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CW: Sexual relationship between adult and minor I. Two nights ago, I dreamt of hot cocoa. The kind that’s a little too sweet because it’s made with cheap drinking chocolate. The kind that has one too many marshmallows in it but not enough whipped cream. My molars groan a little as they alternate between crashing into each other and breaking away (for only seconds at a time) because they haven’t fully perfected the art of letting go just yet. The mouth cannot let go because a bag of marshmallows is cheaper than a can of D’Lecta. Like dead waves floating on top of some sluggish ocean, the whipped cream settles on top of my drink. It is as still as a rock, only moving when I blow at it, hoping that my nicotine-stained breath will break through its foamy barrier and cool my cocoa down. Patience is a virtue that I do not possess, but fear has made me cautious. I do not wish to burn my tongue again so I will hold it until someone tells me that it is safe to drink out of this cup. Steam is deceptive and porcelain can heat up too quickly sometimes. II. My grandmother used to tell me that eating too many sweets would make my teeth rot. When she’d go to bed at night and fall asleep almost immediately, breathing heavily with her mouth open, sometimes I would imagine roses growing out of her throat. I’d imagine a thorny stalk shooting up from her lungs and making its way through her ribcage until it finally saw light through her open mouth. I used to wonder if my grandmother liked the taste of roses. I used to hope that the thorns weren’t the reason she’d spit out mucus that was tinted red on some nights when the roses growing out of her made her cough the way I do now. A year later, I worked up the courage to ask her if she liked the way the roses felt in her throat. I asked her if she liked roses because she’d always told me her favourite flowers were tulips. I didn’t know what tulips looked like but I knew she was lying to me. I’d never seen her coughing up petals that didn’t look like they came from a rose. I asked her if she liked the roses I’d brought for her, but she stayed quiet. We buried her deep in the woods, far away from the tulips, with only roses left in her throat. III. The first man I ever loved never told me he loved me. When I think of him now, sometimes I find myself terrified at the fact that I don’t remember what his voice sounded like at all. When he’d get off of me, he’d offer me coffee and I’d drink it greedily because he drank it too. Drinking coffee felt like communion. Our bodies may have come together physically just moments ago but sharing shitty and overly sweet coffee made me feel like less of a secret and more like a lover he kept hidden. Mother cried out in terror when she heard of my love. Mother forbade me from ever seeing him again. Mother spent hundreds of nights awake, screaming at the sky hoping that some God would hide their face in shame and give her the answers she deserved. Mother knows no God is present, but it doesn’t hurt to try. “You are a child, he was supposed to be taking care of you.” I don’t drink much coffee anymore. IV. Last night, I dreamt of solace. I dreamt of my hot cocoa being cool enough to drink. I dreamt of rose petals falling from the sky. I dreamt of tulips growing out of my throat so that I could cough them up on her grave. I dreamt of my teeth being able to bite through flesh. I dreamt of whipped cream that comes cheap. I dreamt of coffee without sugar. Last night, I dreamt of my mother talking to God. I saw her spit on the ground and make clay with her saliva. I heard God tell her that the blind would see only if they wanted to. I woke up this morning and sealed my eyes shut. Denzel Joyson A J is a writer, student and problem child in chief living in the city of Bangalore in India. Sometimes he strings together random words and people who read these words call them poetry.

Have you noticed how the skin on your elbows changes as you get older? You haven’t until just the other day. You have penciled this in your diary as an unpleasant encounter with an elevator’s mirror or even rather your elbow’s unforeseen rendezvous with the relentlessness of time. Are you really this old already (rhetorical!)? It begs the question why on Earth should we have mirrors in elevators? If you haven’t done your morning toiletries, such as brushing your hair and by the same token acquiring a decent look in the privacy of your own home, having mirrors in elevators that scream back at your saggy skin, dark circles under eyes, unironed shirts, smudged makeup, a hole in your stocking or sweaty puddles under armpits…well, you ain’t gonna fix it in the seconds it takes you to get from one floor to another. All you’ll do is get yourself more miserable and no one wants to start their day with a glum. And it’s not just about elbows. After you pass the big forty, everything seems to run downhill. Your palms are so dry they’ve developed craters and those craters house craters. No matter how much hand cream you use, it’s never enough. It gets sucked right in like a baby imbibing a nipple, with no end in sight. An endless well in a desert of aridness. Let’s not even start with the rest of you, a kilo here and there, and unwanted loose-fittings that can fortunately be hidden for the most part. Mirrors make you feel exposed; to yourself, the people around you and the ones observing from the elevators’ cameras, positioned in that special way that captures every bad angle, even the ones you didn’t know you had. Of course, there’s always an option of using twenty flights of exit stairs, otherwise until they are banned from public spaces, you simply have to endure your own reflection gawking back at you from all directions. So after the other day, you made a conscious decision to stop wearing short sleeves, for a while at least. Occasionally you utilize the option of the twenty flights of exit stairs, knowing full well you can’t escape time. Andrea Damic's work appears or is forthcoming in Roi Fainéant Press, The Elpis Letters, Door Is A Jar Literary Magazine, The Dribble Drabble Review, 50 Give or Take (Vine Leaves Press) Anthologies, Spillwords, Your Impossible Voice and elsewhere. You can find her on https://linktr.ee/damicandrea, @DamicAndrea and https://www.instagram.com/damicandrea.

Greg Morris drove into a Lumber and Plumbing Supply Company's parking lot fast and halted abruptly in the nearest assigned loading spot. He sat there in his Dodge Ram pick-up truck, engine still running, with Blues music playing, waiting for his best friend to get off from work. Earlier, he made a pit stop at the Stop-N-Go to buy gas, then beer and ice for his large blue cooler, so they could go straight to their favorite hangout. A clearing with a duck-off not far off from the Indianola River. Sliding glass doors soon parted and out walked Omar, a short but stocky black man. He approached the truck with a bounce in his stride and the company's red work vest thrown across his shoulder. In his left hand, he held a brand new oak handle ax. He got into the passenger's seat then placed the chopping tool in the back cab, and then shut the door. Both men shared fist-dabs before they departed the lot. "What's up with you?" said Omar. "Nothing. Excited, that's all." Greg said, "Tonight it's finally coming down." "Damn right it is," said Omar. "Is that thing sharp?" Greg said. "It better be," said Omar. "It's brand new." "Why not a chainsaw?" Greg said. "Too loud and expensive," said Omar. "She ain't worth that much." "True." Greg said, "Ready?" So off they went. They drove less than a mile to get to their destination's entrance. Down the service road, pass three stop signs, and then a left turn at the fourth one which led onto a pothole-laden blacktop. A paved road that traveled by the dam lock before it changed into a gravel then dirt road and continued along the levee. A short time later, boyhood friends arrived at their favorite location and soon sat their butts on the back of a lowered tailgate. They applied insect repellant and put the large blue ice cooler—full of 40-ounce bottles—between them. Twisted beer caps followed and soon alcohol met the grass and became foam before vanishing. A liquid offering for the dead. Not for a deity, or an ancestor, but an old lady – a real pain in the ass – whose reputation left a permanent mark on them, on others, and the town in general. The departed, Ms. Sipala Redclay, died last Saturday morning, on a warm, beautiful, and springtime day. Many remember the day well. The sun and clouds radiated against a powder blue sky and attracted people outside, to walk around, barbeque, sit lazily on front porches, or to do nothing at all. And with so many people being out and about, a little girl discovered her body in the backyard, lying prone underneath a big peach tree, clenching a half-eaten nectarine. "She's gone, alright," said Greg. "Obeah got her." "I know," Omar replied. "Although we all wish to live so long." "Ain't that truth," Greg said. "How old was she?" "105, I think." Omar said, "And still walking around." "Not anymore." The men chatted for hours. By then the blue sky became a beautiful twilight of purple and a bad habit fulfilled. It involved running across the dirt road and up to the levee to toss their first empty beer bottles as far as possible, listen for the splashdown, followed by celebratory howls and skyward kisses, before returning to their tailgate seats to continue drinking. "Say, you ain't done yet?" Omar said, working on his third 40-ounce. "Drink up!" "Chill out, already," said Greg. "I'm almost done. I'm not an alcoholic like you are." "Whatever? I know you." Now consumed, he threw it into a large metal wash tub kept in the truck bed, where other empties rested. Greg twisted the cap off another 40-ounce, threw back his head, and began guzzling. Pretty soon the moon slowly secured its place in the starry night. Even so, the insects continued to find them both distasteful despite being full of alcohol. Crickets and cicadas serenaded the night. It soon encouraged "Hi, Ho, The Witch is Dead." Neither man could remember the last time they sat around and sang so joyously about someone so disliked. **** To them, Ms. Redclay, the mean and old Choctaw woman, chased and scolded them. She chastised kids for acting up. A day didn't end without a child going home in tears and talking about what she did. Some parents took offense and derided her. Others understood. They felt children should respect their elders and appreciate how she looked after them. Not Greg and Omar. They simply disliked her brand of advocacy. Along with her village-style of parenting and accountability. They truly resented her oversight, discipline, and moral clarity. Ms. Redclay epitomized everything bad. "That damn woman was something else," said Omar. "She was too heavy with the rod, often punishing the innocent." "I know, right," said Greg. "Mean doesn't describe her, not properly," said Omar. "Every day that damn woman sat on her front porch, eyeing us, holding that switch in her hand, like some overseer or something, ready and waiting to strike us for any petty offense." "Let her tell it," said Greg, "it made up for the ones we got away with. They all were for our own good—a deterrent of some kind. That somehow whooping ass early often produced less liars, thieves, and murderers. What nonsense! I mean, who have I killed?" “Nobody I know of. I've come close a few times,” Omar said. "Yeah you have," Greg said. "I wonder? Who came up with that anyway?" “What? The village thing," said Omar. "It's an African proverb, ain't it? Maybe Native American?" “No, not that," Greg replied. "The other thing." "The other thing?" "The switch, fool; like, who in hell figured out you could braid willow tree vines into a whip?" "C'mon, now. You know who?" Omar replied. "Some white dude." "There you go." "No. I'm serious." "You might be right," said Greg. "It