that?” The slasher groaned while the cheerleader continued. “When Mr. Fiberface was in third grade, Miss Brown gave him a D+ on his art project. And that made him mad. Children, what should he have done, instead of getting angry?” Fiberface screamed in agony. Now he was the one experiencing torture. ### Mark Mayers strode down the hallway, where he just knew that geeky sidekick was cowering. The last door on the left was sure to produce his next victim, he thought. He flung open the door, shocked to see a soundstage set up like a game show, complete with a live studio audience clapping in unison. “Well, if it isn’t Mark Mayers, the Arbor Day slasher,” the host, Hot Pocket, announced into the microphone. “He’s our final contestant on the game show ‘Holiday Specials.’” Mayers headed toward his target on stage swinging his axe. The crowd gasped, until the blade flew off the handle and bounced harmlessly off a fire exit sign. The audience responded with a classic laugh track. “It seems Mr. Mayers doesn’t know the rules of the game,” the plucky sidekick laughed. “You can’t kill someone on a game show, especially the host!” Three burly security guards marched the lumberjack down to the front row, in front of a monitor. “Since our Arbor Day slasher doesn’t know the rules of the game, I’ll explain them,” Hot Pocket grinned. “You post a bid on the item we showcase, and the contestant with the bid closest to the actual price, without going over, wins. The winner must then answer four trivia questions to win the grand prize.” The game show host looked up to the control booth. “Johnny, what is the item up for bidding?” “Well, Guy, I mean ‘Hot Pocket,’” the announcer laughed. “It’s a Whirlpool Washing Machine, which holds four cubic feet, has up to twelve wash cycles, and a smooth spiral stainless steel wash basket.” “Great for washing those blood-splattered linens,” Hot Pocket added. “Our four contestants have me so scared that my goosebumps flew south for the winter.” The audience roared with canned laughter. “Pinhead, will you start the bidding?” the show host began. The villain from the film Hellraiser  snarled “I’m The Hell Priest and Lead Cenobite, if you don’t mind, sir. And I’ll bid $762 for the washing machine.” “And how about you, Mr. Ghostface?” the host asked. The black-hooded character with the white mask, from the movie Scream  looked up, then down, and then typed “$595.” “Excellent,” Hot Pocket clapped his hands. “And ‘Chucky,’ what’s your bid?” The doll from Child’s Play  laughed. “Friends ‘til the End! $596!” In a flash, Ghostface drew a knife and stabbed Chucky in the head. The doll responded with a laugh. “Can’t keep a good guy down!” He gave his classic toothy grin. Hot Pocket looked down the row at the final contestant. “And, Mark Mayers, what will you bid for the washing machine?” Mayers angrily punched several buttons on his keyboard. “$625, I see,” Hot Pocket read the numbers. “The actual retail price is $666. Mister Mark Mayers, you win the washing machine.” Cheers and loud claps erupted from the studio audience. Mayers stormed onto the stage but tripped going up. He fell on his hacksaw, snapping the wood, making the would-be weapon useless. The serial killer groaned. “Now, now, Mr. Mayers.” Hot Pocket wagged his finger. “Focus on what you could win if you get all four answers right. Johnny, what’s our grand prize?” The announcer barked “An all-expenses-paid vacation to the Pacific Northwest! This trip includes stops at Redwood National Park in California, Olympic National Forest in Washington, and The Enchanted Forest in British Columbia!” Mayers’ hands went from trying to repair the hacksaw to clapping in glee. “All you need to do is answer four trivia questions about a holiday. And in your honor, Mr. Mayers, that holiday is Arbor Day!” The Arbor Day slasher danced with glee, rubbing his hands together. “First question, Mr. Mayers, is this: What does Arbor Day honor?” Mayers’ guttural tone followed.  “That’s right: trees!” Hot Pocket exclaimed. “Next question: What month is Arbor Day celebrated in America?” Again, Mayers grunted his reply. “You are correct, Mr. Mayers,” the game show host replied. “It’s April. Perhaps you’re smarter than a fifth grader!” The Arbor Day slasher snarled something and made a move toward Hot Pocket, who retreated. “My mistake. You are  smarter than a fifth grader. Now, for the third question, who was the Pisgah Forest Killer last Arbor Day?” Mayers proudly pointed to himself.  “That gives you three correct questions, sir.” Hot Pocket announced into the mic to the cheering crowd. “Last question: Who was the President of the United States when Arbor Day was first celebrated in America?” A hush fell over the audience. Mark Mayers frantically paced the stage. Finally, he grunted three times to Hot Pocket, who replied “Rutherford B. Hayes? Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Mayers. It’s actually Ulysses S. Grant. So close.” An enraged Arbor Day slasher brought out his bucksaw, but the metal blade clattered to the stage. “Oh, did that blade rust?” Hot Pocket’s mock pathos showed through. “Should have used Rust-Oleum, one of our corporate sponsors. Because ‘Rust Never Sleeps.’ But Johnny, what do we have for Mr. Mayers in addition to the washing machine?” The announcer’s voice boomed. “Well, Mr. Mayers. You’ve just won the home version of the game ‘Holiday Specials.’ And you’ve also won a box of Rice-a-Roni.” “It’s the San Francisco treat!” Hot Pocket added. “Oh, and Mr. Mayers, you’ll have plenty of time to play the game—in prison. That’s because the FBI and North Carolina State Patrol are here to arrest you, given that you confessed to the Pisgah Forest Massacre on camera. As for our television and studio audience, join us next week when we look at our next holiday: National Ice Cream Day!” ### On the set of the last film, a man in a flannel jacket, grey jeans, and black boots, wearing an astronaut helmet, crept up on several unsuspecting teens wearing light blue Space Camp t-shirts and white shorts. The silence was broken by Marie’s voice, in a faux British accent, announcing. “Here, on this week’s episode of ‘Mutual of Orlando’s Wild Killers,’ we begin on a Tuesday, the 26th, where we see Justin Boorhes, our predator, sporting an astronaut helmet, as he approaches his targets.” The serial killer waved his hands frantically and then gave the universal signal for silence with a single finger.  “And now, the would-be killer appears to be putting up a single finger for where his mouth should be, clearly not wanting me to alert his prey,” Marie continued. “Oh wait—now he’s giving me another finger, one much closer to the middle.” The kids in Space Camp t-shirts began to look behind themselves, where Justin Boorhes was trying to shush Marie. “Now Justin is making what appears to be a throat-slashing maneuver,” Marie documented from her wheelchair. “Yes, yes, you want to kill, you apex predator you.” From within the astronaut helmet came a mighty groan. “Ah yes, Justin’s quarry has heard the serial killer’s cries of dismay, and these space campers are now running away to safety,” Marie added happily. While the Tuesday the 26th killer switched his focus, the show’s host told the television audience “Now Justin has shifted his attention to me. But what he does not realize is the fact that one typically can’t kill the narrator in a documentary.” As if on cue, Justin tripped over a root, slamming to the ground. His astronaut helmet flew off. Shaking his head, dazed, the serial killer had just enough time to look up and gasp before the wheelchair slammed into him full force, knocking him unconscious. “Oops!” Marie apologized. “Blast these wheelchair controls!” ### When the four congregated back at the film studio’s breakroom, there were hugs and high fives to go around. Each related how they defeated their respective slashers. “I wonder if this means we’re free of our binding contracts?” Suzanne wondered aloud. “There’s one way to find out,” Rusty reasoned. He pushed open the side door to the break room. Security guards normally posted to block their exit had vanished. Slowly, the four archetypes crept down the hallway, past studio offices and board rooms, until they reached the control room. Inside, they found a figure slumped over the controls. “Speak of the devil, it’s Warren Cavern,” Rusty announced. “It looks like he’s sleeping.” As they crept forward, Suzanne let out a scream. “His head’s exploded, man,” Hot Pocket gasped. “I’ve heard of blowing a gasket, but this is ridiculous.” “It appears he spontaneously combusted,” Marie observed. “Or at least his head did.” Hot Pocket held his hand over his chest. “Our film productions were so bad that they killed him.”  “Guess that means we don’t have to be in any more slasher flicks,” Suzanne sighed with relief. “What do we do now?” “Let’s celebrate!” Hot Pocket threw his hands in the air. “Hey.” Rusty tapped the side of his head. “I know a great place by the lake. There’s a summer camp there.” “Yeah!” Suzanne beamed. “We can stop by ABC Liquors for beer and rum.” Marie frowned. “But is that safe?” Rusty patted her head. “Sure, Marie. That camp’s abandoned, so we won’t be chased off by any cops or camp counselors.” Hot Pocket laughed. “Besides, nobody believes in those legends about cryptids in the woods around the lake.” Born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and raised in El Paso, Texas, John A. Tures began writing sports for the El Paso Herald-Post. In college, he worked for a radio station. He worked his way through graduate school in education outreach for the Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra. He earned his doctorate in political science at Florida State University, analyzed data on international politics in Washington DC, and is now a professor at LaGrange College in Georgia. He writes columns for a number of newspapers and magazines and has published more than a dozen short stories in various genres, from thrillers and mysteries to nonfiction and flash fiction.

