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At the tender age of 6 The pastor I saw every Sunday- The one with a booming voice And a blinding Cheshire grin- Spoke from a leather-bound book that seemed far too heavy for his hands. The honey-soaked iron Of his words were more than enough To breathe fealty into a girl Who did not yet know death Or fear Or shame. The sweetness that veiled his rotten claims Hooded my young heart in the same false stickiness That coated the heart of my mother And her mother before her. Women are the rib of man! Designed to complete him In all his divine essence— A helper, the pastor said!— A gift from God And a blessing to Eden. By age nine, I only spoke when spoken to And learned to cross my legs At the knee To honor the body which would one day Belong to my husband. I learned the temple that housed The holy spirit of God And the nuance of my personhood was chewed gum no one would desire after use. I decided to press my school uniform And wear lace hair bows To decorate the body I had grown to know as an object— A piece of gum not yet chewed. My mother believed herself to be gum already chewed. A broken thing only a merciful God could love. And I understood her. At twelve, I was a broken thing too. Lost, hurt, and desperate to hear God The way the pastor’s wife claimed To hear Him. I prayed as if my clasped hands Could save me from the inferno If I just pressed them together hard enough. In my prayers, I begged God to show me How to want a man And the picket-fence existence our pastor told me Was the only path to purpose. But God never told me How to recover from the chronic shrinking Of my body (USED GUM, USED GUM, USED GUM!) Or the desire to share love With a woman. When a man hurt me for the first time, God did not hold his strike. Am I not the rib of man? No, I am NOT the rib of man. I am woman. In the mirror, I see the face of every woman Ever born before me. Who were tested, Worn as thin as stretched tapestry By the church and the patriarchy. I see the beauty, Not the brokenness, Of my mother And her mother And her mother. Until Eve: The first woman to abandon tradition. Ahorita, the unity of all souls Is God to me. I am just as much God as the meager ant Or the mighty lion; I AM NOT CHEWED GUM! I am a fraction of the Universe Experiencing Itself for the first time, Crying out like a baby for its bottle. My God cannot fit inside the tight walls Of a church with stained-glass murals Or the fragile pages of pew hymnals; And most certainly, my God Cannot fit inside the perfect picket fence I once begged for. I no longer press my clothing And force bows into my hair, Ignoring el dolor de cabeza. I am more than the rib Ellos me obligaron a ser. A word from the author: I have been writing poetry for as long as I can remember—focusing primarily on my experiences as a woman, a member of the eating disorder recovery community, and a trauma survivor. “I am Not Chewed Gum!” is a semi-biographical piece that recounts my divergence from the protestant religion I was born from in an abstract and free-flowing manner. In this piece, I dive deeply into the interconnectedness of my identity and the meaning of divinity in my own eyes.

“They’re here again. Alfred! Can you bloody believe it?” I twitch open the curtains, “The girl is licking the walls, does nobody teach their kids manners these days?” Alfred looks at me and then settles himself to carry on watching the TV. I wouldn’t mind, but this sustainable house was his idea. We’d only been married a few months and were living in a small flat in London when he brought home the brochure: Secluded Sustainable Living. “I’ve been thinking,” I mean, I should have known then there’d be trouble. And now here I am with those bloody kids picking off bits of my house and eating it without a second thought about us. “We’re like prisoners in our own home, Alfred, it’s beyond a joke.” I can hear them laughing, “They won’t be laughing when I’ve done with them, I can tell you,” I say. Alfred looks like he’s going to try and talk me out of it, but he knows better. “Hey,” I shout, leaning out of the window, “what do you think you’re doing?” “Get back inside, you old bag,” the boy shouts and then runs off. “Did you bloody well hear that, Alfred? Well, enough is enough,” I pick up the small shiny phone, all the rage apparently, and ring the only number programmed into it. “It’s those kids again, Margaret, they’re eating the bloody house. Come winter, me and Alfred will be freezing our bits off.” “Hmmmm.” “Oh, I mean I don’t know about that…” “I see what you’re saying but…” “Tit for tat and that, yes, well ok, I’ll think about it.” “Bye, then. Yes, I’ll let you know what I decide.” Once upon a time, I’d have talked this through with Alfred rather than Margaret, she is a little on the harsh side. But Alfred started forgetting. It’s getting dark outside, so I’m hopeful there’ll be no more attacks tonight. I pull the curtains closed and add some logs to the fire, sneaking a look at our wedding picture on the mantle piece. A young me and Alfred smile from the frame, standing outside the church. Yes, we can go to church, don’t be so judgemental. The TV is still playing, the nature channel as always. Alfred started watching it not long after the diagnosis, he couldn’t keep up with the crime dramas we used to enjoy. “You have got to be bloody kidding me,” I shout, hearing the familiar crunch of my windowsill, there’ll be nothing left of it soon. “It’s dark outside. Don’t kids have a bedtime anymore?” I ask, looking at Alfred for the answers. He doesn’t give any. I sprint to the front door, pleased I can still move so quickly in this old sack of bones body, and fling it open. “Get away from my house!” “Or what?” shouts the girl, her face smeared in the chocolate paint. Don’t they tell kids about sugar rotting their teeth anymore? “Or else,” I say, the fury burning in my throat and Margaret’s words echoing around my head. I slam the door closed and look at Alfred. He’s peering out of his glass case at me. He doesn’t have the same fire in his belly since I turned him into a tortoise. Don’t judge me. I couldn’t face the day he wouldn’t know who I was. And as a tortoise, he’ll outlive me. It’s better this way. Shrieking from outside permeates through the walls, “Ha, Han, I’m through. I am actually through the wall.” This is the final straw. This is my home. Just me and Alfred – we’re supposed to be safe in here. I wipe away a tear, “Well Alfred, it’s going to have to be Margaret’s suggestion. There’s nothing else for it. The bloody oven it is!” Lucy is a Barnsley-based writer (between Sheffield and Leeds before you pull the map out). She teaches and writes and has ridiculous conversations with her naughty dog, Loki.

She’s out here again, head bowed, trying to scrape up our dead skin cells. Or maybe not skin, but hair or coughed-up fragments of lung. Pissing in the wind, she is! The wind that’s about to dishevel and disrobe us even further while her back is turned, while she stoops small over a rounded belly in our stretching shadows. We writhe ecstatically, rooted to rise tall. We are bemused as she comes back barefoot in dimming light to rearrange our crisp golden debris into pyres for a smaller version of herself to leap upon and sift themselves under. She breathes hard and cries to herself. It was a field here, before. A field and a thicket. A copse. A wood. A grove. A coppice. There were small, furred heart thrums then, cosying in our nooks. Now the hum of a vibration purrs from yellow, biting, crashing machines. This buzz crackles through tendrils of mycelium and travels along each branch, through our sap, our tree senses. It bounces across the gaps we modestly leave for each other. It’s a stress memory, shuddering through our limbs on still nights when we are slacker and less watchful. Looking up, rake in hand, she thinks she’s performing a rite for us, a vigil as we slip naked into a winter death. A laying out. She looks up again, wants us to see, wants us to know. But we are already budding, our tips tinged with tiny promise. We are ready to let go for now and rest into dampness, still watching over her amber orange squares of light. A word from the author: In my writing I hope to explore the crushing expectations placed on mothers, the mythologising of pregnancy and also to explore the ambivalent sensations created by push-pull mothering in a patriarchal society.