got passed down. It's his fault I have these marks." "You!" Omar replied. "I got them too." "She got us all one way or another," Greg said. "Even my wife fell victim." "Well, she did get caught in Ms. Redclay's garden," Omar recalled, "Ernestine tried to steal the biggest watermelon out there. Not a small one mind you." "Still though, Ms. Redclay didn’t have to do what she did. Made her eat the entire thing, down to the rind," said Greg. "Ernestine puked and pleaded. That old hag didn’t care, talking about how she needed to be taught a lesson." "A travesty is what it is," said Omar. "A black woman afraid of watermelon." "I know, right," Greg said. "I don't eat peaches." "Same here," Omar replied. "And we know why." "Yeah, yeah. That old woman really fucked us up, you know that, right?" Greg replied. Omar looked at him and said: "No shit!" Children, mostly black and brown, from all over the neighborhood experienced similar trauma. Ms. Redclay made sure of it. She punished disrespectful kids routinely. The main reason why so many kids got it on the backside centered around their attraction to her botanical paradise. It provided them a thrill and savory satisfaction. Every year, her garden thrived. This included the chain link fence in front of her house, lined with blackberries, a wide variety of edible plants, and pretty flowers. Some suggested her Native American heritage made her a natural gardener. Nonetheless, over the years, it became a healthy stopover for children on their way to school. They often showed up in class with blue, red, orange, and purple-colored lips and tongues. A select few, those she liked most, actually knocked on her front door. And for their consideration, they received slices of peaches as a morning treat from her most prized possession, a peach tree she planted in her backyard decades ago. Now when abundant, whether with blossoms or nectarines, it looked from afar in the sunlight like a burning bush. The garden and peach tree supplemented Ms. Redclay's groceries. At times, she didn't mind sharing. She knew the kids picked her cucumbers, tomatoes, peanuts, and fruit for snacks. And over the years, she tried to plant enough to satisfy both thieves and wildlife alike, but it didn't work. Blame Omar and Greg, they took liberties with her garden and peach tree from their constant intrusions, damaging rows and branches. So she decided to take matters into her own hands and put forth some obstacles to keep them two out. Since it became apparent they wouldn't stop. They required something far more severe. A taller fence wouldn't thwart them. So, for them, she resorted to an air rifle to get their minds right and keep them off her property. Ms. Redclay used it to shoot fat red squirrels to make them into stew because they too loved the peanuts she planted. Her aim, even at her age, remained swift and sharp. Such accuracy and lethality came naturally, a byproduct of Indian ancestry. It also enabled her to survive a massacre early in life when numerous blacks died at the hands of whites for seeking better pay and work conditions at the local mill. Back then, many whites resented working so closely with blacks so when the opportunity came to put them back into their place they enforced their prejudices. Her home and several others survived; and somehow, in all the mayhem and destruction, three white men lay dead amongst the black bodies in the streets. They all shot through the eye just like fat red squirrels. Pretty soon Greg and Omar found this out. Ms. Redclay kept the air rifle nearby and when she saw them through the back window out the screened back porch door she bolted firing at them. Neither one lost an eye. Nothing deadly. But they cried out in pain as the pellets left tiny circular bruises and punctured fatty flesh as they jumped back across the fence, scurrying off, cursing loudly, vowing to return, while dodging repeated shots. Nothing thwarted them. They kept at it, but didn't realize how much ammunition she possessed. But it all changed after one early morning. Ms. Redclay's home emanated a sweetly foul fragrance, a strong and inviting odor, which penetrated homes and affected nostrils. She spent time in the kitchen concocting some kind of brew using the herbs and plants grown around the house. The bluish-green brew got strained, left to cool, and then poured into an old tin metal sprayer. Then at sunrise, she went outdoors carrying a broomstick, the tin sprayer, and two large plastic bowls. She set the sprayer and bowls at her feet and proceeded to use the broomstick to knock to the ground as many high-up peaches as possible. All of the low-hanging fruit remained and after a short rest, she gathered and put all the fallen peaches into both bowls. Now done she lifted the tin sprayer and began hand-pumping fine mist all over the tree. By daybreak, caterpillars fell off and the birds and insects avoided it altogether. Before the week ended, several students missed school. They all suffered from diarrhea and every sick child admitted they consumed peaches straight off Ms. Redclay's tree. Then, one day, the town's arborist arrived at Ms. Redclay's house. He wanted to inspect her peach tree as poisonous, it being the common denominator, because of the rash of bubble guts occurring at elementary school. But after a lengthy stay, he didn't find anything. No signs of brown leaves; no signs of discolored bark; soil not toxic and lots of positive bird and insect activity. He soon left and eventually ruled it out as the cause for all the diarrhea. His conclusions disappointed Greg, Omar, and others. They all believed differently, but couldn't prove it. Some, including them, wanted it cut down and tried but failed. Nonetheless, families forbade all their children from going onto and eating anything off her property, making it harder for them to exact their revenge. Yet the incident forever marked her property as jinxed and nobody except for the mail lady entered it for many years Not until Putney, the 9-year-old girl next door, saw Ms. Redclay's body lying in the backyard, underneath the peach tree, motionless. She called out, but the old lady didn’t respond. So she ran for her mother, Edna Mae, who came out to immediately give aid. Edna Mae didn't find a lifeless body with its eyes sunken back into her skull. Instead, a slowly dying one, still clutching onto a chewed peach. Ms. Redclay's sparkling eyes seemed distant, as if looking back on a long life lived as well as into the next place. Before they darkened, a smile formed, and then she departed. Suddenly, peaches fell which frightened Putney's mother. She ran home and called 9-1-1, informing them of the situation, of her next-door neighbor's death. And yet, she held her tongue about what else she witnessed in the deceased's backyard. **** "Man, I had the runs for a week," Omar said. "Who're you telling?" Greg replied. Now thoroughly drunk, and tired of talking, Omar and Greg could barely stand. Both looked up at the night sky and then each other. They both knew it was time to go do it, to go do what they didn't do when they were kids. Nobody could stop them. Not this time. So off they went, headed back into town, straight to Ms. Redclay’s house. They parked on the side street, got out, and staggered across stealthily. Omar carried the ax. They both leapt over a well-worn section of the fence where a permanent bend existed from their constant climbing. So far, the surrounding homes remained unlit and the streets dark and traffic-free. As soon as they reached the peach tree, both glanced at the backdoor. Omar readied himself and then reared back to swing. Suddenly, he fell onto his knees in pain. Greg, too. They looked around in utter confusion wondering who shot them. Nobody. The backdoor hadn't opened. Both stood up when the moon descended upon them, full and bright. And it somehow detached itself from the dark sky to shine its bright moonbeams directly onto them and within it, a recognizable face and figure appeared, a short woman with two lengthy ponytails, in traditional tribal attire, and holding a rifle. “How many times have I told you two?" She said, "Stay out of my yard and away from my peach tree.” She drifted forward, raising her rifle. Omar chunked the ax directly at her, piercing the phantom without any effect. They ran as fast as they could, zig-zagging drunkenly, but unable to dodge her pinpoint accuracy. Greg hurdled and Omar dove over the fence, both landing hard on the earth. They soon reached the safety of the truck, but it too got pelted, both the windshield and driver's side window suffered cracks. Greg started the truck and sped off, turning the corner so recklessly, he nearly hit a row of parked cars. Suddenly, a police unit on patrol saw this and blared its siren. The officer soon found two men acting weird, both wide-eyed and talking nonsense about seeing the recently deceased Ms. Redclay. Greg cried about losing his ax. Whereas, Omar claimed a ghost shot at them. The officer simply listened, but the smell of alcohol spoke loudest. It prompted him to look closely into the back of the truck. And there he found a washtub full of empty beer bottles. He then lifted open the blue cooler to find a few 40-ounces floating in melted ice. Moments later, he arrested both men for public intoxication. At daybreak, the police responded to another call from the Putney residence. Edna Mae explained while taking out the trash, a shiny object captured her attention, and after looking at it more intently saw something lodged into the deceased's back porch wall. Spooked by this and it being another strange thing occurring at a home many already consider bad luck, she felt it needed investigation. Once the officer arrived, he indeed found a brand new ax. And upon closer inspection, the officer realized it came from the Lumber and Plumbing Supply Company, based on the logo etched into the oak handle. He pulled it out, thinking about how it got there. Perhaps those two guys locked up in the drunk tank know something about this—and they did. They wanted to cut down the peach tree for making them ill as kids and hurt Ms. Redclay even in death. They couldn't let it go. Wayne McCray is a Susurrus 2022 Pushcart Prize Nominee. His short stories have appeared in Afro Literary Magazine, Bandit Fiction, The Bookends Review, Chitro Magazine, The Dillydoun Review, Drunk Monkeys, The Green Hills Literary Lantern, Ilinix Magazine, Malarkey Books, The Ocotillo Review, Ogma Magazine, Pigeon Review, Roi Faineant, The Rush Magazine, Sangam Literary Magazine, Swim Press, and Wingless Dreamer. He works diligently at becoming a Minimalist from his book-laden junk room.

CW Violence Heavy boots on the stairs and a stranger’s voice, then hearing my Mummy say ‘Harry, wake the boys’. Blinking from our sleep as the big light is turned on, ‘Get up boys, quickly now, downstairs and put your shoes and coat on’. A policeman stands at the front door, it’s raining outside, a fine mizzle, the night sky looks cold as it looms through the open door and the moonlight reflects on the policeman’s pistol. There is fear in the voices of the adults and their agitated movements, and then we are outside running across the wet slippery pavements. Beams of light cast their gaze from high above down toward the ground, voices shouting, orders barked, a turbulent, frightening cacophony of sounds. We blindly bundle into a friend’s house just down the way, us children are gathered on the settee and told to get on and play. The only thing on TV is the cue card with the girl and the clown, adults are talking in hushed tones in the kitchen, occasionally shouting, ‘Would you wains settle down’. A muffled bang sounds outside, dogs howl and bark, everyone stops and listens and outside the daylight seeps through the dark. Walking home there is shattered glass and twisted metal on the ground cloaked in acrid black smoke, We are hurried past to the safety of our house and not a word is spoke.