There were pills beneath the sink; crowding the bathroom countertop, fallen behind the toilet, swept under the rugs. When did Katherine get so many prescriptions? Could it be that she always had them?  Katelyn scoured the bottles for another name - any indication that her sister might have been using, abusing, and recklessly popping blue and white and yellow tablets that hadn’t been prescribed  directly to her. Except they had. All of them. On every single bottle,  printed in that same goddamn Verdana font, there it was: Katherine Rose Conner . She had been named after their mother. Not Katelyn – Katelyn was named as an afterthought in a poor mimicry of her sister, after she’d been a surprise second birth – but Katherine . Katherine had been named Katherine Rose born to Rose Katherine, and Katelyn, who had apparently been undetectable on the ultrasound thanks to an alarming position behind her sister in the ovular sack of the womb, was born as a last minute ‘happy surprise’ for the doctor and Rose Katherine both, the latter of which must have been so in shock that the best thing she could think to name her second daughter was Katelyn Peony Conner, so that Katelyn could grow up not only being mistaken as Katherine, but sharing the same goddamn nickname, to boot. Rose Katherine Conner, who’d not only birthed a daughter with her looks and intellectual charm and vibrancy for life, but who had also passed on her short tempered rampant emotional outbursts and overbearing mental illness. Apparently this existence required more prescription pills than Katelyn ever knew a doctor could write to one singular person. Especially one who weighed a hefty 115 lbs soaking wet, as her sister did.  If Katelyn had a daughter someday, she was going to name her something entirely abstract and as unrelated to the ‘Kate [insert flower name] Conner’ formula their mother had devised as possible. Perhaps something like Sunny. Or Aphrodite. Or Carolyn. “Do you know what milligram of valium your sister was on?” Katelyn looked up from where she’d knelt on the carpet, plucking a spilled bottle of singular pink, trapezoidal tablets off of the shag rug and trying not to grow frustrated at how each pill was accompanied by a fingertip full of white coils that would cling to her skin and inevitably wind up on her tongue the next time she went to touch her face, as all loose synthetic fiber had a way of doing. “No,” She answered her fiance, William, who stood in the doorway holding three different prescription bottles in his hand, “The highest available dose?” “I’ve got a two, a five, and a ten?” “What’s the most recently prescribed one?” “She crossed out the dates.”  Katherine had done that with all of the bottles. Because part of Katherine’s fucked-up-ness meant she had an innate disgust for odd numbers, number patterns that weren’t ‘soothing’, and any number she’d ever seen while standing on a scale ever in her entire life.  Katelyn knew this because she’d had to hear about these repulsive compulsions every time Katherine saw one of said disgusting numbers over the last decade.  “How many is left in each bottle?” Katelyn asked. “None.” “Then we’ll assume she took the valium with her.”  2.  Was Katherine really better at everything she did, or was it just that their mother had budgeted for one daughter and had decided that the one who’d had the decency to show up on the ultrascan monitors,  and to be born first should be the recipient of the funds intended to be applied to piano lessons, tennis coaches, ballet recitals and private academic tutors for one? Since Katelyn was tapping the heaviest vein - was Katherine’s fucked-up-ness a result of genetic predisposition or was it just that their mother had overwhelmed her developing mind with piano lessons, tennis coaches, ballet recitals and private academic tutors for one?  If the former, Katelyn felt pity that she hadn’t been selected in the russian roulette of Conner mental illness. If the latter, Katelyn was grateful that her mother hadn’t seen enough potential in her.  “Does any of this look familiar?” Katelyn shifted to the edge of the passenger seat, looking out the front windshield as the car navigated along the narrow back road leading out to the row of lake cabins they’d summered at as children. “No. Wait, yes - that tree looks familiar-” “The tree?” William didn’t seem convinced by her timber-oriented cartography. “We used to see who could climb the highest as children. I think that’s one of the trees… Oh, yes, there-” Katelyn pointed to their left, where an old dirt driveway had been recently uncovered from the thicket that had overgrown it. “That’s it. Turn here.” “You’re sure?” “Positive.” William turned. There were tire tracks already laid in the mud. That was a good sign! Twenty years since they’d been to the lake house; since their father had the car wreck and their mother had a blind date with the fish,  salamander, and algae that inhabited the lake. No one would have come this way since then, seeing as Katherine fired all of the cleaners and said ‘fuck you’ to the real estate leeches trying to convince her to sell the property their mother left in her name. If someone had traversed this terrain recently, it had to be Katherine. 3.  Katherine’s clothes were scattered around the home; crowding the dusty oak floorboards, tile countertops, and the sofa that creaked beneath the weight of Katelyn’s knees as she knelt upon the center of it to reach for a stray bra that her sister had flung over the left arm. Katelyn didn’t need to hold the bra up to her chest to know it was the same 32B size as the one she wore, because Katherine had developed in all the same ways as she had down to the width of their areolas, a fact that Katelyn had been forced to learn two years prior when Katherine had stripped herself naked in a doped-up haze while Katelyn guided her to bed and rolled her onto her side.  Perhaps if Katherine had let Katelyn go first for a change, they wouldn’t be in this mess.  Maybe Katelyn should feel more guilt for not trying to carry more of her sister's load. She wasn’t ignorant to the fact that Katherine was succumbing under the weight of it all. She used to sit for seconds and minutes and hours just thinking about how Katherine’s vibrancy was dulling. She knew good and damn well how many pills Katherine was on, that the variation was so similar to the ones they’d cleaned out of their mother’s bathroom cabinet after she’d decided to cradle a cinder block underwater, that Katelyn should have foreseen how Katherine’s  path to success was leading her down the same route out of those dusty double glass doors facing the foggy lake.  “I can’t find her anywhere!” William shouted from the doorway, panic rising in his voice. Katelyn both hated and loved him for that panic. Even he was inclined to fawn over Katherine.  “She’s not here,” Katelyn told him. It was true. Katherine was long gone. “I’ve tried to call the police. It’s not going through!” “There’s no service out this far.” “What do we do?” “Go into town.” “That’s twenty minutes away-” “You’ll get service.” “Aren’t you coming?” “No. I’ll wait here in case she comes back.” “What do I tell the police?” “That Katherine Rose Conner is a danger to herself. Take the empty pill bottles.”  William nodded, grabbed his coat and hurried out the front door of the lake house without further argument, believing himself to be doing something helpful. Katelyn was left alone. It was funny, actually. She’d never been alone before. Not since the moment she was conceived. All her life, she’d had Katherine to hide behind, letting her sister take the fall for being so goddamn extraordinary while Katelyn got to settle for the shadows. And now here she was. No one to shield her. No one to outshine her. No one to take her fucking nickname.  Katherine hadn’t been easy, but she’d been Katelyn’s cross to bear. Who was she without her sister to compare herself to? 4.  Katelyn took three of the pills; blue and white and yellow in succession, because they worked for her sister, whose body was close enough in height and weight and chemical composition to Katelyn’s own for anything that she had ingested to have a similar effect on her. The clothes she pulled on, bra and t-shirt and skirt, fit her to a tee because they had been measured to cinch onto a form identical to hers.  Then she walked, stepping into the identical footprints Katherine left in the mud surrounding the cabin, to the lake’s edge, where their fathers ashes were scattered and their mother had sank beneath the surface of and where Katherine herself had seemingly vanished into. Katelyn clambered into the cold, ignoring the chattering of her teeth, until the salty water overtook her taste buds as the winter wind moved the ripples across her chin.  As she floated in the center of the ovular lake she thought, not for the first time, how unfair it was for Katherine Rose Conner to leave her behind.  Antheia is a poet and fiction writer born and raised in Eastern Kentucky. She is currently obtaining an MFA in Creative Writing from Mount Saint Mary's University.