Let me tell you how I got the scar on my left knee. Three o’clock Friday afternoon. I’m eleven. It’s all promise. None of it’s happened yet. I’m on parole till Monday morning from Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows. Up the front stoop, up to my room, swap my school uniform for shorts and a T-shirt, demolish two Hostess Sno-Balls, gulp a glass of milk, back down the stoop into the violet afternoon to clobber the other boys at handball till the streetlights come on. To avenge what happened last time. We swarm the playground like an army of little Caucasian ants. We start with cutthroat. My buddy Hickey serves to three guys at a time, his bony fist smacking the Spaldeen against our handball wall. Hickey goes, “Not for pussies only, boys. Not for pussies only.” He knocks out the younger boys, the shitty players scrambling after that scuffed pink ball. You can hear their mothers calling. Hickey is actually not all that good, but he’s a loudmouth and a ball hog and his insults will wear a person down. Which is probably what I allowed to happen to me last time. Now that the shitty players are knocked out, we’re ready for one-on-ones. Me, Hickey, Bartlett. I go, “Yo, Hickey, your handball nickname shall be Doctor Doom.” Hickey goes, “No way, Bobby, I’m Galactus.” “What’re you talking about Galactus? Galactus is the destroyer of worlds.” “I am the destroyer of worlds! Alls Doctor Doom does is stand around making speeches.” “Hickey, also known as Doctor Doom, alls you do is stand around making speeches.” Hickey goes, “Bobby, what shall your handball nickname be?” He’s looking at me funny. I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking about last time. I go, “I’m the Silver Surfer.” “After what happened last time?” Bartlett goes, “Why? What happened last time?” I go, “Nevermind what happened last time.” Hickey goes, “The Silver Surfer is the last thing you are.” Bartlett goes, “What happened last time?” I go, “Nevermind what happened last time.” Hickey goes, “Last time, I serve and it’s right on the line. You know, one of my Hickey serves? And Bobby dives for it. You know, one of his Bobby dives? But this time Bobby misses the ball by about a thousand miles—” I go, “By about a fraction of an inch.” “—and Bobby hits the pavement and rolls. And I mean he rolls. I mean he don’t stop rolling. He rolls into the trashcans and the trashcans tip over and then some sick orange shit from the lunchroom—” I go, “It was Spaghettios.” “—this sick orange shit, what I’m trying to say, spills out the trashcans on top of Bobby’s head. In his hair. And he eats it.” I go, “I did not eat it.” Hickey goes, “How else would you know it was Spaghettios?” I go, “Hickey, are you ready for a rematch?” But Hickey won’t let it go. “Did it taste good, Bobby? Was it still warm?” I take a deep breath. I go, “It tasted better than your mother.” Bartlett goes, “Buuuurn.” But Hickey just stands there with this sad, stupid look on his puss. I go, “What’s the matter with you?” Hickey goes, “A line was crossed. You brought mothers into it.” “I know a line was crossed.I wanted to bring mothers into it.” “Bobby, you know what I must do now, don’t you?” “I know what you must do, Hickey.” Hickey goes, “Your handball nickname shall not be the Silver Surfer. Your handball nickname shall be… Garbage-Ass Shithead McGillicuddy.” I go, “I do not accept. That’s too long for a handball nickname.” Bartlett goes, “Too long is your number-one objection to Garbage-Ass Shithead McGillicuddy?” I go, “It’s ten syllables!” Hickey gets in my face. He goes, “Ten syllables is what you get for bringing mothers into it!” We’re chest-to-chest now. I go, “I call a rematch!” Hickey goes, “So shut up and serve!” I serve. We volley. I’ve got Hickey jumping all over the place. Hickey goes, “Whoa, Garbage-Ass Shithead McGillicuddy has been practicing.” I go, “No, Doctor Doom just sucks like he always does.” But Hickey’s right. I have been practicing. Every afternoon, against the back of our house. My Spaldeen banging against the aluminum siding till the sun goes down, till it’s too dark to see. My serve. My returns. My Bobby dives. Because my handball nickname will never be at the mercy of a moron who comes up with ten-syllable nonsense. While I’m busy volleying with Hickey, I can feel Bartlett staring at my face. You know how sometimes you can just feel somebody staring? After a while Bartlett goes, “Bobby, what are you anyways?” What are you? Cause apparently we’re little trash-talking existentialists. It feels like a pile-on, to be honest, so I hit back with, “Bartlett, your handball nickname shall be Dogshit cause that one time you stepped in dogshit and tracked it up and down the hallways and it was hilarious.” Bartlett goes, “I’m being serious, Bobby. What are you?” Hickey goes, “Cause it would make no difference to us, Bobby.” Bartlett goes, “Yeah. We’ll still hate you for being a Mets fan.” But Bartlett’s waiting for something. What am 1? “I’m half-Irish, half-Italian.” “You’re Italian?” Hickey smacks the ball and dances in place like all of a sudden I’m Pavarotti or something. Or maybe he’s gotta take a piss. “Half.” “Bobby’s Eye-talian?” Bartlett’s staring. “Half.” Our neighborhood in Throggs Neck is full of Irish families and Italian families. We’re not exactly the Capulets and the Montagues, but Irish-Italian is still an exotic breed around here. Hickey goes, “Bobby, I change my mind. Your handball nickname shall not be Garbage-Ass Shithead McGillicuddy.” I go, “Because you’re in awe of the Silver Surfer’s superpowers?” Hickey goes, “No. Because your handball nickname shall be… Spaghettio!” I deliver one more slam. I think Hickey’s gonna blow it but he gets there. He slams it back. The ball is right on the line. I will not lose to him today. I will not lose to him today. It bounces off the line and I dive for it. I dive for it. The Bobby dive I’ve been practicing every afternoon till it’s too dark to see. I get to it, on my knees, and slap the holy hell out of it. It bashes against the wall. And Hickey blows it. Now he’s on the asphalt on his knees next to me, gasping like he needs his inhaler. I go, “Say ‘Uh-oh Spaghettio,’ Doctor Doom. You are out.” I stand up, look Bartlett in the eye. “Now it’s your turn, Dogshit.” “It’s my turn.” A voice behind me. High, chirpy. I turn around. It’s skinny little Katie Daugherty. I cannot possibly exaggerate how, in this time and place, skinny little Katie Daugherty’s presence on the handball court, in high-tops and a denim jumper, is as shocking as if the asphalt under our feet just cracked open and the mole people crawled up out of the ground. Katie Daugherty, hair pulled back in a ponytail, clutching a brand-new pink Spaldeen. She goes, “It’s my turn.” I go, “No way.” I’m not even looking at her. Hickey goes, “Beat it.” He’s dancing in place like he’s possessed. Bartlett goes, “Shoo.” Katie goes, “Bobby’s a-scared of me.” “I’m a-scared of you?” “Cause my big Cousin Jimmy taught me everything. You should be a-scared.” Hickey goes, “Beat it.” But he’s no longer dancing. Now he’s looking at me. Bartlett goes, “Shoo.” He’s looking at me too. Well. I go, “Yo, Katie, why don’t you disappear?” I look at my boys and the corners of my mouth curl. “Or just turn sideways?” High-fives all around. Buuuurn. Now Katie Daugherty is not saying anything. Her nose twitches. Like on Bewitched. I’ve known Katie Daugherty since before kindergarten. I’ve never noticed her freckles. The way her freckles dance around her nose when she’s really, really pissed. She stomps home, ponytail bouncing back and forth. *** And now Katie Daugherty’s freckles are with me at all times. Long division. Boy Scouts. I’m taking out the garbage and the sun falls golden on the lid of the trashcan and I’m thinking about Katie Daugherty’s freckles. I stay after school to take guitar lessons from Sister Augustine. We’re practicing for folk Mass. “Yahweh I Know You Are Near,” but the way I play it, it’s more like “Yahweh You Know I’m a Fuck-Up.” Sister takes the guitar, shows me how, her crooked little fingers dancing