“So go to your damn party,” Jill said. Sam gazed at Jill across the bed. Her words weren’t exactly a free pass, but Sam would take them. Jill was straightening the bedsheets, tight and angry. They would fuck on those sheets when Sam got home. Jill said, “Just go. I never know anyone at your work parties. All those slick suits. All those pretty dresses.” “They have names, you know.” “Ah-ha.” “Jill—” He wanted to see her in one of those pretty dresses. But he couldn’t say it that way. Jill had drifted over to the mirror. She zipped up her pale blue tracksuit, then zipped it down far enough to expose her white camisole. She checked her face in the mirror, especially around the eyes. She said, “In case you forgot, we have to tidy up for book club tomorrow. But if you want to go to your party, fine. If you really want to go.” She gathered her hair in a ponytail. “If you’d rather.” Sam spoke to her back. “You don’t even read the books. Neither do I. Nobody does.” Sam bent down, retrieving this month’s book where it had slid off the nightstand. He hefted its weight miserably. He said, “Last month, Monica Paré made a pass at me.” “You lucky dog.” Sam said, “Come on Jill. The party will be fun. A little break. A chance to dress up. Cocktails.” “It’s all a bunch of pretend.” She let down her hair and started her ponytail again. “So let’s pretend.” “Pretend what?” “Well, for starters, let’s pretend we’re happy.” He wished he hadn’t said that. Let’s pretend something. Shadows and light. Music. Sweet taste on his tongue. His palms pressing against her hips. Her dress. Her perfume. Damn. Jill paused, her hair in her hands, an elastic tie in her mouth. She found Sam’s eyes in the mirror. “We are happy.” “Sure we are.” Jill turned around to face him. “I’m not stopping you.” She shoved past him and went downstairs. She made a clatter in the kitchen. What was he supposed to do? He knew what he was supposed to do. He was supposed to want. Want Jill. Want all of this. Sam looked helplessly at his reflection in the mirror. How did you want what you already had? * * * It took forever to find the place. All these developments looked the same. The streets wound beneath lamps bright as day, and the fresh pavement was sticky beneath the car’s tires. No street signs had been installed, not yet. No house numbers. No families. The houses waited, bored and empty, sparkling from spotlights at the corners of lawns too green for Colorado. Who the hell bought these pretty places? Were they happy people? Sam was lost. He took a guess and stopped at the lone house with cars along the curb. Inside, he found the guys from sales, trolling the snack platters and talking about—what else?—sales. From the patio came the click of heels on tile: wives hiding out, cigarettes cupped in their fingers so you couldn’t see the glow. A pitcher of sangria on the bar was nearly drained, and Sam had to tip it on end to get anything. Where was the hostess anyway? He knew where she was. Cramming for the goddamned book club. Sure. After downing one drink, Sam left the party. Jill was sure to gloat about this. Probably she had cleaned the whole house while he was gone. Sam would lie next to her in bed, prop up his pillow, read a little from this month’s book, cross his arms, and expel a sour sigh. He and Jill would fuck on those fresh sheets and change them again before the party. Sam was walking down the front steps when he spotted Sparrow Petrosyan coming up the pink sandstone walkway. She smiled at Sam as he passed. Sam smiled too. They stopped. Sparrow wore a little black dress. She was putting her keys in a little black purse. Sam said, “Sparrow, you’re here.” “And you’re—” He said, “You look lovely.” Sparrow said with a sunny voice, “My way to get even.” She reached to touch her hair. A chignon. “I’d say you’re more than even.” Sam smelled that old perfume, the one he could taste when his lips skimmed her skin, when Sparrow cried, and her tears were warm and wet on her cheek, and he kissed her there. “Well, Sam. Too bad you’re leaving.” Sparrow had the prettiest voice. She stepped closer. Her heels scraped lightly against the sandstone path. The fabric of her dress crinkled. Sam remembered how unhappy they had been. He said, “I guess I could stay a little longer.” “Sure.” “I mean, I never see you.” They had been miserable. “I know. The new project keeps me on the road.” She was sweet and beautiful, and they had been a disaster together. “Come on. I’ll show you what they have. Sangria.” Sam put his arm on her back and guided her in. He said, “So, did you find the place all right?” “Fuck no!” “Those developers. I swear, they must—” “Shut up, Sam. Don’t chit-chat me.” “I should warn you, it’s all sales.” “God, I hate sales.” “Stick with me.” * * * Sam gave Sparrow a heavy glass. She tipped it up, her eyes observing him over the rim. “You look handsome, Sam.” “Gee, Sparrow.” “I can say that, can’t I?” “As long as I can say you’re totally stunning.” “Well, of course, you can.” The corners of her eyes wrinkled with a smile. “Anyway, you are.” Sparrow took his hand. Sam said, “Yeah, you’re stunning, and I have book club tomorrow.” “Bingo!” “Yeah.” He looked at his empty glass. “Sam, are you ever going to talk to me when you’re actually happy?” Sparrow’s hand had not left his hand. “I mean, I don’t even remember the name of the book. I do remember there’re bricks on the cover and—” “So spill it, Sam. Where’s Jill?” “Where’s Tony?” Their grip became tighter. They discussed work for five seconds. Sparrow finished her glass, and they sneaked into the kitchen and found a fresh carafe of sangria in the fridge. They slipped the carafe past the sales guys and into the den. Sam set their glasses on the coffee table and poured. He set the carafe on a book with an Oprah sticker on its cover. “Are you in a book club, Sparrow?” “No.” “Come on. It gives you something to talk about. It gives you a lot to talk about.” “Reading the same books only makes you more the same. It actually gives you nothing to talk about at all. Reading different books is having secrets. Now there’s something to talk about.” “I don’t read anything. Nothing the same, nothing different. What does that make me?” “Shallow.” “But no secrets.” “You have a secret, Sam. And you need to tell it to me right now.” Sam refilled their glasses.. A little sangria seeped over the rim and puddled on the Oprah book. Sam leaned forward, stooping over his drink, careful not to spill, and took a sip. H held the dripping glass away from his body. Small sips. He said, “Let’s go for a walk.” He looked at his watch. Sparrow set down her glass and wiped her fingertips on the couch cushion. Sam leaned close and kissed Sparrow. The memory of her sweet taste came back to him, but he knew there had already been a last kiss, and this new kiss didn’t mean anything. Sparrow said, “Oh my.” Sam stood up. He took her hand and helped her sidestep the coffee table. Sparrow held her drink away from her crinkly dress. “Sam, why is this a good idea? What are we doing?” There had already been a last time. Sam said, “There is no this. We’re not doing anything.” * * * Sam led Sparrow out the front door and down the walk. Beneath those bright streetlights, he couldn’t see the stars. He couldn’t even see the Rockies, he couldn’t see the dark hard edge of the Front Range, he couldn’t see anything but here and now. The night was getting cold, and Sparrow did not have a coat, so Sam pulled her close. They got in Sam’s car. They fit their sticky sangria glasses in the cupholders. The car was silent and cold, and they sat. “People are going to talk.” “Nobody’s going to talk because nobody cares. They’re scripting their own—what do you call them—assignations. ‘Sam and Sparrow went for a walk, ooh.’ They don’t know what this is about. They don’t care about—” “About what? About us?” “They just don’t care.” Sam and Sparrow sipped their sangria and drove around the development, gazing at empty identical houses until they became good and lost. And drunk. Neither spoke. The car took the wide winding streets slow and easy, which was fine with Sam. The sticky asphalt hummed. The houses were all for sale. They stopped the car at a beige house with a porch swing. A flat green lawn had been unrolled to meet wild grass and knobby rocks and prickly pear. In the center of the grass was a stand of aspen, which never should have been planted this far out on the prairie. A sticker on the sign said Model Home. Sam and Sparrow got out. The walkway was exposed aggregate, and the shiny lacquered pebbles made it hard for Sparrow in her heels. She leaned close. Sam felt her weight. She was drunk, too. Sam led her to the porch swing and sat beside her. He put his arms around her bare shoulders. Sparrow sipped the last of her sangria. Sam had finished his long ago. The porch was small. When they pushed back the swing, it abruptly hit the house. When they swung forward, their knees bumped the wooden rail. “That’s fucked,” said Sam. “It’s a faux porch. A faux swing. Bet the grass is faux too. Everything is fauxed up.” “Come on.” Sam stood and took Sparrow’s hand. “No.” “Come on. Let’s go inside.” “We’re not supposed to be here.” They walked through the house. They took a brochure. “Look, darling,” she said. “It has one of those bonus rooms.” “Remember the apartment by City Park? We could have used a bonus room.” Sparrow held her empty glass by the tips of her fingers. She kneeled and set the glass on the pergo floor. She rubbed her fingers. “They’d sell more homes if they put in furniture. Make it look real. Curtains would be nice. Paintings would be nice. Charming little children running around. Anything real would be nice.” Sam took her arms, and they danced. Sparrow’s heels clicked. Sam had to imagine the music, the pretty colors, the light. It was hard. He had to imagine that it was Jill wearing that crinkly black dress. They would be at a party. She would be talking to a group of women, and he would be talking to the guys, and he would spot his girl and lead her away. He remembered something, a party long ago, the light a little different, a different scent on Jill’s skin. He had kissed her then. But now he kissed Sparrow. Sparrow let her lips slide to his cheek. Her voice whispered. “What about Jill? Sam, tell me.” The book club was tomorrow. Jill and Sam would serve croissant sandwiches. Jill would wear a blue silk blouse, and Sam would volunteer to do the greasy dishes so she wouldn’t have to. Jill would do all the talking, which was fine because Sam had nothing to say. “Jesus, Sam. What about Jill?” Sparrow kissed Sam again. “Please.” Sam held Sparrow tight and whispered. “This is what Jill likes. See, I bring her close like this.” His hand tugged through Sparrow’s thick black hair. Her chignon spun loose. “I kiss her, and I fuck her.” He lifted Sparrow’s leg over his hip and pressed his pelvis to hers. “Like this. Just—like—this.” Sparrow began to cry. Her face turned away. Sam could smell her perfume and her warm tears. He heard the crinkling of her dress as she let her leg down. He said, “This is just pretend.” “What the fuck is pretend about it?” “We were never happy, Sparrow.” “We are happy now, Sam.” Sam slowed down his words. “We are only happy because we know how this ends. It’s perfectly happy. But only because it doesn’t mean anything and it has an ending.” Sparrow pulled away. Sam said, “I’m going back. Jill and I are going to fuck like nobody’s business. You and Tony, too. You know you will.” Sparrow cried, and she didn’t hide it anymore by turning her head away. She kicked her sangria glass into a corner of the Pergo floor, and it spun around. Sam said, “I’m very sorry. I’m very very sorry. Damn, I’m sorry. You can be mad if you want to.” “Don’t tell me when to be mad.” “But it doesn’t mean anything, so don’t be mad.” “Don’t tell me it doesn’t mean anything. Damn you if you say anything else. Sometimes a girl wants a good fuck. And sometimes a fuck is anger and unhappiness as much as anything else. Sometimes a girl just wants to say ‘Fuck me,’ and don’t you dare tell me it doesn’t mean anything.” * * * Sam and Sparrow pushed the porch swing back. Thump. They let it slide forward, and Sparrow notched her high heels against the porch rail. They pushed the swing back again. Thump. “Do you think we could have been happy, Sam? A place like this. We could have forged ahead. Worked it out. We wanted it. You know we wanted it, Sam.” “That’s the problem, though. We were always wanting. Jill and I don’t want anything. I really don’t want anything.” “So you’re saying that you have everything you want? Right.” He put his arm around her. She was warm, and her perfume was pressed into his shirt. But he didn’t care. He said, “No. I didn’t say that. You’re a lovely woman, Sparrow, and I said that I don’t want anything.” * * * Sam smelled lemon cleaner and furniture oil. The windows were open, and the fan was humming. Jill lay in bed, reading the book and making notes in the back. Sam sat on the edge of the bed and kissed her cheek. He wondered if Jill knew what that kiss meant, or maybe it was just another thing he did without meaning anything. He said, “The party was a dud.” “I know about your party.” He wanted to say, ‘No you don’t,’ but she probably did. She didn’t possibly know everything, but she knew something. She said, “So are you done? Can we talk about this book now?” Sam closed Jill’s book and took it away. He took her pencil away. Jill kept her eyes open when they made love. She found Sam’s eyes. It was love. But it was love and pain and it ought to be only love. Sam lifted her legs over his waist, just like he’d said. Pressed hard just like he’d said. Sam and Jill held each other’s gaze a long time after. Jill broke it off and sat up. She switched on the light and found the book. She found her notes in the back. Her hair had slipped out of its ponytail. Her hair was smooth and straight and pretend blond, with angled bangs that covered one eye. Sam said, “The book’s no good. It’s all made up.” “No, Sam.” Jill wrote something in the margin and bit her lip. She said, “By the way, you’re changing the sheets tomorrow. First thing. Hospital corners.” Sam looked at the ceiling. “Sparrow Petrosyan was there.” “Did you fuck her?” Jill turned a page. “What?” “Did you ever fuck her?” “Of course I fucked her.” Sam was staring at the blank ceiling. “And?” “Do you want a comparison? Do you want to be relieved by what you hear? What do you want me to say?” “I don’t really care. You’re the one who fucked her. What do you want to say?” “Do you want to know what it was like?” His eyes found the crack in the ceiling plaster. “Were you happy? Did you two love each other?” Sam sighed. Jill said, “Well? You’re not even looking at me.” Sam closed his eyes. “One thing.” “Yes?” “Open your eyes and listen to me.” “I’m listening.” “I want you to look at me.” “Fine.” Sam looked at her. Jill tucked back her long, slanted bangs. “There’s only one reason we’re having this conversation. Because nothing else matters anymore, because we totally see through each other’s bullshit, each other’s scripts and lines and ploys. We have that together. That’s something we have.” “Um, yeah.” “And you’re not just fucking me anymore. You’re not, Sam. Don’t fuck me just because we’re married. No. Only fuck me when you can’t stand holding back anymore. Fuck me when you want to come inside me more than anything in the world. Fuck me when it hurts just to think about it. But don’t you dare pretend it’s anything more than fucking.” “It’s always more.” Sam looked around the room, the armoire, the lighting, the mirror, everything. “Look at me, honey. There’s no playing house anymore. There’s no bullshit. Someday, I might decide I like you again.” “I like you, enough.” “Shut up.” “Like you enough to do this.” He crossed his leg over hers. He slid his hand over her thigh and between her legs. It was warm, but it wasn’t enough, and for the first time maybe that was a good thing. He would wait until he wanted it more. Jill pulled away. “Just listen to the book, Sam. You need to know what happens. I’ll read it to you.” # # # Evan Morgan Williams has published over fifty short stories in literary magazines famous and obscure, including Kenyon Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, and Witness. Williams has published three collections of stories: Thorn (BkMk Press), Canyons (self-published), and Stories of the New West (Main Street Rag Press). Williams bears an MFA, tattered and faded, from the University of Montana. After 29 years of public-school teaching, he has retired.