I am tired of burning down we are a library of ignited people, look how all of our pages curl from the heat, smoldering embers of suspicion shot across bus-stop-cum-battlefield everything is up in flames,  look how the tips of conversations blaze and dance, casting shadows on the walls behind us, words like molotov cocktails thrown in among the shelves look how we all turn to cinders, alexandrian destruction of ourselves, ages of community gone up in so much  smoke, pick through the rubble looking  for the spines of half-burned connections everyone's committing arson but I am tired of burning down important and in a hundred thousand homes in a hundred thousand beds we were rotting, flesh dripping from our bones reflected in a hundred thousand tiny screens, eyes pouring from our heads like warm jelly,  sprouting stalks of mighty  fungus from our ears, air yellow with the mass of our spores [did you see… I have to show you… listen to this…] and we all had our subscriptions to Decomposing Weekly, and we kept pace with all the latest updates on which color of decay was IN this season [I wouldn't be caught dead in that shade of putrescence in 2025] and we all gossiped about whose  carcass looked the best at the latest big Hollywood soiree  [did you hear that her nose fell off on the red carpet? what a scandal] and we all wagged our rancid jawbones and felt very much like we were doing something IMPORTANT MISSING yesterday we went  round the neighborhood and posted  advertisements reading [MISSING:  LOST HOURS  LOOKS LIKE  AN UNFINISHED  ART PROJECT REWARD $100] on the bus stops and the lampposts, absolutely everywhere that we could  find the space then we waited, obediently by the telephone for someone to call but nobody rang and when we went to check and see what happened, we discovered they were covered up with others saying things like [HELP! LOST CHILDHOOD… HAVE YOU SEEN MY YESTERDAY?... WANTED: ALL OF THE 90's] all with rewards and  contact numbers seems somebody could probably make a decent living finding all those missing hours Malachy Moran is an American expat currently residing in Norway. A PTSD survivor and recovering drug addict, Malachy has lived too many lives already to believe in reincarnation. Hopefully this is it. His work is available in Rattle: Poetry, Anti-Heroin Chic and many others. Follow his journey on Bluesky @malformed-poetry

You knocked on my door that morning holding an empty gasoline can and asked to borrow some milk. I told you I bought by the quart, but you said that was OK, you weren’t going that far anyway. Then later on the back porch, you taught me how to pray to your body with roses and a mask. You asked to stay, persistently pleading. That night, you made my chest move an inch inwards so that my heart couldn’t beat as fully and my lungs couldn’t expand. You wrapped a ribbon around my head and tied it with a bow so I couldn’t speak. You bound my hands in prayer. You put tiny teardrops of glue in my eyes so I could no longer see. You tightly wrapped a corset around me like a brace so that I would stay straight. You put me inside a bed of feathers, stitched me up, and said to wait. You sang me a lullaby about a bracelet of brambles so I could sleep. In the morning you were gone and my house was packed with gallons of milk jugs, but I knew I’d been emptied of everything. Tom Busillo’s (he/his) writing has appeared on McSweeney’s, PANK, and Unbroken, among others, with additional work forthcoming in Calliope. When he's not writing, he likes playing acoustic guitar and attempting to sing Leonard Cohen and Magnetic Fields songs.  He lives in Philadelphia, PA.

Text I Will Never Send Something strange happened today. I was rotting in bed, my favorite pastime since we—ceased. The buzzing warmth of a budding spring flowed through my open windows. In an instant, the bustle of Los Angeles was swallowed by a forest of Japanese greenery.  Everything fell quiet.  The only sound was the crackle of gravel under my feet, each step pulling me further into curious repose.  Among Tokyo’s chaos, blaring billboards overlooking busy crossings and throttling throngs of tourists on Takeshita Street, the wisdom of the trees created stillness. And a chill. The cold air clamped to the bare skin of my pale cheeks. Then I saw you. Sitting at a metal table, drinking blue beer. Tension grew in my shoulders, my desperate gaze settled on your ever-changing eyes—currently pitch black, dark and hard. Two lumps of coal. Two freezing blackholes. I only ever see you in these flashes now, my mind won’t dare bring you to me in a dream. For there is no better way to ensure I never wake up. Text I Actually Did Send I miss you.  I’ve been writing poems lately to channel my emotions, specifically to channel them away from the sympathetic ears of my friends.  None of the poems are very good, linguistically or thematically, because they’re all dripping with one-note sadness. The imagery is usually violent and the turn is always something like “Without you I want to die!” which is a tad melodramatic. I want so desperately to make the break up funny. Maybe if I declared, “I’m done with you!” and turned away and slipped on a banana peel, that would make it funny. Or if you said, “You take everything so personally,” and then a meteor fell from the sky and hit you in the nuts, that would make it funny. Or if we had break up sex and nine months later I gave birth to a dolphin. That would at least be weird, a major improvement over the many weeks of pungent depression I’m currently experiencing.  But, thanks to the fact that people don’t know you’ve been crying if you do it in the shower, the only stink here is desperation. I really miss you. But I also don’t want to see you right now. I just needed to shout into the blackhole that is your inbox, so I know you’re aware that I still exist. I thought of another one! What if I took an hour to craft this message, and spent another twenty minutes with my thumb hesitating over the send button, only for you to have blocked my number? That would make it funny. Oh wait, I forgot the part where the locomotive hits me and my head goes boi-oi-oi-oi-oing . Marissa Padilla is a writer residing in Los Angeles. She/they gravitates towards humor writing, though she can crank out a sad poem when the mood strikes. She attended Northwestern University, where she majored in Theatre with a focus in Playwriting.  When she isn’t writing, Marissa can be found aggressively avoiding eye contact with people on LA’s streets and sidewalks.