over the neck, transfiguring my cheap nylon guitar strings into a hymn. To Katie Daugherty’s freckles. I’m watching King Kong vs. Godzilla on Channel 11 with my little sister Maggie, but for the first time in my life I want to switch to Channel 9 to watch Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. “Since when do you all of a sudden give a shit about dancing?” Maggie cannot believe what she is witnessing. “They are tap dancing on roller skates. You know anybody in this lousy neighborhood who can tap dance on roller skates?” “Godzilla can spew flames.” “When Godzilla can tap dance on roller skates then you talk to me about spewing flames.” That night, in bed, I’m roller skating with Katie Daugherty. The constellations of her freckles circle my head. Friday afternoon, Sister Augustine tells us to close our eyes and fold our hands and practice a silent prayer. Only don’t pray for something you want. Pray for somebody else. Because God is not Santa Claus. God is not Santa Claus. I close my eyes, fold my hands. Yo, Yahweh. You think you could let Katie Daugherty have such a good day that she does that funny little thing with the corners of her mouth so everyone can see the joy that’s always been inside her? Then I’m up out of my seat, walking two rows back. Katie Daugherty sits with her eyes closed, hands folded in her lap. Her lips are moving. Her lips are moving. Katie Daugherty’s freckles do to me what Sister Augustine’s crooked little fingers do to my cheap nylon guitar strings. I lean over and plant one on her. “Bobby, what the hell?” wiping her mouth on her plaid jumper. The swish of religious garments. A hand on the back of my neck. Sister Augustine is going to drag me—and Katie Daugherty—to Sister Jerome’s office. “No, Sister, please!” Down the hall. Katie Daugherty’s got her eyes closed. Like this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening. Then we’re bursting through the door of the office. Sister Jerome says, “Bobby, am I going to have to call your parents?” Her voice is like a foghorn. “I hope not, Sister Jerome.” “Bobby?” I’ve never been to the office before. I’m eyeing the big wooden paddle hanging on the wall, which Hickey claims Sister Jerome hasn’t used to whip ass since before we were born. I tell Sister Jerome, “I expressed affection.” “And how did you express affection?” Sister Jerome’s got a mirror on the wall, where she measures the older boy’s hair when it gets too rock-n-roll. Katie Daugherty looks at me in the mirror. Katie Daugherty puckers her lips, blows me a hate kiss, then looks down at the big black-and-white checkerboard tiles on the floor of the office. I bust out laughing. Sister Jerome says, “Bobby? What is funny about this? Robert?” “I expressed affection. I couldn’t control myself.” “Does Our Lord control himself when he overturns the tables in the temple?” This is an unexpected angle. “Um, no?” “Does Our Lord control himself when he calls out to his father in heaven, ‘Why hast thou forsaken me?’” “Um, no?” “Does a man know what is right?” “Yes?” “Does a man do what is right?” “Was I wrong to show affection?” “Do you talk to your parents—?” “Are you gonna call my parents?” “—about your urges?” Well. “Robert?” “I will talk to my parents about my urges.” To this day, I have never talked to my parents about my urges. Sister Jerome says, “Katie?” Silence. Katie Daugherty stares at the floor. “Katherine?” “It’s fine.” Katie’s eyes on those black-and-white tiles on the floor. “I’m fine.” She won’t look at me. I think about how this is the same Katie Daugherty who helped me bury my dead turtle in the backyard when we were little. Who said a “Hail, Holy Queen” for my dead turtle. This person. I suppose it’s the first time I’ve had a thought like that. Or maybe I’d call it a feeling. I don’t remember the walk back to class. I don’t remember packing my book bag. I don’t remember meeting Katie Daugherty’s eyes. The walk home. The windows of old Mrs. Pisser’s house silently judge the condition of my school uniform. The windows of my buddy Hickey’s house, the venetian blinds always a little out of whack. The windows of my house gaze across the street, without hope, at the lace curtain windows of Katie Daugherty’s house. *** Three o’clock Friday afternoon. I’m the first guy on the playground. I’m the only guy on the playground. Two older boys are coming. “You’ve never touched it,” one of the older boys says. He doesn’t even notice me. “You’ve never seen it,” the other boy says. I recognize him as the one who’s always the first one picked for stickball. “You don’t even know what we’re talking about.” The first boy notices me. Now the other one, the stickball one, is looking at me, looming. He goes, “Yo, what are you?” What am I? I’m pretty sure my cheeks are burning. The older boys keep walking. It’s drizzling. And I’m only eleven, studying the brand-new obscenity spray-painted on our handball wall. A voice behind me goes, “It’s my turn.” Katie Daugherty. She holds out her brand-new pink Spaldeen. I nod. “Serve.” Katie Daugherty serves, her vicious little fist, her brand-new pink Spaldeen scorching our handball wall, sending me scrambling, stumbling. I go, “Whoa.” She goes, “Do I get a handball nickname?” “Yeah. Your handball nickname shall be Chump.” “Today of all days you’re gonna trash-talk me?” “That’s how the game is played.” “Well then, pucker up, Bobby.” Slam. Whoa. I go, “I’m sorry for what happened.” “You’re sorry?” Slam. Whoa. “I mean about what happened after.” “You think that’s the first time I’ve ever been—” Slam. “—to the office? Chump?” We stand there. The smell of the pavement in the drizzling rain. Katie Daugherty raises that pink Spakdeen. Katie Daugherty serves. Slam. The ball is right on the line. I will not lose to her today. I will not lose to her today. It bounces off the line and I dive for it. I dive for it. I am going to lose to her today. I am going to lose to her today. And now my knee hits the asphalt and the skin busts open. “Bobby, are you bleeding?” “It’s fine. I’m fine.” “Your knee looks like shit.” My stupid blood all over the place. “You think you could run home and get me a band-aid?” She’s looking at me. “You think you could give me a handball nickname that isn’t Chump?” “Maybe.” “Maybe’ is not going to get you a band-aid.” “Your handball nickname shall be…” I study her face. She studies mine. I go, “Your handball nickname shall be… Freckles.” “Freckles? I am a monster on the handball court and you’re gonna name me Freckles?” “You’re a strange person, Katherine.” “I’m not the one who’s gonna bleed to death, Robert.” Katie Daugherty’s nose is twitching. “Your handball nickname shall be... Godzilla.” She does that funny little thing with the corners of her mouth. “The band-aid will probably have a Barbie on it. You okay with that? Spaghettio?” “I’m okay with that. Godzilla.” “Back in a sec.” Katie Daugherty’s ponytail bounces back and forth as she runs across the schoolyard. Back in a sec. *** Years later, I see that scar on my left knee and an eleven-year-old boy is back on the asphalt, blood dripping down his leg. An eleven-year-old girl is standing on a step-stool, ransacking the medicine chest. He waits under the streetlights in the rain. She comes back to him, always, bearing a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a bag of cotton balls, and a Barbie band-aid. Robert Firpo-Cappiello is a two-time Emmy nominee (for Outstanding Achievement in Music Direction and Composition for a Drama Series) and a Folio-award-winning magazine editor. His short fiction has appeared in Roi Fainéant and and has performed his stories and songs at St Lou Fringe, Dixon Place, Irvington Theater, Spark Theatre Festival NYC, and Bad Theater Fest. He holds a Master of Music degree in composition from the San Francisco Conservatory, a BA in English from Colgate University (where his mentor was novelist Frederick Busch), and he made his show-business debut at the age of five on WOR-TV’s Romper Room. He’s represented (as a novelist) by Jill Marr, at Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency.