When the dead comedian does his bit, I always laugh too hard. Secretly I’m welling up, thinking of his wife and kids; thinking of myself. I start doing the maths: this much off for the decades of binge drinking, this much for saturated fats, scrounged rolls-ups, unprocessed trauma, sedentary days. If I can just make it till my son turns forty, he’ll be fine without me. If I can outmanoeuvre the cruel diseases that lick their lips, waiting to pounce. If I can close my eyes to the spiralling climate crisis. The dead comedian beams drollery from the great beyond, moon pale under the studio lights. Knowing his fate has not faded his sparkle – he just shines differently now. The dead comedian delivers his sweet peach of a punchline. My boy is giggling, hard, and I find myself guffawing for real. We can travel through time: the dead comedian, my boy and I. Taken altogether, it’s a funny kind of heaven.

It always smelled like there was oil bubbling in the frying pan at the lake cabin. In the mornings, the smell of eggs and bacon mingled with a persistent odor of fried perch from the previous night. We’d wake early when the sun just began to illuminate the sky because that’s when the fish were biting. All of the women would stay behind tidying up, baking pecan pies, gossiping, and watching All My Children. I got to go out fishing with the men instead of having to scrub the breakfast dishes because my grandpa said I was a good fisherwoman. Sometimes I’d even win the quarter for catching the first walleye. I’d bait my own lure, pressing each of the three barbed hooks into a slippery earthworm, gripping tight as it wiggled between my fingers. If a speck of red or dirt oozed out of the punctures, I didn’t flinch. When it was time for dinner we’d troll through the water back to the dock and I’d watch fish flopping around in water-filled buckets. I’d run up the dock past the little fish house at the edge of the bank. Occasionally my dad or uncle would pose for a picture with a northern pike, smiling with their fingers in its jaw. After that, they’d head into the fish house with the buckets to clean the fish. The rank, muddy stench that wafted into the air when the door creaked open smelled the opposite of clean to me. I was a good fisherwoman, but I wasn’t allowed in the fish house. My cousin punched me in the arm and said it wasn’t for girls. The summer I snuck and peeked in the single window of the dark little shack, I learned what they did in there was bloody. Bones and guts in buckets instead of swirling fish. After I won the quarter that year, I sprinted ahead before anyone could stop me and flung open the door to the fish house. Inside I watched as my grandpa stuck his knife into the belly of my fish, sliced it open, scraped out its innards, and finally used a larger knife to chop off its head. Afterward, I gave a nod and a wink at the discarded fish head on the way out. I was a good fisherwoman and I was going to be good at cleaning too. Suzanne Hicks is a disabled writer living with multiple sclerosis. Her stories have appeared in New Flash Fiction Review, MicroLit Almanac, Sledgehammer Lit, and elsewhere. She lives in Las Vegas, Nevada with her husband and their animals. Find her at suzannehickswrites.com and on Twitter @iamsuzannehicks.

Please forget about my name. It’s Constance Bytheway. I always felt like I stole it from an old lady when I was born. Perhaps, in time, I will learn to grow into it. I used to spend my days in my room mostly, trying to write beautiful stories about ugly people. Not always getting it right. Until Finn came to help us. Dad knew when they signed the papers they had a fixer-upper on their hands. The house had been abandoned for years and had now reached the stage where everything he touched turned to crumbles and flakes in his hands. Every handle broke at the slightest brush and each fix created three new problems. Some guys possess that inherent ability to turn their hand to any manual task or challenge. I am sorry to say that my dear father was never one of those fellows. God knows he tried though. I attribute my formative training in the use of profanity to his continued disasters on the do it yourself frontier. I would regularly overhear his outbursts of cursing through the unnaturally jagged gaps between my bedroom door and the frame, another of his disastrous attempts. I would write the phrases down at the back of my diary. Two columns, one for the words I understood and those which as yet had no meaning for me. I knew they were curses, just not how bad they were. After a while, I added a third column with a brief description of the injury sustained by my father. Thus I was able to draw a correlation between levels of pain inflicted and the likely scale of the obscenity he uttered to go along with it. I have yet to determine whether he knows I can hear these things but expect, having now learned them all by heart they will slip out in conversation some ways down the line. This was just one of the ways I chose to entertain myself from my little hidey-hole at the end of the upstairs corridor. It was this ongoing and exhausting cascade of failures that eventually led him down the path to Finn. It was all down to Finn. The master craftsman as mum and dad called him. This guy could turn his hand to anything. There really wasn’t anything he couldn’t fix. He wasn’t local to us, maybe Polish, Ukrainian. Dad said it wasn't really polite to ask where someone is originally from, especially these days. Not long after they had moved into the property and the previously mentioned disasters they received the folded blue flyer neatly posted through the letterbox. ‘Finn, I fix for you’ it said simply with a telephone number on the bottom. I picked it up from the mat and stuck it to the empty fridge with one of the souvenir sombrero magnets. His rates were reasonable, not the cheapest, which was the sensible approach when accepting a quote apparently. The quality of his work was by all accounts outstanding, it seemed he could make things like new again. They had first employed him just to fix the front door. It was sticking in the frame and the constant rain had ingressed to rot the wood at the bottom and around the letterbox. It was the kind of neighbourhood where you needed a solid front door at the very least. That was the first time I saw him, lumbering up the path, eyes skyward, assessing the whole house. “Wood is bad,” he said. “Frame is too. I fix for you, no problem.” Ever since then, I noticed that each time he came to the house he would check the swing of the door, run his bony fingers around the frame, checking for imperfections. It didn’t even squeak. He was reliable, always exactly on time, his work was great, the house even started to feel passably safe to live in. He never smiled like a person who enjoyed his work would. When we thanked him he would just give a very deliberate nod in our direction, pack his things, take the money and go. It was as if he didn’t enjoy or not enjoy his work, he was just indifferent to it. As if it was just like breathing in and out - something you just had to do. Always in his blue overalls, white t-shirt underneath. I suspected he was a smoker as there was always a smell of it around him, a non specific tobacco type smell maybe. Every time he took out a new tool to use he would examine it closely, turning it over in his hands and shaking his head, as if the quality of the tools wasn’t up to his standard. And yet he was able to produce these amazing results with even this disadvantage. He became like part of the furniture. It was not unusual to see him wandering in the yard in the morning, staring up at the roof brackets, or pulling gently at a downspout to see how secure it was. The care and attention he took in getting this property into shape was not something I had ever seen in another craftsman. Usually, you would need to hire at least twenty different guys who were all experts in plumbing, electrics or stonemasonry. Finn didn’t even look like those guys never mind work like they did. The house felt like it was slowly coming back to life. In the Summer months when Dad's job began paying better, he could put more money over to Finn to continue the renovations and that made the place start to feel like somewhere I wanted to belong. Jenny thought he was wonderful. He would tease her and say things if she got under his feet. “I fix you too.” She would run away giggling to herself. At least I think he was teasing. It was hard to tell. He was always very respectful around me and my personal space, knocking on the door and so on. Things were moving forward but I wondered about him often. Sure he was just a builder in the house doing the work that my dad should have been doing but couldn't. There were just some aspects of domesticity that he did not seem to have mastered. He looked at Nanny the way he used to look at the door frame every morning. Nanny Chackles was Mum’s mum, she moved in when old Pops died. Mum didn’t want her to be lonely, except she only ever seemed to want her own company. Mum said that was because she was slightly deaf and couldn’t join in the conversation without embarrassing herself by mishearing. Dad said she could hear very well when she wanted but that she didn’t care for his opinions much and that was just fine with him. They co-existed along these parallel lines in a forced tolerable silence. She had moved in after a bad fall in July. She was well into her nineties, and spent most of her day occupying the same chair she had brought with her from her own house. Mum and Dad had decided it was best if she moved in with us because she was so infirm now. We had Finn convert the front parlour into a small bedroom with an ensuite so she didn’t have to climb the stairs every day. The only thing that wasn’t new in this part of the house was the old chair she had brought with her. “I fix for you.” he had said, nodding towards the chair that Nanny was sitting in. “I don’t know, it’s very old,” Dad had said, “you mean fix the chair?” “Yes, he said again, nodding towards where Nanny was sitting. Fix the.. Chair.” Often I found that as good a worker as he was this personal interest he took in the house and his sullen face could be a distraction from keeping the day positive. So I would leave him to it. Everything he had produced so far had been perfect. Except for the incident with the rabbit. Jenny had brought Pebbles with her from the old house, a black and tan coloured dwarf lop with a sweet face and affectionate demeanour. I was never sure about the idea of bringing a pet home as ultimately these things never live that long. Pebbles had done well I thought, seven years was a good innings as they say, but then the inevitable happened. Jenny came back from feeding Pebbles one morning just as Finn was coming through the front door, as usual checking the frame for movement or whatever it was he was doing. “Pebbles won’t wake up,” said Jenny, she won't wake up.” Mum and Dad grimaced at each other.”It’s OK, she’s probably just tired.” Dad said. I knew she wasn’t tired, I don’t know why he said that. It was obvious without even going out there what had happened but I just couldn’t bring myself to say it straight to her face, Dad was the same. He obviously just needed time to think. Suddenly I heard Finn’s voice right behind me. “What is?” he said. Often he would start a sentence without really finishing it and conclude with a gesture. He said “What is?” And pointed with a flat palm to Jenny. “Oh it's Pebbles” I said. “She is tired today.” I tried to hold his gaze as if to insinuate what the truth was. He simply looked back at me with a quizzical stare. I knew his English wasn’t great. “She is quite old.” I added as if to get the point across a little further. Finn simply nodded, and said, “I fix for you, fix Pebbles.” “See, Finn will sort it - now to school, come on.” Mum said as she rushed Jenny out of the front door. I saw him saunter down the back steps into the garden. He never seemed to rush anywhere, even in a life or death situation. It was as if time didn’t really hold the same regard to him as it did to the rest of us, and yet he was never late. When I returned home the Pebbles situation was on my mind, I wanted to know what he had done with her, how he had fixed the situation. At first I presumed that he must have been able to get to a pet shop and exchange the rabbit for a similar one. “How much do we owe you for the rabbit?” I asked. Finn looked confused, “I tell you I fix the Pebbles,” he repeated, “not new Pebbles, I fix Pebbles.” “But how did you do this?” I asked. I was sure there was no way to fix a dead rabbit. Finn pushed the air out of his nostrils and fixed me in his sullen gaze. He looked as if he was trying to find the language to explain, maybe for him those words just did not exist. “It is good now, I fix for you.” he said finally. He began packing his tools and I concluded that this meant the end of the conversation. In the garden I could see Jenny playing with the little black and tan like she had so many other days. The afternoon sun dappled between the leaves and her laughter. The rabbit looked exactly as it had before. He had cleaned and repaired the hutch as well. Jenny saw me watching her. “I can’t believe Pebbles is all better,” she said. “All better again.” When I saw Mum and Dad I tried to talk to them about Finn and the rabbit. Sometimes when I had these conversations it started to feel like I was the adult.The way they were so dismissive of me and accepting of the situation. As if it was normal when it really wasn’t. I started to see their flaws. It irritated and upset me in equal measure. There was nothing in Mum’s head but making things nice and running away from anything that might upset anyone.She had always been proud of her appearance but some days it felt like she existed only for the large vanity mirror in her bedroom. As if it detached her from the world and its dark side. I could not get her to see that what was happening was unexplainable. “It’s just a rabbit, Constance,”she said. “Why are you making such a fuss?” Dad was even worse. He was constantly distracted and never seemed to be around, present but absent. He worked away a lot and the time on the road had started to take its toll. He was heavy set now, wheezed and sweated as he walked and had no energy for my questions. As I left the house that morning I remember seeing two phones in his open briefcase.The regular one and a new cheap one. I wondered what he needed it for. I wished he wouldn’t leave us so often. As time progressed it was like the house improved but the family fell into disrepair. Dad was even more absent and Mum spent hours each day preening herself in the mirror, as if the stuff she painted on her face would hide her sadness, but I saw it. I had to take Jenny to school most days. She was oblivious to the absence of her parents. She was often in trouble at school. I had to pick her up one day because she had stabbed a compass into the hand of the boy next to her. She told me he had been very mean. She would sometimes get angry and throw her toys at the wall in a temper. She could be really frightening when she got into these rages. I wished I could have helped her more than I did. It was too easy to just shut myself in my room and leave them to their own devices. They all did the same, as if we were just lodgers in the same building. I was the only one who really noticed what was happening with Nanny Shackles. Finn had promised to fix the rocking chair she had brought with her. I remember the slight confusion in the conversation between him and my Dad. Over the past few weeks he had been busy in the parlour, and you could hear the normal sounds of a workman using his tools, sawing, hammering, that kind of thing. I thought at times I could hear some murmur of conversation, but it may have been the radio, or Finn perhaps talking to himself. I could not remember the last time I had heard Nanny speak. Honestly, it was easy to forget she was there sometimes. She was just part of the furniture, rocking back and forth. Sometimes Jenny would sit on her knee and give her a little cuddle, she was warm and cosy, you could feel the love emanating from her, even though she would not talk anymore. She was soft cushions and velour florals. It really was just like her. One day it was no longer Nanny rocking in her chair, they were one thing, the same thing. She was the rocking chair and the rocking chair was Nanny. Maybe the others didn’t see it but Finn had crafted this piece so beautifully, so exactly, it didn’t seem to stand out at all. It fitted perfectly with the room. I wanted to speak to them about it but every time I did it seemed that Finn was there. I plucked up the courage to talk to him about Nanny, it didn’t seem right to say nothing. Finn frightened me more and more each day. It wasn’t just a language barrier. It was as if there was something else, something unearthly about the way he saw us, experienced us. “Finn, what did you do to Nanny?” I started as bluntly and as straightforward as I could. I did not want any confusion in what I meant. We were in the parlour room, the rocking chair was between us, I could feel that Nanny was there somehow, somewhere in the ether. Finn looked at me and then looked at the chair. He laid his bony fingers across the velour and stroked it gently. He looked slightly confused and let out one of those heavy breaths. “Is better now, no hurt now, useful. I fix for you.” “It’s not fixed, Finn,”I said. “She is not a person now, she is just, well just a chair.” He fixed me with his stare again, trying to understand my words. “It hurt all the time,” he said. “Does not hurt now, fixed.” He stroked the chair again. It was the first time I had seen a hint of what you might class as affection, perhaps even love. “You want I fix you too?” he said suddenly. “What do you mean?” I said. I was becoming a little fearful of what he had planned. He pointed his digit right up to my left eyeball. Almost close enough to touch it. “This, need fix.” “No, no it’s okay I have these.” I said. I fished into my jacket pocket and pulled out my spectacles to show him. He took them off me between finger and thumb, turning them over in his hand the same way he did with his tools. He held them up to the light but didn’t squint. He shook his head and then shrugged as if disappointed at how inferior they were and handed them back to me. “I must work now.” He said and sloped from the room. I looked round the parlour, the sunlight flitting through the blinds and dancing over the rocking chair. There was no sadness in this room anymore, the way I had felt it every time I came to talk to Nanny before. Finn was right. It was fixed. When I thought about the last years of her life, threadbare, overstuffed, a worn fabric of skin, a little wobbly on the legs. Things were better for her now. Over the next few weeks and months the changes to the house continued. It felt that Finn was in control of the pace and decisions around what got done, what changed, who changed. Everyone was so wrapped up in themselves it would not be something they would notice. I spent a lot of time in my hidey hole bedroom and Finn let me be. There would be times when I would come downstairs to find a new door had been added, or a piece of furniture repaired and restored. It was as if a beautiful nest was being built around me. I would go and sit with Nanny sometimes and found her to be a good listener. When Dad arrived home for the last time I was sitting in the parlour. I could hear the conversation over money. “You must pay now.” I heard Finn say. It was not in anger, more matter of fact. I could hear my Dad, flustered and sweaty trying to find words to explain why he didn’t have the money. Finn said something that didn’t make sense then. He said “Not money, you pay.” I had concluded some weeks ago that the other phone was to contact someone he didn’t want us to know about. I presumed it must be another woman. Perhaps he had been spending all the money on her. I heard more murmurs, I heard Finn say he would fix, then the door to the kitchen was closed. Shortly afterwards I heard the familiar sounds of work. Sawing, hammering, drilling. They must have sorted out the issues as Finn was back to the task again. I went back to my room. The one room Finn had not touched since he had been there. I tried to write but it just wouldn’t work out like it used to. I tried to invent different ugly characters for my beautiful worlds, but they all began to look and sound like Finn. A few days later I was in the kitchen eating breakfast. It was then that I noticed the new sideboard. It was strange how such a large piece of furniture could go unnoticed in a room. Hidden in plain sight you might say. It was a useful type of arrangement. A place for everything, heavy set and solid, built into the recess of the wall so that it could never leave without being ripped apart. There was a lock on the second drawer, a place for secrets perhaps. It was dark wood and the salty grey paintwork still looked wet, a glistening sheen that as time went on I realised would always look that way. It took me a few minutes to see it for what it was. My Dad would always be there for me now, even though I would never see him again in the same way, a real way. He would never leave. I didn’t ask Finn about this, I felt we now had a mutual understanding. If I am being honest, I felt sorry that I was not more sad about it. But I just didn’t. I was stuck in a family that wouldn’t or couldn’t care for me. Finn had found a use for them. For the next two days the phone in my Dad’s old briefcase rang intermittently. Then it stopped. I slid the briefcase into the gap underneath the sideboard. It fitted exactly. It was kind of the same with Mum. She had already been spending most of her days preening and preparing, I was not sure what for. One day I went to ask her if she wanted me to take Jenny to school again. I knocked on her door but there was no answer. I could not bring myself to look at that vanity mirror for long after that. It was some of Finn’s best work, it was beautiful but I could see the sadness inside. Sometimes fixing someone's flaws was more than the construction over the surface. Mum’s self obsession ran through her like the grains of wood in the frame, deep as the reflection in the polished glass. I wish we could have been closer. It was as if she didn’t really see me at all. I had been the only person looking after Jenny for a good while. The routine of school, homework and preparing meals was just something I had slipped into. Not that she had appreciated it. She had become sullen, angry and cruel with her friends. I don’t think she noticed this missing family in the sense that they had always been missing for her. That is what happens when you are the centre of your own universe. I had a feeling she had started to see me as the Mum figure even though I really wasn’t. It was too much responsibility for me. I remembered the days when she used to play in the garden with the rabbit, she was happier then. I wished we could go back. Finn came to see me about a week later. His expression seemed brighter than usual, almost as if he felt relieved. He said “All is fixed now, I can go.” Just the way he said it, as if he had been released from a prison sentence was truly awful. He had been there so long, he felt like he belonged with us, with me. As he turned to leave I felt this was my last chance to try and make myself understood. “I don’t know what to do now,” I said. “How will I survive, how can I look after Jenny? How can I be?” I had wanted to say something more, but actually the way I ended the sentence was what I meant, unintentional as it was. Finn continued to pack up his tools and said “I was wrong. You fixed. This your house now. Fixed house, fixed you.” It was the first time it had been expressed to me that way. All those changes that had been going on in the house, what happened to my parents and Nanny, I had not thought about how I had changed. I had been running the house single handed for months. I was taking myself to college and I had a job lined up at the library. I could occupy the whole place and I didn’t need to hide away. There was no one left to hide from now. Finn had done this without me realising. He fixed the things around me to show me I wasn’t really broken at all. “But what about Jenny, I can’t look after her?” Finn let out one of those long nostril breaths again. “I have fixed for you.” he said. “But why?” I said. “She is just a child. Why did you do that?” Finn took hold of my hand in his bony fingers. They felt cold, as if there was no blood in them at all. “She is dark inside. She kill Pebbles. I fix. She hurt things, maybe she hurt you. So I fix for you.” He put both our hands up in the air. They blocked the path of light from the small window above the door frame casting long dark shadows across my face. “She is this to you.” he said. I nodded. I saw what he meant, how she could be. I don’t think anyone has explained something to me so well in so few words since. “I go now.” He said, finally, resting his hand on the doorframe for one last time as he disappeared down the gravel path. As he closed the new gate at the end of the path, I saw the intricate and beautiful carvings he had inlaid in its design. A little girl, playing in the grass with her rabbit. I stood in the doorway for a long time. As this strange phase of my life came to an end and I contemplated the next one. I wondered how people would feel about visiting my house and being surrounded by my family, but never meeting them. I didn’t think I would ever tell anyone. I wondered where Finn would go next. I was full of stories again. Beautiful stories about ugly people. The ones I used to love. The more I thought about how wrapped up in ourselves we are, the more it made sense for him to be there. We were not special, or important. I guess as Finn saw it, the concept of people was slightly alien to him. We were just objects to fix or leave as they are. Not just on a physical level. It was as if he could see the flaws in the chemical arrangements, the tainted bonds between atoms. He would reshape them and mould them into something of use, of purpose. Somehow, he managed to do this even with our primitive and inferior tools. He had fixed the rabbit in this way. It didn’t seem odd to him. Finn was just trying to make his way in a world that he found very unsatisfactory with its fixed views about what was living and dead. Things could be improved that he saw and we could not. I would never have asked him about his strange accent or simplistic language. It was not polite to ask someone where they were from. He had been shown a glimpse of a perspective on the world that I didn’t fully understand.I hoped that one day he would be able to leave this place, so that he could find a purpose. That perhaps there was a way to fix himself. I am happier now, lonely sometimes, but I feel the family around me and despite their faults, this gives me comfort. I hope to be a writer one day. I am no longer lost and I definitely don’t need fixing anymore. But I don’t think I am capable of seeing the world any differently now. I don’t think I would want to. If I was able to see the world as Finn did, to change it in the way that he could, then I expect there could be no trace of a human being about me at all. Gavin Turner is a writer from Wigan, England. He has published pieces with Punk Noir magazine, JAKE, Voidspace and Roi Faineant Press. He has released two poetry collections, The Round Journey published in 2022 and A mouthful of Space dust released in June 2023.