“In the produce department, everything is dying, but there are two things still living— can you name those two things?” The district manager, hair slicked back like a minister, stood in front of the young recruits, stitched into their button-downs and dress skirts. On the wall rack next to them, the wet nozzles turned on, spritzing the cucumbers, autumn-colored peppers, the floral hemming of the green leaf lettuce. Someone said, “the living greens,” that plastic box of dirt and growing herbs. They were stumped on the second and, pushing my rattling cart, I wanted to yell, “the associates!” As they, nearly invisibly, busied around the department like fruit flies in polo shirts. Someone said something else, though, and the manager reacted enthusiastically, then continued with his sermon. As they left, I thought maybe I was wrong, picturing us all lying on well-lit tables, insects drawn to the sweet nectar of our aging eyes, black sores borrowing into our wrinkling skin until it became rough and brittle like avocados. Maybe we aren’t shuffling in wet soil, living, growing, reaching for the sun; rather, we’re drying out on our displays, stalks broken, desperate for a drink. Devon Neal (he/him) is a Bardstown, KY resident who received a B.A. in Creative Writing from Eastern Kentucky University and an MBA from The University of the Cumberlands. He currently works as a Human Resources Manager in Louisville, KY. His work has been featured in Moss Puppy Magazine, Dead Peasant, Paddler Press, MIDLVLMAG, and others.

The photos sparkle as they fall, the birthday candles and wedding cakes and fireworks and nightclubs and rainbows. I scoop a baby shower from a bench and it breaks apart in my fingers, a puff of glitter, fluttering to the ground like autumn. I catch memories in my palm, a child blowing out ten candles, a skydiver stepping from a plane, an old man napping in a chair by a fireplace, a cat nestled next to him in a cardboard box lined with a red sweater. I poke the cat and it pops like a cartoon balloon, a calico explosion of color. I find footballers and skiers and gymnasts; people walking and running and standing still in front of gardens and cathedrals and beaches, where waves break on the sand and they surf and swim and build sandcastles; selfies of eyeballs and nose hairs and smiles in front of the Eiffel Tower at dawn, at sunset, lit up in the middle of the night; families with dogs and cats and horses in stables and at racing tracks and in the mountains of Montana, with trophy elk and cutthroat trout, and glaciers in full retreat. A burst of 500 photos from a rodeo stampedes me, ending with a cowboy in the dirt and a bull in the air, but when I touch it, the horns collapse. Darker images fall, too, things hidden in the Cloud’s blackest linings. Abuse, shame, beatings, body parts, betrayals–these moan when touched. People swarm from office buildings, looking skyward like they did on 9/11. No one speaks as the Cloud bursts. Children kick at them, giggling at the tiny snap as each one disappears. Tom Walsh writes and edits these days from Cambridge, MA. His flash fiction can be found in Janus Literary, Hobart Pulp, HAD, Lost Balloons, and elsewhere. He is an assistant editor at Flash Fiction Online.

instead of allowing myself to be happy I keep trying to find you exploring the tight curves of bell peppers, your laugh echoing within the crunch of sourdoughs, a smile lingering as the sharpness of sheep’s cheese, hiding melancholia inside green olives’ salty brines, ghosts tucked so tightly in the shadows of fig leaves, hesitantly pacing between the honeys and the jams, lavender bunches chosen to mask a grey loneliness. I used to love you on Saturday mornings – now I go to the farmers’ market and pretend you’re still around. Luís Costa (he/they) is an anxious queer poet, whose debut book Two Dying Lovers Holding a Cat is forthcoming with Fourteen Poems in November 2023. His poems have featured in Visual Verse, Stone of Madness, Queerlings, Inksounds, Farside Review and FEED, and are forthcoming in Anthropocene and Passengers Journal. Long-listed for the Out-Spoken Poetry Prize in 2022, he holds a PhD from Goldsmiths and lives in London with his cat Pierożek. You can find him on Twitter @captainiberia

It began with a subtle tightening in my throat. The middle-aged man in the grocery store queue placed his hand on my midsection with reverence, large palm and splayed fingers spanning the swell of my abdomen. “Do you plan to breastfeed? Breastfed children have IQs that are as much as eight points higher. My wife breastfed our twins, tandem. It’s the most natural thing, you know.” It was the dry, recirculated air. It was always so damn dry in the supermarket. Swiping a sweaty bottle of Evian water from the little fridge beside the cash register, I downed half the cool liquid in a single swallow. But the sensation persisted. The tightening increased during a visit with my friend Genevieve. “Are you still having sex?” She’d asked as she tugged at the roomy waistband of her pre-pregnancy jeans. The jeans hung too low on her diminished frame: old skin, ready to be shed and expose the new, improved Genevieve underneath. Determined not to become one of those mothers, she’d been putting in two hours a day on her Peloton bike since popping out The Kid three months prior. “Ted and I had sex right up until a few hours before delivery. If you don’t keep them happy, they’ll just go find it elsewhere. Honestly, who can blame them. They put up with all our mood swings. And you know, just because you can’t screw for six weeks after, doesn’t mean you can’t still satisfy him. You wouldn’t believe how many divorces coincide with the arrival of a new baby.” It was acid reflux. I’d heard that reflux was common in pregnancy. I popped one of the chalky little pastel antacids from the roll I’d stashed in the change pocket of my purse for just such an occasion. But the sensation persisted. The tightening intensified during our big gender reveal dinner with my in-laws. “You’ll of course circumcise the baby.” My mother in-law had said, while dishing me up a hearty portion of something white and nebulous, with flecks of pink that might have been crab salad. “We circumcised Ethan so his would look like his dad’s. The uncircumcised ones look a bit… Well, I just think it could be confusing to a little boy to have different-looking parts.” It was an allergy: I had developed a sudden and intense allergy to shellfish. My face felt numb. Like the time I’d mistaken a tube of Lidocaine for my overpriced BB cream. I raced to the medicine cabinet and frantically downed a few cloying-sweet tablespoons of grape-flavoured Benadryl. But the sensation persisted. The tightening worsened as my husband watched the anesthesiologist prepare the epidural. He’d been researching the safety profile for epidurals and had fallen down some dank neo-naturalist rabbit hole. He’d even started insisting the baby forgo diapers altogether and we hold him over a toilet to do his business right from birth—because that’s what people in cultures that don’t have access to diapers do. As if given a choice they wouldn’t trade being covered in piss for a pack of pampers. “The Militant Naturalist says epidurals prolong labour. It can put the mother and baby at risk. I’m not saying you shouldn’t, just that maybe it’s not too late to at least consider a natural birth.” It was low blood pressure. The doctor explained that blood pressure often dropped during an epidural. He administered IV fluids to increase my blood pressure. But the sensation persisted. The tightening became unbearable as the nurse placed the squalling, beet-faced bundle in my arms. The nurse inspected the poor latch with a critical eye. “It’s hospital policy to hold out on giving formula for as long as possible.” Instead of suctioning to my nipple like he was supposed to, the baby chewed and gummed it, turning tender flesh into bloody hamburger. “Just keep trying, he’ll eventually get the hang of nursing.” The walls of the room contracted, along with the walls of my throat. As I lay prostrate a faint echo reached through the cotton batting web of my insensibility. “So, what you’re telling me is that her womb has migrated through her body and is now in her throat?” “Indeed. It’s called the suffocation of the mother, a fairly common feature of hysteria.” “Is there something we can do? There must be some sort of medical treatment for this kind of thing?” “Unfortunately, there aren’t really any effective medical treatments for the condition. Not to worry though, hysteria is mostly benign, a nuisance—it’s only very occasionally fatal. I suggest she walk more and try regular masturbation.” “But can’t you just remove the uterus?” “I’m sorry, we simply don’t do removals on women under 30 unless they’ve had at least two children. I’m afraid she’ll just have to learn to live with it.” Jennifer is an artist who lives on the frozen plains of Canada with her family and five pets. Her short stories have appeared in Hobart Pulp, L’Esprit Literary Review, Expat Press, and others.

Maybe this is not a good day to write you but I will write you anyway. My son, you are a boy. Your heart is made like cheese, it goes with everything. When you try to connect dots, there will always be a man undoing the knots and another making a zigzag with your thing rope. It’s a cruel world my child. Bananas taste great but the peels can get you new dentition. Some doors will never open to the strength of your push, some doors require six hands and three hearts to yank open. Treat you superiors with honor and hand your juniors cans full of kindness. Reach for you breast pocket and see a painting your dad left you. In your box, I packed water paints and papers, paint your memories. The world is not yours to bear, keep yourself. If a dear chases you in a dream again, stand, it may just be passing. If you come home and find my remains, merry with friends. Death took away your burden but if you meet a heap of sand they call grave, cry yourself to sleep. When you wake up, pour me a jar of my favorite liquor, my mouth will be open to receive it. You are a good boy, my child. This dark world will test your light, still shine. Ifunanya Georgia Ezeano is an Igbo, Nigerian writer, poet, and editor. She holds a BSc in Psychology. She has her works published in journals and lit mags in many places. She is the head editor for Writers Space Africa Virtual/Video Poetry. She was the pioneer leader of Poets in Nigeria, at the University of Nigeria Nsukka. She is the author of the poetry collection; Naked and Thorns & Petals (on Amazon and other places) and she has other unpublished works. She has a Gazelle (Droplets)on the Konya Shamsrumi Review Gazelle series. She was nominated this year for British Loft Prize for flash fiction. She recently received the Sparks Poetry Award honorary mention from Memorial University, Newfoundland, Canada. She is interested in human experiences, the psychology of life, femininity, and Africanism.

For the first time in his adult years – not that he often thought of himself as an adult, or made much of an effort to behave like one – Mickey Rose spent an entire week pondering the meaning of life. It wasn't that he had suddenly become a philosopher, or had embraced some form of Eastern spirituality. The ability to sit around his apartment and do nothing but think owed to an unexpected change in circumstances: After nearly two decades of relevance in the world of sportswriting, Mickey was suddenly unemployed. For far too long, Mickey was finally recognizing, he had been under the illusion that barring a serious car accident or some catastrophic disease, his path was more or less set. Like many of his heroes, he had entered the newspaper world as an intern, covering high school football, basketball, and baseball, plus an occasional county or state soccer or softball tournament. After a year of dues-paying, he was promoted to full-time sportswriter, with a focus on professional baseball – the Dodgers and Angels – and basketball – the Lakers and Clippers. Thirteen years later, when two people with seniority left the paper within the span of six weeks – Tim Dooley, the sports editor because of a debilitating stroke; B.J. Riley, the provocateur who wrote a three-times-a-week column, because of a salary dispute -- Mickey made the leap to columnist. His expectation (or at least hope) was that like the icons he revered – Ring Lardner, Jim Murray, Larry Merchant, Dan Shaughnessy – his punditry would continue until he ran out of words, died, or found some new challenge. All that changed during the lead-up to an event that had long been a source of joy: the annual baseball All-Star Game. In contrast to the World Series, where the focus was solely on winning, All-Star weekend was baseball as fun, with the main event sharing time with the Home Run Derby, the Futures Game, and even Celebrity Softball. For sports lifers, it was the perfect opportunity to hang out with colleagues from other cities and papers, catching up on each other's lives and trading tales, as well as providing insights and anecdotes that might find their way into future columns. Mickey's delight at being in the center of things came to an abrupt halt when he got a call from his paper's former columnist, B.J. Riley. “Get ready for a shit storm!” Riley warned. “What's that mean?” asked Mickey. “That new sports editor –“ “Linda Molina –” “She's trying to turn the Sports Section into happy news.” Riley's warning cast a pall over the joy Mickey was anticipating. Though he should have realized that the world he knew was changing when the New York Times bought the Athletic, then reduced its daily coverage of sports, Mickey assumed – or hoped – that would remain an East Coast anomaly. In Los Angeles, where the Dodgers and Lakers engendered a religious fervor, where UCLA basketball and USC football were obsessions, and where the Clippers, Chargers, Galaxy, and the LA Football Club had passionate fans, such a cataclysm seemed unimaginable. There was no way, Mickey thought, diehards would be willing to start their day with coffee and iPhones instead of old-fashioned newsprint. That's why he kept a framed quote from former Chief Justice Earl Warren above his desk: I always turn to the sports pages first, which records people's accomplishments. The front page has nothing but man's failures. “Try to view this as an opportunity,” Linda Molina began when she and Mickey met face-to-face. “Won't it be fun to re-imagine the Sports section as a human interest magazine?” “Really want me to answer that?” asked Mickey. “Absolutely.” “Sounds as much fun as elective root canal.” “You don't think human interest stories will expand our readership?” “Give me what you call human interest.” “A piece on a Dodger's kids,” replied Linda. “Or a Laker's puppies. Or somebody on the Rams' family vacation.” Mickey grimaced. “Are you aware of the devotion of Dodgers fans? Or Lakers fans? Or UCLA basketball and SC football?” “What're you trying to tell me?” asked Linda. “All the papers in driveways I see on my early morning jogs?” “What about them?” “After a week without box scores, half'll be canceled.” Linda frowned. “Will you at least give it a try?” “Have you read my contract?” “Why?” “Three columns a week.” Linda took a deep breath while eyeing Mickey. “There's also a clause about insubordination.” “Meaning?” “You're with me, or I call legal.” “Start dialing,” said Mickey, heading for the door. Though Mickey was enraged, the initial target of his ire wasn't Linda Molina. It was the powers-that-be, either for giving her a mandate or for accepting her brainstorm. By the end of the second day, it was himself that Mickey was starting to blame. In the year or so before the pandemic, when The Athletic, The Ringer, and ESPN were poaching columnists from the newspaper world, Mickey was one of the first writers approached. Always a team player, he immediately went to see his editor. “I know it's tempting,” Ernie Ryan, who replaced Tim Dooley, said to him. “But what about loyalty? Here you're dealing with a known commodity, plus you've got me on your side.” “And if something happens to you?” Dooley sighed. “Like a piano landing on my head?” Mickey shrugged. “Shit happens. “What if I ask as a personal favor? Plus, I can probably use the offers to get you a raise.” To his chagrin, Mickey yielded. Day four of his time at home began with Mickey thinking about the world he had inhabited. Though there were late nights, deadlines, and other pressures, the key word in sports was play, not work. In baseball, basketball, football, soccer, tennis, and other sports, games were played. In the same spirit, his byline read Mickey Rose, not Michael – just as it was Red Smith, not Walter; Dan Barry, not Daniel; and Skip Bayless, not John Edward Bayless II. Another perq was that except for games that he attended in person, Mickey could watch sporting events in his pajamas, or write columns in sweatpants and a t-shirt. Plus his years in sports enabled him to spend time in cities across the globe at his paper's expense, witnessing everything from the Olympics to Wimbledon to the Kentucky Derby. Those travels yielded friends galore: other writers, hotel managers, restaurateurs, bartenders, and fans, as well as a good amount of athletes, and even some interesting women. If there was a downside, it was the number of times Mickey woke up with no clue what city he was in. Plus the ever-present temptation to spend too many hours shooting the shit with pals in a bar in Baltimore, Atlanta, London, or wherever. Then there was the reality that it was largely his job that undermined his marriage. Anita, his ex-, wasn't entirely wrong in thinking that work often took precedence over her. Nor was she incorrect in thinking that money was never sufficiently important to Mickey. People like Bayless, Michael Wilbon, and Tony Kornheiser added exponentially to their earnings by moving to cable TV. Others, like his New York friend Hal Byers with his series of sports biographies, or his