“I mean, it’s a strange request.” “Is it?” she asked. She was fiddling with the pineapple garnish on her drink. He watched, almost hypnotized, as she slid it along the rim of her glass, immaculate purple nails starkly contrasting against its nearly neon yellow liquid. Peter often spent his nights at this bar. Its location and ample parking were a plus, and it got in a varied crowd. Blue collar workers, the broke college kids, and next to three motels. Best of all, the cameras didn’t work. That much he’d figured out after he watched a man beat a regular nearly to death before bolting, the bartender lamented that they had no footage to give the police. He had no idea how long she had been watching him. He couldn’t imagine it’d been long. Peter had noticed her once or twice. She wasn’t his type. Not that she was ugly per se, but she was bigger than his ideal. Dressed too nicely—too put together. She looked like she could handle herself, that she was large and in charge. Like a woman who prided herself on never crying. When she approached him, offered to buy him a drink, he hadn’t said no. After all, free booze didn’t fall from the sky every day. When she’d asked him to follow her to a booth in the back, he wondered if maybe she was his type after all. Maybe he could make this work. Then she had made her intentions clear. “I guess I just don’t get why,” he said after a few minutes of charged silence. She nodded, humming as if she was agreeing with him. “What if I told you I had some inoperable brain tumor?” “Do you?” “Sure do.” She flashed him a big, bright smile. He leaned back in his seat, looking her over again. “I don’t think I believe you.” She tsked, the smile fading fast from her face, replaced with the beginnings of a pout. She leaned back as well, mirroring his posture. He wondered if it was accidental or intentional. “Why do you care?” “I mean, I don’t.” Even before he finished that sentence, he knew that wasn’t true. “Do you think it’s the fact that I want it?” she asked. “Maybe what’s missing for you is the thrill of the chase. The hunt.” She perked up, leaning in with her elbows resting on the table, “Did me buying you a drink emasculate you?” Peter felt his face grow hot. “God, no, jeez,” he said. He realized he sounded a little like a petulant child. Stop whining Petey! He could hear his mother chastising. He tried not to grit his teeth—yet another bad habit. “It’s not…that’s not the point.” “What is it then?” she asked. He could feel her eyes studying him, looking him over, like she could somehow find the answer stitched into his clothes. “Power?” She stopped to look down at his hands; when he followed her gaze, he noticed he was white-knuckling the edge of the table. He should leave. He should just get up and walk away and deny everything. She didn’t have any proof. “I can pretend,” she said. “I can scream and beg and do whatever else revs the engine.” She took a sip of her drink, his eyes glued to the way her tongue peeked out to guide the straw into her mouth. He scoffed. “I’d know you were faking it,” he said. She smiled, the straw still clenched between her teeth. “Well then, you’d be one of the few, eh tiger?” “Listen, I appreciate the offer, but I’m just not feeling it.” Peter moved to stand, but she grabbed his wrist. Her grip was strong. Stronger than he would have assumed. When he turned to look at her, the flirtation was gone, leaving behind a serious expression, eyes narrowed. There was something sinister in that look, it was trying to dig under his flesh. “I am giving you the gift of a lifetime,” she said. “I won’t fight, I won’t run. There is a zero percent chance of failure here.” She nodded her head to the left, her eyes never leaving his. “Can you say the same for that blonde you’ve been eyeing?” Had he been so easy to spot? Maybe he wasn’t being as careful as he thought. He could hear the girl’s tinkling laugh across the room, surrounded by boys, swarming to her like moths to a flame. They were always swarming. Maybe that’s how she knew. He had a bad habit of watching. His mother always told him not to stare. Keep your eyes to yourself, Petey. “I promise,” she said, standing up slowly. “It’s going to feel just like the real thing. Think of it like a game you can’t lose. And it’s your turn.” They’d gotten into his car and driven off into the night. She made idle chitchat, which he loathed, going on about the weather and the road and stores they passed. It was certainly helping him get in the mood. Once he parked at the edge of the forest, she’d followed him on foot, deeper amongst the trees. Muscle memory took over then, though it was strange without the struggling and crying. He knew where the others were buried, knew it better than the way home. The oak with the notch in its side was number one. The fir that was split from last year’s hurricane, 20 feet to the left, was the marker for number two—how he had loved her. And deeper still, by an old spruce, he’d dug the hole for number six, ready and waiting to be filled. When they stopped at her final resting place, he looked her over, planning it all, the hammer heavy in his hands. She peered down into the grave with arms crossed like she was surveying a mattress, impassive and mildly judgmental. It made something ache in his molars, and he tried not to grind his teeth. There was something off about her. It could have been the lack of fear, or some foliage displacing the moonlight, but she seemed to glow, her figure stark against the darkness. There was something in the back of his mind that called for him to be afraid. It was probably just the adrenaline coursing through him. In these moments, everything was brighter, sharper, better. That must have been it. He was overthinking again. “Will you finally tell me why?” he asked. “Honestly?” she said, letting out a low huff of air. “I’m just so fucking bored.” That was when he swung the hammer down, down, down. She had done as she promised. She let out a scream that sent a chill up his spine, going down like a pile of bricks. The sound of her body hitting the soft forest undergrowth did something to him, and he couldn’t help but indulge. It hadn’t felt like the others, not quite, but Peter felt that thrum of peace in his chest that let him sleep soundly. She had promised him real, and she’d gotten pretty close, close enough to collapse into bed and quiet the voice he could never drown out on his own. The high did not last. He was back at the bar three nights later, the itch in the back of his mind driving him mad. He knew he should wait at least another week for number seven, a month to be safe, but he couldn’t stay away. All day at work, it had thrummed in him like the bass of a song, the siren call to play again. The last girl just wasn’t it, wasn’t the real deal. But he’d been good, finished her like he should. And he was careful enough, right? It wouldn’t hurt to go, just to look. Just one little look. The moment he walked into the bar, his eyes locked onto a brunette, chubby but sweet, surrounded by a cadre of friends all pressed close, enraptured by whatever she was saying. Counting to ten and back again, he made sure to keep his eyes on his beer. He would just look tonight, hold off until the time was right, throw off suspicions, find her again when the time was right. He would be alone, but he could at least watch. That would be enough, he told himself. It was going to have to be enough. He startled when he felt a hand on his back, solid but cold. “I’m real sorry, Petey.” Peter choked on his spit, chest seizing violently. He whipped around to look at the new arrival. The room seemed to shrink in an instant, the chatter of the bar fading into the background. It wasn’t possible. “Looks like we’re going to have to try this again.” Her smile was bright, her teeth perfect. His stomach dropped as he watched her fingers, decorated in chipped purple nail polish, grab his drink. She took a sip, her eyes never leaving his, boring into him. How had he not noticed it before? He’d been so entranced, he never bothered to look at her eyes. Even in the dim light of the bar, the pupils were so small, her gaze fixed and unblinking. Watching him carefully, so carefully he never even noticed. When she leaned in close, he could smell it on her breath, the rot, the earth. She was too put together, large and in charge. He had seen her, but not all of her, not really. “And guess what, big boy?” It hurt to look at her face, all predator, all perfect camouflage. He had made a terrible mistake. He should have known, should have listened to his mother. She put the drink down and grabbed his chin hard. Her nails dug into the soft flesh, and he had no doubt then she could rip his jaw off without breaking a sweat. “It’s my turn now.” Sara Roncero-Menendez (she/her) is a writer based in Queens, NY, and has published stories and essays in several outlets, including Points in Case and miniskirt magazine, as well as a poetry chapbook, Graveyard Heart. She is also a journalist and PR professional, writing about movies, television and books. Follow her on Twitter @sararomenen

Glorianne stared into Gavin’s vacant eyes. “Don’t go, my love,” she whispered, willing her words to bring him back to her. She felt the air stir around her, as he left on the wings of an angel. JoJo popped her earbuds out. If she transcribed one more word of this nonsense, she might jump out her front window. And given her luck, she’d only crush some bones. A stay in the hospital in traction had its appeal, but she knew her boss, Cameron, would expect her to keep typing from her hospital bed. JoJo needed to ask for a raise. She’d been putting it off for at least two years. She should work on her resume. Instead, she’d brew a cup of tea. Her cushy slippers swish-swashed her down the hallway. But at the kitchen counter, with her beloved teaware in front of her, she moved with the precision of a surgeon. She set the kettle to exactly 99 degrees and measured precisely four grams of rolled oolong leaves into her little gaiwan, a traditional Chinese pot made of fine red clay. When the kettle beeped, she poured hot water over her cup to warm it. Then she rinsed the leaves. Finally, she filled the gaiwan, covered the pot and sang the Happy Birthday song, as she did every day because it took exactly the right amount of time for the first steeping. Today she was careful to sing at her normal pace. She didn’t want the fact that it was actually her birthday to throw her off and ruin her tea. “Happy birthday to me,” she finished, and then she poured her tea. JoJo smiled, lifted the cup to her nose, and inhaled. Closing her eyes, she sipped and allowed herself to dissolve into this space of ancient trees. She floated through air perfumed with ripe fruit, honey fresh from the hive, mulch and tree bark wet from the rain. JoJo wanted to sit on her favorite floor cushion, the magenta faux silk with the elephant appliqué on the front, and practice her tea meditation. But she needed to pay rent. Anyway, it would probably be difficult to meditate with the not-surprise party looming. Plunging into the adventures of Glorianne would at least keep her occupied. She poured another cup and shuffled back to her desk. Glorianne refused to let the loss of her true love get her down. She wasn’t the kind of lady who’d let a tragedy break her. So she took a deep breath, threw her lavender shawl around her shoulders, and went out into the summer evening. The promise of adventure tugged at her. JoJo sipped her tea. The only thing worse than this novel was the last one. And the only thing more stressful than birthday parties were surprise parties, especially those that weren’t surprises. Now on top of the usual anxiety she felt at the very thought of an evening of conversation, she had to worry about delivering a perfect performance so her friends could feel good about pulling off such a coup. Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to me. She drank the last of her tea without tasting it. * * * When Samantha had phoned a couple of weeks before her birthday, JoJo’d suspected that something was up. If it hadn’t been for shared friends, JoJo guessed they would have drifted apart after graduating from college. Still, when Samantha suggested meeting at an upscale British-style tea house on the west side, JoJo thought it might be an early birthday outing. She couldn’t think of any other reason since Samantha referred to tea traditions as “snooty and pretentious.” They’d sat at a little table covered with a cloth the color of mint ice cream. The Bramble and Rose served a touristy version of high tea and had trunks filled with feather boas, gloves, and all kinds of outlandish hats for customers to wear. Samantha told JoJo to order, since it all tasted like Lipton anyway, and she rushed over to try on the feathered finery. When the tea arrived, JoJo poured it for them both and watched Samantha stir three spoonfuls of sugar into hers, taste it, and wrinkle her nose. She pushed the cup aside and took a drink from her water glass. “Nika’s planning a surprise birthday party,” Samantha said, plopping a pillbox hat on her head and swishing the ends of her pink boa. “I mean, it only seems right to tell you. I know how much you hate parties. I can’t imagine what Nika’s thinking.” JoJo sipped, trying to collect her thoughts. She couldn’t argue exactly. She did hate parties. But it wasn’t Samantha’s place to blow it for Nika. Still, she couldn’t be sure she’d find the exact right way to express what she needed to say, and as always, the time for speaking passed by. Samantha peeled white lace gloves off her hands and placed two cucumber sandwiches and a pink square of cake on her flowered china plate. JoJo spooned clotted cream and a lemon curd dab onto a scone and took a bite, following the tangy sweetness with a drink of the black tea. The gentle bitterness of the beverage blended with the lingering sweetness in her mouth but didn’t lessen her annoyance. * * * “Happy Birthday,” JoJo said to her reflection in the mirror. In black yoga pants, sea-blue tunic, and a whiskey-colored scarf circling her throat, she decided she looked okay. Not amazing. Not Wow! But maybe not forty either. She fluffed her shoulder-length hair that was neither curly nor straight and considered that she might need a style update. How mid-life, she thought, grabbing her keys and sunglasses. She needed to pick up her dry cleaning so she’d be properly dressed for the party she knew nothing about. And after that, she’d drive downtown and take herself to The Owl and Tortoise, her favorite tearoom. That at least would make her birthday afternoon perfect. After cruising the packed lot of the strip mall where her one and only semi-nice dress was being held hostage, she parked at a curb marked for passenger loading. She got out and glanced up and down the street. No cop car to be seen. Over an hour later, finally sitting at her favorite table with a cup and teapot, and a small hourglass to time the steeping in front of her, JoJo glared at the ticket sticking out of her open purse. One hundred and fifty dollars for a loading zone! It would take an entire day of transcribing to pay the ticket, and she felt irrationally angry at her handbag and at the sand flowing much too slowly through the hourglass. Finally, she jostled the timer and poured her tea. She brought the cup close to her lips and paused to breathe. Closing her eyes, she pictured the ancient trees these leaves had come from. Her fantasy of walking through old-growth forests was interrupted when Tati, the owner, arrived at the table with a bowl of boiled peanuts and a small plate of rice cakes and dried fruit. “For you, Miss Jo” she said, making a slight bow, as her mentor had taught her to do. Tati’s strawberry curls and throat adorned with gardenia tattoos never seemed more out of place than when she bowed. She looked like she should be in an art studio, splashing colors onto a huge canvas, or perhaps sitting in a downtown bar writing poetry. But JoJo had attended Tati’s formal tea ceremonies and didn’t question her rightness in this place. “Thank you, Tati.” Tati remained still. JoJo looked at her, not knowing what to say. Tati never intruded on customers’ time with their tea. She had been trained better than that. “May I ask how you like the puerh?” JoJo glanced at her cup. She almost said something like “It’s fine, really lovely,” but those were not the right words. She brought the cup under her nose letting the fragrance drift into her mind. She sipped, breathing out through her nose to get the full experience. She opened her eyes to find Tati examining her face. “It’s different,” JoJo said, then added, “more floral but not exactly.” She sipped again. “Like roses but not. More like a breeze blew rose petals across the leaves.” JoJo quickly looked into her cup, feeling her cheeks warm. “You give words to the heart of the leaves,” Tati said. “This tea is from a tiny family farm in Yunnan province. It’s rumored that the old grandfather places batches of tea leaves near flowers or other aromatics. They say he does this to expose his son-in-law’s inability to produce the highest quality tea, but each time the result is so special that the old grandfather is forced to swallow his criticisms.” Tati smiled her nun’s smile. “Most people don’t appreciate what they’re drinking. They want this tea because it’s famous, but they don’t taste its spirit.” “I don’t see how they could miss it.” “It’s simple, really.” Tati nodded for emphasis. “Most people are not in love with the tea. They don’t share its soul.” Before JoJo could reply, Tati repeated her small bow and walked toward the kitchen. * * * At home, JoJo stood at her front window, watching the gulls glide on invisible currents. The guy in the apartment directly across from hers worked on a laptop at his kitchen table, as he did every day. Now and then, one of them would catch the other looking and raise their cup in greeting. Today, he appeared to be absorbed in whatever filled his screen. He’d moved in just over a year ago, yet they had crossed paths on the street only a handful of times, each time awkward, as if they hadn’t agreed to breech their territory lines. The conversation at the tea room had left JoJo unsettled. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt she’d been told a secret or like Tati’s words had been code for something deeper. But JoJo couldn’t get a hold of it. Like trying to remember a dream that’s already faded. She glanced at her watch, not even four o’clock. She wished it were time to get ready. Then she remembered the parking ticket that wasn’t going to pay itself and figured she could kill some time and make some money. Walking quickly past the mouth of a dark ally, Glorianne heard soft movements coming from the shadows. She paused. What if someone needed her help? “Hello,” she called out, brave and unafraid. A small tabby kitten wobbled toward her. Glorianne looked into the sky and felt Gavin looking down at her. “Thank you,” she said, scooping up her bundle of love. JoJo stopped typing and threw her earbuds on her desk. If her 33-year-old self could have pictured sitting here on her fortieth birthday still listening to the adventures of the glamorous, gregarious and sometimes gritty Glorianne, she would have jumped into the ocean and swum for the horizon. She’d accepted this gig thinking it would keep her afloat until she figured out what to do with an English degree. The answer to that question continued to evade her. She could work in a bookstore somewhere. But Cameron paid double what she’d get in retail. Anyway, the idea of talking to people all day didn’t appeal. In theory, JoJo loved language and fantasized about writing. But she had a hard enough time finding her voice in day-to-day conversations. When she tried to write anything, she’d work on a simple sentence for hours. Now and then during a tea meditation, she believed she remembered a time, back before her mother died, when words flowed between them, sometimes like the stream behind their house, other times more like the waves of the ocean. But perhaps those images came from the tea more than from her past. She couldn’t know. JoJo pushed herself away from her desk. Between her growing birthday not-surprise-party anxiety and a kind of funk she blamed on turning forty, she couldn’t face more Glorianne. She needed a long soak in a hot tub. * * * JoJo sank back and closed her eyes. The thought of faking sick crossed her mind. But even though they didn’t see each other as much since Nika had opened her marketing agency, JoJo still considered Nika her closest friend. They had bonded in college, both new to the big city, both trying to figure out where they fit. Eventually, Nika recognized how difficult it was for JoJo to speak up in class, especially when put on the spot. Nika started jumping in with some random comment, distracting the professor and giving JoJo time to come up with something to say or ditch the whole thing with a trip to the bathroom. The two just fit together like that. Nika spoke up when JoJo couldn’t, and JoJo accepted Nika for who she was. Back then our women still faced a lot of ugliness, and Nika seemed to get it that JoJo accepted her fully. JoJo breathed in the scent of sandalwood bath oil, willing the tension out of her neck and shoulders. As she relaxed, her mind drifted to the tea-room and Tati. She wondered how old Tati was. In her harem pants and wrinkled linen tops, she looked like an original hippie chick, but her perfect skin and strawberry curls that danced down her back put her closer to thirty. Her manner spoke of someone beyond age. The tea master who trained Tati had been like that too, not ageless but outside time somehow. What was Tati like when she’d started working at the tea room? She must have been special for the old man to take her in the way he had, especially since she was an outsider, an American. “Most people are not in love with the tea,” JoJo whispered Tati’s words and then tasted her own lips as if she would find a breath of rose petals. She’d loved tea since she went to live with her grandma after her mother died, just a few months before her sixth birthday. JoJo would sit right next to her grandma on the porch swing on Saturday afternoons, listening to the wind chimes making fairy sounds in the breeze. They drank sweet tea with mint leaves from the garden. “The sugar protects from sour feelings,” her grandma would say. “Letting those feelings out helps too.” Using the tips of her toes, her grandma kept the swing swaying lightly, like a cradle. JoJo drank the syrupy tea and watched the bees flit around the marigolds that lined the path to the street. She knew her grandma wanted her to talk about how sad she felt, but her mouth didn’t make the words. “Remember when your papaw shook that can of root beer and then pulled the tab? That’s what happens when stuff gets bottled inside us,” her grandma explained. But JoJo didn’t speak. She didn’t want to disappoint her grandma, but she wouldn’t betray her mother, like the people at the funeral did. JoJo hated their words — beautiful, kind, loving. Words for any mother, but not JoJo’s. Her mother was bigger than the dead mother everyone talked about. Her mother wrinkled her eyebrows when she read JoJo’s homework, even when she liked it. “That’s my concentrating face, honey,” she would say. “You did great!” she’d add, even when she meant that JoJo had more work to do. And JoJo’s mother made really yucky spaghetti every single Friday. And she on purpose steered her bike down the middle of the road and once yelled at the neighbor who shot a raccoon. But at the funeral all the words talked about her sick mother or the mother living in heaven. JoJo hated those funeral words, and she hated that mother who wasn’t hers. JoJo wanted to scream at them to stop talking, but without her mother by her side, she couldn’t find her words. As time passed, JoJo grew to treasure the afternoons with her grandmother on the swing drinking sweet tea. Her grandma told stories about when her mother was little, real stories about a girl who was sometimes naughty and sometimes funny and sometimes sad. And she quit pressing her to talk about her feelings. Many years after her grandma’s sweet tea, JoJo stumbled into the little teahouse on the northern edge of downtown. Back then Tati apprenticed to the old man who owned the shop. On that first day, JoJo entered the dimly lit main room and sat on a cushion at a low, wooden table. Being there felt like being in a museum or a church. The other customers spoke softly, their hushed voices combining with the tinkling of water flowing over the metal fountain in the corner. The tea master arrived with a tray holding a cup and a gaiwan. He knelt across from her and set everything in place. His gray hair, knotted at the nape of his neck, and his lined face seemed out of keeping with his perfect posture. The combination made him look outside of age, like that mortal concept did not apply to him. Without words, the tea master served JoJo. Through gesture, he taught her to hold the gaiwan in