Philadelphia buddy Jerry Wald with his Young Adult novels employing sports as a backdrop, used their bylines as tickets into publishing. But Mickey, at least as Anita saw it, never cared about either fortune or fame. Though deluged with texts and emails – some praising his refusal to capitulate; others wondering about his well-being – Mickey was surprised by how few calls he received. Those who did ring were mainly what he once, in a column about a Mets manager whose phone seemed to ring only when his team was on a losing streak, termed “foul weather friends” who secretly delighted in others' misfortune. Real friends like Hal Byers or Jerry Wald, Mickey figured, were giving him much needed time to himself. Tossing and turning in bed on Friday night, Mickey found himself slipping into panic mode. It took a nearly Herculean effort to sit up and accept that neither the world nor his life had ended. His bank account, though not substantial, wasn't empty. The rent on the small Echo Park apartment he found when his marriage ended wasn't extravagant. Unlike those concerned with status, he didn't have to pay upkeep on horses, a Maserati, or a yacht. Nor was he burdened by child support or a coke habit. Taking a deep breath, Mickey listed the three key considerations for the days and weeks ahead. In case of an accident or illness, he needed medical insurance. Plus he would sooner or later require some income. Above all, there was an existential question: What in hell was he going to do with his life? Over green tea and toast the next morning, Mickey stewed while pondering the examples that Linda Molina offered as human interest. Zealously, he began to contrast them with the columns that gave him the most satisfaction. Never content to tell readers what they themselves had seen in a game, match, or fight the night before, he considered it a duty to focus whenever possible on the human side of sports. A personal favorite was a story about a running back who built houses for poverty-stricken people in his hometown in Alabama. Another was of a pitcher who walked away from a sizable contract to look after his kids while his wife was undergoing cancer treatment. An additional source of pride – especially because of the right-wing hate emails it generated – was the award from a feminist group for his series on the Atlanta Dream, the WNBA team that forced its owner to sell because of her attacks on Black Lives Matter. Nor was that Mickey's only source of angry emails. He got plenty for his repeated defense of Dodger manager Dave Roberts. Even greater venom came when Mickey was a key voice in demanding that baseball move its All-Star Game out of Georgia because of a new law designed to suppress voting turnout among people of color. But at the top of the list in terms of responses – good and not-so-good – was a series about Little League parents. Whether it was moms and dads yelling, “Run, Johnny, run!” – or coaches giving bad advice like “Keep that elbow up!” – or parents cursing out umpires and putting far too much pressure on their kids – Mickey insisted that it would be an infinitely healthier experience if kids were left to themselves. Still, Mickey's all-time favorite series was one he had to fight for since it wasn't deemed local or national news. What caught his attention was a pitcher seemingly destined for the Hall of Fame until one day he simply could no longer throw strikes. Trying to correct the problem, his team sent him first to an orthopedist to examine his shoulder. Then to an ophthalmologist to check his vision. Next to a sports psychologist to determine his mental health. Ultimately let go, he was signed by another team, who had him see a psychiatrist known for curing phobias and blocks. When that, too, failed, the pitcher dropped out of sight for a couple of years, then reappeared at a tryout for the sport's lowest rung – an Independent League – not as a pitcher, but as a left-handed hitting center fielder. To the astonishment of general managers, players, and fans, he quickly rose to the Majors, enabling Mickey to dub him “The Comeback Kid.” Though he'd never given it much thought while on the job, it gave Mickey great satisfaction to know that he'd often used sports as a metaphor for the world at large. Nor did hate emails, threats, or resistance from his editor ever deter him from his convictions. But pride didn't solve his problems – economic and otherwise. Not wanting to seem desperate, Mickey sent off a series of “Checking in” emails – to friends, editors, and others who might be resources or potential employers. The absence of a response was disheartening. After waiting a week, Mickey followed with calls. Most recipients proved to be unavailable, then failed to get back to him. Another notion popped into Mickey's head while shooting baskets at a playground. He reached out to Journalism Departments at local universities where, over the years, he had spoken on panels, as well as in individual classrooms. Once again, the silence proved deafening. Has all the work I've done been for naught? Mickey found himself wondering. Am I consigned to hoping for work at Big Five Sporting Goods, or driving an Uber? Those thoughts made Mickey muse about what the future might – or might not – hold. Would a wife, kids, and a family ever be part of his life? That painful question begged three others. Am I suited for a normal life? Can I ever again afford one? Have I blown the chance for anything resembling normal? Despite the plaques on his wall for journalistic honors, plus photos of him together with Shaq, Kobe, LeBron, Clayton Kershaw, Justin Herbert, and Gretsky, Mickey found himself thinking that beyond being prematurely obsolete, he seemed to have become invisible. The following morning, Mickey was rousted by a call from Jerry Wald. “I've been thinking,” his friend told him. “You've got a lawsuit begging to begin.” When Mickey protested that he wasn't litigious, Wald doubled-down. “Like it or not, I'm gonna find you an attorney. And if need be, spring for his fees.” An offer of lunch from B.J. Riley got Mickey to a sports bar where the two of them used to convene with Tim Dooley. Seeing Mickey enjoy greetings from patrons and staffers, Riley smiled. “Beats sitting home alone, thinking the world has ended.” Mickey nodded. “It's too damn easy to start feeling like a dinosaur,” Riley continued. “Or that they're right, and we're not. Got anything in mind?” “Besides hitting a gun shop?” Mickey joked. “Hal Byers is trying to get me to sue.” Riley sighed. “Might make you some bucks, but there are consequences. You'll be a pariah.” “Are there alternatives?” “Sure!” joked Riley. “Male model. Stud. Oligarch. Plutocrat.” Mickey chuckled. “That's the Mickey I know. I started with a blog. That led to a podcast.” “And?” “Aside from making me feel alive, there are some bucks coming in. Plus, a few guest columns here and there, and even a couple of appearances on Cable TV. But gotta warn you –” “About?” “It means showering and shaving.” Still confused, but somewhat more hopeful, Mickey was headed home when he got another call from Byers. “Please tell me you're not sitting around feeling sorry for yourself,” said Hal. “Actually, I'm driving home from a lunch with B.J.” “Going out to lunch is one thing, but sitting with somebody for three or four months is something else.” “Why would I be sitting with somebody for three or four months?” “Because,” answered Hal, “you're about to become an As Told To.” “What's that mean?” “I pitched you to help an ex-Dodger with his memoir.” “Why me instead of you?” asked Mickey. “First, I'm booked for several months. Second, it'd mean leaving New York, which Harriet doesn't want to do. Plus, you know much more about the Dodgers – and LA. Best of all, it's a door-opener.” “B-but –” “What but?” “I never did that kind of thing,” said Mickey. “Which won't be a problem when you go to your second. Or third.” “Why? Think it won't be a one-shot?” “Because,” said Hal, “you write well, you know your shit, and you get on with ballplayers. And here's the big thing. Ready?” “Sure.” “There's an inexhaustible array of athletes with stories that people want to hear. You in? Or have you miraculously been offered a job running the Dodgers?” Mickey smiled. “I'm in.” Only once he hung up did Mickey realize that this could be his much-needed second chance. If he did it well, above and beyond escaping from his funk, plus getting some much-needed cash, he could potentially reinvent himself. Maybe that could allow him to have something resembling a real life. Maybe, like the ballplayer he once wrote about, he, too, could be a Comeback Kid. Alan Swyer is an award-winning filmmaker whose recent documentaries have dealt with Eastern spirituality in the Western world, the criminal justice system, diabetes, boxing, and singer Billy Vera. In the realm of music, among his productions is an album of Ray Charles love songs. His novel 'The Beard' was recently published by Harvard Square Editions.

The slant The revocation of his voice We are revoking his voice from society His poet's piercing and longing Song of how things really are Robert Haas' poems in Summer Snow I can see why the Nazis And by Nazis in this case I mean the German Nazis Stomping through countries like they Were jelly. Not the current bastardized Brainwashed Nazis, led by dumb People who only care about Crawling raw power. I’m sick in the heart. On top of an old Heart The tulips pretend they are sunflowers But fail to grow 11 feet tall. The cypress trees That grace the driveway of the Influential man Fall one by two To say they have had enough. Even though the natural world Rejects Naziism and longs For the poet's voice It has been revoked By those pretending To be wise and brave, But they drink us all In fear.

By lunchtime, Ollie had processed thirteen 1085 forms, seven 91B forms, and opened two new case files. He saved his current work (an 89C form) and made his way to the kitchen. Ollie found an empty table next to Bonnie and Nora. Bonnie’s back was to him, but he caught her voice as he approached. “I told him not to recommend that one,” Bonnie said. “But he got greedy.” Nora opened her mouth to respond but hesitated when she saw Ollie. Bonnie turned, fork held midair above a large salad. Ollie nodded in greeting. Bonnie waved her fork, then shifted back to face Nora. Ollie sat and retrieved his sandwich. “Tuna again?” Nora asked. “Don’t you get sick of it?” “No, I like tuna.” “Have you always been picky?” “I’m not picky. I like food,” Ollie gestured with his sandwich. “Including tuna.” “Then why do always eat tuna?” “If I like it and it’s easy, why change it?” Nora let the question hang in the air. Ollie took another bite of sandwich. Bonnie stabbed at her salad with her fork. “How the mutts treating you?” Bonnie’s voice was sharp and slicing. “Don’t call them that.” Ollie’s warning was met with a silent smirk. Ollie sighed. “They’re fine.” “Fine,” Bonnie repeated. “And you’re ok with ‘fine’?” “Bonnie, just say whatever it is you want to say.” “There’s more to life than ‘fine’, Ollie.” “Not everyone has to be you, Bonnie.” Bonnie pursed her lips. “Maybe, but at least I know what I want.” “And you’re saying I don’t?” Ollie dropped his sandwich back in its container. “The loans are reasonable, the pay is good, and there’s rarely a default.” “Rarely.” Bonnie’s dark eyes hooked into Ollie. He dropped his gaze. Beneath the table, he crossed his right leg behind his left. “I’ve only had one of my loans default.” Ollie stood, grabbing his lunch. “And not that you care, but the lender was very apologetic about the collection.” Ollie was already walking away, but Bonnie’s voice taunted him from behind. “I’m sure,” she said. Ollie would never admit it, he’d never give Bonnie the satisfaction, but the conversation replayed in his mind throughout the rest of the day. When Charles Finch approached his desk the next morning, he was still mentally reciting what he wished he’d said to Bonnie. “Ollie.” Finch was trying to catch his breath. “I need you to drop what you’re doing.” “Sir?” “We’ve got an applicant here for an interview. I need you to take over the account.” “Our department doesn’t usually conduct interviews for applicants.” “It’s not a werewolf account son.” Ollie stared at his boss. “Consider this a promotion.” “A promotion?” “Look,” Finch leaned over Ollie’s desk and lowered his voice, “Bonnie’s latest account defaulted last night, which now makes you my most senior underwriter.” Ollie shifted in his seat. What he wished he’d said to Bonnie now seemed hollow and childish. “There’s no one else?” It was all Ollie could think to say. “I’ll give you triple Bonnie’s salary.” Bonnie would’ve been pissed to know Ollie was taking over her account. But Bonnie wasn’t here, and Ollie pushed away thoughts of where she might be now. “Ok,” he said. “Get me the paperwork.” Ollie flipped through the folder as he walked to the conference room. The client was Sam Caulfield, age 35, she/her pronouns, single. She’d requested the loan six months ago and had passed all the previous protocols. Ollie’s eyes shifted from the file to the woman seated in the glass-walled room before him. Sam wore a slim-fitting white dress, her red hair cascading to her shoulders in soft waves. Her lips were painted red to match her long nails, which had been filed to a point and rested on the table in front of her. A quiet sniffle pulled Ollie’s attention from Sam. Nora sat a few cubicles away, a tissue held to her nose. She met Ollie’s gaze with red, puffy eyes. Ollie turned before his stomach could knot further. Sam rose as Ollie entered, extending a pale hand. She was at least six inches taller than him, but she carried her build elegantly. The tips of her nails pressed into Ollie’s skin as they shook hands. Ollie settled into a seat across from her. “Alright Ms. Caulfield, can you tell me the purpose of the loan?” “Isn’t that information in my application?” “Yes, but a loan of this caliber requires a particularly thorough process. This interview is to ensure I feel comfortable recommending your loan to the lender.” “So you can be sure I won’t default?” “Yes.” “And what happens if I default?” “Are you concerned you might default?” Sam’s face lifted into a grin and a short laugh escaped her crimson lips. Ollie caught his features rising to match Sam’s. He settled them into a cordial smile before they could betray the lightness he felt. “I applied for the loan as a means of taking over my father’s business.” Ollie flipped through Sam’s file. “Silver City Hospitality?” he asked. “Yes, that’s correct. My father gave me a portion of the family business, but he’s set some…” “Restrictions?” “You could call them that. Though they feel more like shackles most times.” “And you’ve tried other avenues?” Ollie asked. Sam’s face tightened. “Many,” she said. “It feels like we’ve been caught in this struggle for ages.” Ollie looked at the front page of her file. ‘HELLHOUND’ was stamped in bold red letters. “So how would this loan help you?” When Sam didn’t respond right away, Ollie looked up and met her intense, shimmering gaze. Though his pulse fluttered, he waited for her to respond. “Would you humor me?” She said. “I’m sorry?” “Pick ‘A’ or ‘B’.” “I’m not sure I understand.” Sam gestured for him to indulge her. He feigned an annoyed sigh. “Fine, ‘B’.” Sam rose from her seat and leaned across the table. Before Ollie could react, she’d pressed her lips to his. Ollie’s shock melted into her soft heat. As she moved against him, her lips parted, allowing him to taste her more deeply. She raised one hand to rest the tips of her nails against his jaw. Her touch sent a prickling sensation through his body. When she pulled away, Ollie’s breath went with her. “Now,’ her voice was almost a whisper. “Do you want to know what Option A was?” “Yes,” Ollie managed, though his voice caught in his throat. Sam plopped back into her seat, somehow managing to make the move look graceful. “Well, too bad.” Ollie blinked at her. “That’s the type of game my dad plays. He feigns like he’s giving you a choice, but never actually reveals his hand. He controls everything, pulls all the strings, but does it deftly enough that all his little marionettes,” Sam moved her hands across the table to mimic puppetry, “think they’re real boys and girls”. “So,” Ollie cleared his throat, “what would a hellhound do for you?” “Straight back to business, I like it.” Sam crossed her arms. “Being the manipulative bastard he is, my dad has gained an almost infinite amount of power. All my previous efforts to dethrone him have failed. But a monstrous undead hound that’ll tear his soul apart and drag him to hell