one hand, positioning the lid so it blocked the leaves from escaping as the tea flowed into the tiny cup. Tati stood respectfully behind him, watching, learning. He waited as JoJo took her first sip of oolong. She swallowed too quickly, but even so, the bouquet of flavors enthralled her. With a smile in his eyes, the old man rose, made a small bow with his head, and he left her to her tea. JoJo went to the tearoom as often as she could afford. She tasted every kind of tea, rock oolong, aged white, old-growth purple. She loved them all, and she treasured the quiet of the space. Over time, Tati or the old tea master helped her learn to drink the tea in a way that brought out even more complexity. Eventually, when the old man passed away, Tati inherited the space and subtly made it her own, bringing in some Western herbal teas and even providing sugar if customers insisted. Sometimes it seemed Tati had accepted responsibility for the teahouse so the spirit of the old master would have a home. You give words to the heart of the leaves. JoJo jerked up, as if she’d been on the verge of sleep and dreamt of falling off a cliff. Now tepid water sloshed over the edge of the tub. Had she been asleep? She wasn’t sure. But she didn’t have time to ponder. She had to go be surprised. * * * Standing outside Nika’s apartment, JoJo fluffed her hair and smoothed the skirt of her dress to be sure it wasn’t clinging to her tights. She heard movement from inside. She didn’t want to knock too early in case they were still hiding. She pulled her phone out to check the time and saw she had a message from Samantha. They know you know. Shrug-shoulders emoji. JoJo stared at the screen, rereading the text. She couldn’t move, not to knock, not to turn and leave, not to text back a middle finger emoji. Samantha had single-handedly ruined her surprise party and destroyed the fun for Nika and the others. JoJo looked back to her phone and noticed her hand shaking. She’d call from the car and tell Nika she had a migraine. Nika would understand and forgive. JoJo didn’t want to see Samantha, but she realized it was more than that. She didn’t trust what she might say, or worse, what she might not be able to say. Better to skip the party, she thought as the door to the apartment swung open. “JoJo!” Nika said. “Birthday girl! I thought I heard something out here. Come in. Everyone’s waiting for you.” JoJo looked from Nika’s smiling eyes to the room beyond. Their handful of shared friends and a smattering of partners and a couple of unknown plus-ones stood clustered around the dining table which seemed to be piled with food. She didn’t see Samantha. Nika glanced back into the room, following JoJo’s stare. “What’s the matter, J? You don’t have to pretend to be surprised. Samantha came clean,” Nika said, reaching for her arm. JoJo allowed herself to be led into the room where “Happy Birthday” calls went up accompanied by raised glasses. “Sorry, I don’t have tea,” Nika said. “But I’ve got a very nice pinot grigio with your name on it.” Nika held out the bottle, her raised eyebrows waiting for the go-ahead to pour. Glass in hand, JoJo made her way to the table. Her smile felt stiff, and she worked to smooth the furrow between her brows. “So Birthday Girl, how’s mid-life?” Nika’s partner, Luz, said before chomping into a celery stalk filled with something pasty. “So far, so good,” JoJo lied. A couple of people chuckled. “JoJo’s been middle-aged her whole life,” Samantha chimed in as she entered from the hallway. “Romance novels and tea, all she needs is a cat.” JoJo felt her jaw tighten. She wanted to scream and throw food in Samantha’s face. But she couldn’t move. “Oh stop, Sam,” Luz said. “We can’t all haunt the clubs every night like you do. The rest of us aren’t kids anymore.” A few laughs circled the table, and conversations started back up. Samantha didn’t respond. To escape small talk and Samantha, JoJo migrated to the front window. Nika’s apartment overlooked a tiny community park that had been abandoned by everyone except occasional construction workers and a few people drifting between a nearby homeless encampment and a little diner that set out leftover food. Tonight, under the halo from the streetlamp, a man sat cross-legged on top of the picnic table. Waves of gray hair fell to his shoulders, making him appear elderly, but his straight back suggested vitality. JoJo strained to see what he was doing. From this distance, he appeared to be looking right at her. “So I guess I’m not good at secrets,” Samantha said, hip-bumping a greeting. JoJo held her glass out in an effort to protect her dress from the sloshing wine. “No, I guess not,” JoJo said, returning to the man across the street. She knew it was an illusion created by the lamplight and distance, but she would have sworn he hovered just above the picnic table. The hairs on her arms prickled. He did seem to look back at her, as if trying to find and hold her gaze. “I had to tell them. They were so excited. Strategizing about where to hide. It was getting very complicated.” Was he holding something? JoJo leaned toward the glass, as if those inches brought her closer to understanding. “Are you listening,” Samantha said. He continued to look in her direction, and with both hands, he raised something to his mouth. A small bowl or a cup? He sipped and then held out the drink like a salutation. “JoJo,” Samantha demanded. When JoJo finally turned, Samantha stood with hand on hip, glaring. JoJo glanced back toward the man. He seemed so familiar. Samantha clicked her fingers in front of JoJo’s face. JoJo turned slowly, a pressure drumming in her ears, her face hot. She registered the hand poised in air, ready to click again, the haughty expression melting as Samantha seemed to read her mood. “Hey, J, just having some birthday fun,” Samantha said. “Are you having fun?” JoJo asked. Samantha smiled and opened her mouth, then quickly clamped it shut. JoJo glanced out the window. The old man slowly bowed his head and then raised his sparkling eyes to hers. JoJo felt as if she knew him, as if she had always known him. She turned back to Samantha, who wouldn’t meet her eyes, glancing out the window then looking toward the hall like she might bolt for the bathroom. “Why’d you work so hard to ruin this party?” JoJo felt the tightness in her jaw and eyes. Samantha shot a look toward the others still standing around the table. “I did it for you,” she finally said, flashing her Hollywood smile. “You hate parties.” “I didn’t ask for your help,” JoJo said, the floodgate now open. “And does Nika hate them too? Because you seemed Hell bent on ruining it for her as well.” “I can’t believe you,” Samantha said, shoving her fists on her hips. “I’ve been trying to be a good friend. That’s all.” She paused and added “You’re welcome.” “I didn’t thank you,” JoJo said. “You’ve been petty and mean for as long as I’ve known you, Samantha. Your whole rebel routine might have been edgy and interesting back in college. But we only tolerate you now out of habit. Grow up.” JoJo took a slow breath and looked to the old man. He hovered over the table, raised his cup in her direction, an offering, a toast. JoJo smiled and responded with a small bow. Ignoring Samantha, she joined the others at the table. Nika came from the kitchen, holding a cake with matcha dusted on the white frosting. Golden candles blazed on top. Everyone sang. JoJo took a moment to get her wish just right, and with as much gusto as she had, she blew out every single flame. * * * The next morning, JoJo woke before the sun had fully risen and started the kettle. From the very top shelf of her little pantry, she selected a pressed cake of aged white tea. A gift from the old tea master before he passed away. She’d been saving it for the perfect occasion. Now she held the disc up to her nose and breathed in the scent of apricot brandy and marshmallow fluff and wet river rocks. With her tea knife, she broke leaves from the cake and added them to her gaiwan. “Happy birthday to me,” she sang out loud, giving the leaves time to release their subtle flavors. She poured the tea into a porcelain lotus cup and went to sit on her meditation cushion. She sipped slowly, the complexity of tastes to interacting with all parts of her mouth. She closed her eyes, letting herself wander through the experience. In her stillness, she saw her true mother, not the one preparing to die. She tasted the sugar sweetness of afternoons on her grandmother’s porch. She remembered her awe the first time she watched the tea master prepare tea. And she saw the old man levitating above the table in a halo of light offering her his cup. When she opened her eyes, she remained still, as the present moment formed around her. She cleared her tea set and stood at the window. Fluffy white clouds hung in the bluing sky. It would be a lovely day. A movement from across the street caught her eye. Her neighbor held his coffee cup up in a morning toast. JoJo smiled and finger waved. He laughed. Even from this distance, JoJo could see that his whole face lit up with his laughter. She’d never noticed that before. He pointed to his computer and shrugged. JoJo responded in kind. At her desk, she composed an email to Cameron. She needed that long overdue raise. JoJo had anticipated that it might be hard to send the email, but it wasn’t. She checked the clock. Barely seven. The tearoom wouldn’t be open yet. Perfect. She dialed Tati’s number. “I have an idea to update your webpage and add a blog,” JoJo said. “I don’t have a portfolio but if you let me write the first post, I’ll show what I can do.” She held her breath. Tati’s laugh transported JoJo back to a time when crystal wind chimes played the background music to afternoons drinking sweet tea. Kait Leonard's fiction has been published in Inlandia, Six Sentences, Every Day Fiction, and Flash Fiction Magazine. She is a staff writer for The Canyon Chronicle newspaper and also contributes articles on aging, psychology, and homelessness to online publications. Kait is currently in the MFA program at Antioch University and shares her Los Angeles home with five parrots and her gigantic American bulldog.

There were prickly pears everywhere. They nested in baskets and bowls were tucked into bureau drawers, in the glove compartments of cars, and hidden in clothes dryers. I knew of one woman, who could only speak on the Day of the Dead and had several rolled inside of her stained, terry cloth apron, right next to the paring knife that she needed for various purposes. There was nothing else to eat. Everyone loved the ruby fruit, except for me. I would have eaten anything—a cucumber with skin, an unshelled shrimp, a scrap of hard bread saved from the breakfast zuppa. A grandfatherly type came towards me in long strides I didn’t think he was capable of. His eyes were protected against the sun by his fedora which sat high up on his head and his cigarette was persistent, glowing in his shaking, thick fingers. He was persuasive, but I had my mother, a true Taurus’s stubborn streak. And I had a growling stomach to think about. He held out the prickly pear to me, and I sunk my teeth into the cactus-like flesh. I kept biting like an animal and spitting the skin on the ground. The smile drained from his face. Later, he would warn others about me, that I was impulsive and ungrateful, that I failed to abide by the local and time-tested ways. Wasted a perfectly good goddamn piece of fruit, he’d mumble, ambling up and down the sun soaked village. O Dio, the women would cry in response, peeling the fruit into handmade ceramic bowls which they’d offer to the children who played in the courtyard, every day without fail, until dusk. Michelle Reale is the editor of two literary magazines and several collections of poetry.

Your father passed into thin air two years ago today, left you treading in salt water and frost. It was before the fuses detonated on pumpkins strewn like melancholy babies in a rutted field. I saw the lump in your throat, on your chest, coached you into swallowing some solid food. Your father never left important places. Waits for you to ask him what you need. He will give it up. John Dorroh still plays in the dirt. When he travels, he examines the soil for evidence of life. "Buttons, chunks of colored glass, bones, bows, bones.....all quality," he says. Three of his poems were nominated for Best of the Net. Hundreds of others have appeared in fine journals such as Feral, River Heron, Pif, Pinyon, and Loch Raven Review. He had two chapbooks published in 2022.