for eternity? I don’t think even he could survive that.” “I see,” Ollie flipped to another page in the file. “Regarding the repayment terms-” “I understand the terms.” “Well, I’m still required to read them to you.” Sam sighed and gestured for Ollie to continue. “Ms. Caulfield, this loan is for the services of one hellhound, which you may dispatch at your disposal. However, as part of the terms of the loan, the hellhound must be provided with at least one human soul. In addition, at the time of your death, your soul is required to spend a minimum of 1,000 years in the services of the lender. The ultimate duration of your repayment period will be up to the discretion of your lender, but shall not exceed 5,000 years. Do you understand these terms?” “Yes I do.” “Do you have any questions or reservations about the terms of your loan?” “No, I like the heat.” Two short knocks sounded on the door. Ollie excused himself and met Finch in the hallway. “So, how’s it going?” Finch asked. Ollie glanced over Finch’s shoulder. Nora’s desk was empty, but he could see tissues piled in her waste basket. “I’m going to recommend her for the loan.” Finch searched Ollie’s face. “You understand what you’re guaranteeing? A pound of flesh might satisfy the wolves, but that won’t be enough for…” Finch gestured vaguely to the ground. “I know, sir. I understand” “Alright then,” Finch smoothed his tie, “I’ll get the hound.” When Ollie reentered the conference room, Sam was standing at the window. “Ms. Caulfield,” she turned to face him, “we’ve tentatively agreed to recommend your loan to the lender.” “Wonderful,” Sam clasped her hands together. “There’s one final step in the approval process. In a moment I’ll escort you to the holding area, where you’ll meet the hellhound whose services you’re borrowing.” “Oh, I see.” “We’d like to make absolutely sure you understand the agreement you’re entering.” Sam raised an eyebrow. “As well as observe my reaction, I presume? Make sure I don’t get cold feet?” “Something like that, yes.” “Very well. Lead the way.” Ollie sensed the office’s stares as they walked through the corridor. Sam was striking, but Ollie wasn’t sure if it was her appearance, or his presence with Bonnie’s client that drew the attention. “Do me a favor, Ollie.” Sam’s voice cut through the tension. “Pick another one for me. 121 or 122?” Ollie considered for a moment, then replied. “121.” “Hmm,” she looked satisfied. “Interesting.” “Are you going to tell me what I chose?” Sam responded with a crimson smile. When they reached the holding room, Finch was already there. He stood against the far wall, while a large, four-legged animal sat calmly in the center. The air was hot with the smell of burning flesh and tar. Ollie did his best to appear unfazed. Sam strode into the room, slowly making her way to the hound. The beast’s head almost reached Sam’s. Its paws were roughly the size of a human skull and what was left of its ears extended above its head in jagged points. The hound’s skin, if you could call it that, roiled and shifted as wet, reddish-black flesh dripped from its bones in chunks. Blood and meat pooled around it. The shedding skin revealed patches of cracked, blackened bones that smoldered like firewood. Each piece of fallen flesh slowly regrew, once again obscuring the creature’s exposed bones. All the while adjacent pieces cycled through various stages of swelling, sagging, and melting. “Ms. Caulfield, I’m Mr. Finch, I run this branch-” Sam looked at Finch. Ollie couldn’t see her expression, but Finch’s voice died on his lips. Sam turned to the hound and the animal cocked its massive head. Sam extended her hand. “Ms. Caulfield that’s not-” Ollie watched as the creature regarded Sam. Pinpricks of glowing orange were the only hint of a pupil within its obsidian black eyes. The creature raised its rotten nose to Sam’s hand, then nuzzled its head into her palm. Sam stroked its head with her fingers, flesh sloughing off beneath her touch. Blood and tissue covered her skin. She used her nails to scratch beneath the beast’s chin. One side of its jowl fell to the floor as she did so, revealing a mess of dark, glass-like teeth. She brought the creature’s muzzle to her mouth and kissed the top of its snout. “My beautiful monster,” she cooed. “You have been so good.” “Ms. Caulfield?” Ollie’s voice sounded distant, even to his ears. “Did you know gentlemen,” Sam’s gaze remained on the creature as she spoke, “that all hellhounds are the same animal?” When neither Ollie nor Finch responded, she whispered to the beast. “Show them my love.” Sam took a step back and the creature stood, lowering its head and arching its spine. More flesh fell to the floor in wet clumps as a low growling sound bubbled from the hound’s throat. The skin along one side of its body swelled and grew in a pulsating mass. Sharp edges of bone pushed against the fleshy confines of the tumor as it undulated against the existing hound. The skin tore as it stretched, oozing blackish blood to the floor. The hound remained standing as the mass of flesh grew and formed legs of its own. The shape of a head became visible as it pushed against the inside of the new skin, eventually tearing free and splattering Sam’s white dress with shades of red. She didn’t flinch. The remaining skin between the two hounds tore in long, ragged strands. Sam leaned down to stroke the neck of the first hound, then the second. “You see, I’ve been lending you the services of my hound for some time.” Ollie glanced at Finch, who was flattening his large frame as far into the wall as possible. “And while I’ve certainly benefited from our arrangement, I think it’s time you considered new management. I’m sure the other lenders will be most sympathetic to my causes.” Sam’s fingers twitched and the first hound lunged at Finch. Its jaws closed around his throat and the lower part of his face. Blood poured down the front of Finch’s shirt and there was a garbled noise that might have been a scream. The hound’s jaws closed tighter and the garbling noise was cut off by a wet crunch. The hound tore free of Finch and his body slid to the floor. His lower jaw and most of his neck was gone. Ollie rushed towards the door but didn’t make it more than a few steps before the second hound knocked him to the ground. The beast bit into Ollie’s right leg and shook its head. Ollie’s pants ripped at the knee and he felt a piece of himself be wrenched away. The hound dropped Ollie’s leg and it landed on the floor with a dull thud. As Sam retrieved the limb, the torn fabric fell away, revealing the smooth synthetic skin of Ollie’s prosthetic. She crouched in front of him. “Hmm, a previous default perhaps?” Ollie’s breath came in ragged gasps. “Just get it over with.” He said. Sam furrowed her brow. The expression didn’t suit her. “Oh Ollie.” The hounds slinked out the door behind Sam, their enormous paws padding silently on the hallway carpet. “Of the one hundred and twenty-two souls in this building, I think you’re my favorite.” A drenching cold washed through Ollie as the consequences of his previous choice settled in his mind. “No,” he rasped. “That’s right. It was your choice, so I won’t collect.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Yet.” Screams cascaded through the open door as Sam stood and dropped Ollie’s leg. She flattened the skirt of her dress, smearing the drying blood into streaks. The last thing Ollie saw before passing out, was Sam’s long legs striding into the hallway. M. Rose Seaboldt (she/her) obtained her engineering degrees so she could study structures and fire science. She writes so she can explore characters and the trials they endure. Find her on Twitter @boldtsea.