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After all After four months of trial after the episode after listening devices are planted after working their way up to the Earth's surface after years of bailouts, crises and economic struggle after 11 p.m. after days of observation after returning from Vietnam after 13,981 performances after a brief introductory recording and some hours of gameplay after 9/11 after the floodwaters rose after four years of working night shifts after four decades playing in thrash metal bands after the opening of Interstate 40 after hearing from parents after a fight after nearly 20 years as a fugitive after a sand dune collapsed on top of him after hours after Friday Shabbat dinners after babies are born after you break up after getting married after the Tower of Babel after long being unemployed after contract negotiations stalled after the footage was released after playing and dancing in circles after a workout at a track after winning after much speculation after middle-class Americans after a brief chapter after more years of war after they used another EpiPen after the rocket broke apart after the all-clear after the oath after it opens back up after high school after we hear the first few shots and the video ends. Doing Wall Sits Today It all happened mighty fast. We got pregnant in Europe in April and by August we’d gotten married, found new jobs, sold our houses and packed up all our stuff. Yes, I also turned 40. Yes, I now must do novel stretches and slow strength-building exercises for obscure muscle groups that wreak havoc on the old body if neglected. Though I am still a bohemian, a baby takes up a lot of time. We have a rental house near Baldwin Vista with a grand view of the whole sprawling waste. It’s odd but I can’t seem to turn away. You might appreciate the neighbors' deranged conversations with their schizoid hallucinations. Of course one day we’ll bring the family to NYC, or just tell us where your Subaru is parked and we’ll airdrop some cakes and narcotics to get you through the cold mountain night.

There are other, better places to spend time than this no-name boardwalk in this no-name beach town. The taffy-chewing girl seemed to like it, though. One early morning sweetened by a cotton-candy sunrise, she stood with her arms akimbo and her foot tapping and her teeth gnashing and her lips smacking. Gooey strands of peaches-and-cream taffy stretched between her molars. She studied a pyramid of milk bottles. In the shadow of the game booth, a grey-looking man tossed a softball between skeletal hands. “It’s a dollar for three throws,” he said. “Five bucks for ten. I know the math doesn’t work out, don’t shoot the messenger.” The girl smiled brightly and slapped a dollar onto the counter. “Three throws, then, please.” The man swept the bill into a thin stack. She missed the first two throws. The third took off the top milk bottle and only that. “A fifth of the way there,” the man said, moving to reset the pyramid. The girl shook her head. “Hey, does your nametag say Milton?” “Yes.” “That’s an awful name.” “I’m aware.” She beamed a smile at him. “I’ll try again soon. Thanks, Milton!” Milton watched her go. Bouncy hair, springy steps, sun-kissed spirit. He shrunk back to the shadows and rolled the softball around. Outside, the sea-salt breeze danced with boardwalk laughter. A family of four approached the booth with two children shrieking for the big plush prizes. “It’s a dollar for three throws. Five bucks for ten. I know the math doesn’t work out, don’t shoot the messenger.” --- That night he drank a bit and then laid in bed watching the ceiling fan spin. He thought about the taffy-chewing girl and he said his own name and agreed again that it was an awful name. Bitter and boring as a bad whiskey. But young and pretty girls aren’t supposed to be blunt with you. They’re supposed to tell you what you want to hear. They’re supposed to be sweet on the eyes and the ears. Curious case. --- She was back the next day before noon when the boardwalk had more seagulls than people. “Hi, Milton,” she said, putting down a five. “I’ll give you five dollars for fifteen throws. Or, one dollar for three throws, five times.” Milton shrugged and pocketed the bill and hoisted up a bucket of fifteen softballs. She took the first one and rolled it around in her palm, narrowing her eyes at the milk bottle pyramid and chewing taffy like a major-leaguer. The boardwalk was quiet but for the breathing of waves. She threw the balls daintily, leaning back and then forward on one foot and more so pushing them through the air than throwing them. Her first five throws went wide. Her sixth struck the milk bottle in the center of the bottom row and didn’t budge it. “Hey!” she cried. “Foul play.” “Need more mustard on your throws.” “I betcha those bottles are filled with something. Are they filled with something?” “I don’t know,” Milton lied. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” The girl tossed a softball from hand-to-hand. “And these feel too light. You filled the balls with cork and the bottles with lead, didn’t you?” “Don’t shoot the messenger.” “Does anybody ever win this?” “Sometimes.” The girl swallowed her taffy. “Do you like your life, Milton? Filling milk bottles with lead and corking up softballs and being named Milton?” Milton gestured to the bucket. “You have nine more throws.” She threw nine more times. Her twelfth throw hit over two bottles, but that was the closest she got to all five and the plush prize. “This is so silly,” she said, shaking her head and unwrapping a piece of lemon taffy. “I think the balloon toss is rigged too, the darts are all blunted. And in the basketball game the hoop looks like it’s an oval. How’re you supposed to fit a circle through an oval?” Milton shrugged. “I got a good feeling about this though,” the girl said, putting another five down. She missed the next fifteen throws. “Good try,” Milton said. The girl looked shrewdly at him. “Are you proud of yourself, Milton? Because anybody can fill some milk bottles with lead and cork up a few softballs. You’re not that special.” “You’re not either.” “Actually, I am,” the girl said. “I figured out life.” Milton chuckled. “How’d you manage to figure out life before figuring out how to knock over some milk bottles?” “By watching life,” she said. “I just haven’t had the chance to watch many people throw rigged softballs at rigged milk bottles.” The beach was beginning to populate. Umbrellas bloomed in the sand and ice cream shops slid open their windows and boardwalk musicians strummed and beat and sang their tunes. The last sliver of sunrise leaked from the sky, leaving behind a pastel blue canvas. “Sit around and watch then,” Milton told the girl, gesturing to the stools bolted down in front of the counter. Relics from the booth’s age of water guns and clown targets. “I’ll sit after I get some more taffy,” she said. “Save me a spot.” “Sure.” She turned to go as a couple came up to the booth fishing through their pockets for bills. Then she stopped and looked back. “Milton, what’s your favorite flavor of taffy?” “I don’t like taffy,” Milton said, taking a five from the couple and giving them a bucket of ten balls. The girl left. The couple failed to knock over all five milk bottles. So did the group of boys in baseball uniforms. So did the fat man with skin like a tomato. So did the lifeguard on break, and the smiling old woman in a sunhat, and the mean-looking man with a big grim reaper tattoo, and every iteration of beachgoer in between. The girl came back and watched and chatted through thick mouthfuls of taffy, speaking as if she thought through her mouth. Milton answered sometimes. “Why don’t you like taffy?” she asked. “It’s sticky.” “It’s tasty though.” “…” “Okay.” Milton got a bucket of boardwalk fries for lunch and drizzled them in vinegar. “How old are you, Milton?” “Around fifty.” “My dad died at fifty-six. Heart attack. He used to eat boardwalk fries all the time. Are you sure you should be eating those?” “…” “Okay.” Milton spent some time adjusting a pillow on his shoddy wooden chair, fitting it to the small of his back. “You know,” the girl said, “riptides kill about a hundred people a year?” “…” “They’re crazy. The riptides.” --- Two hours past noon, a lady in a military uniform knocked over all five milk bottles. She picked out a big stuffed bear and gave it to a passing little boy. “Now that’s an American hero,” the taffy-chewing girl said. “Milton, do you feel like an American hero when you’re rigging the game?” “I told you it was possible to win.” “Sure is,” the girl said. She gave Milton another five and he gave her a bucket of fifteen balls. She came close this time, hitting the middle bottle on her ninth throw and toppling all but one. When the bucket was empty, she sat back on the stool with her legs crossed and kept on chewing taffy. The sun began to set and pinken the sky, and the air grew colder and breezier. “Don’t you have better things to do?” Milton asked. “When I was your age, I had friends.” “I have friends,” she said. “But they all have jobs.” “Get a job then.” The girl unwrapped another piece of taffy. “I don’t believe in jobs.” “Well, they exist. I have one. Your friends do too.” “I meant that I don’t believe in the value of them.” Milton waved the five she gave him. “Where’d this come from then?” “My savings. I’m retired now.” Milton sneered. “Retirement is for people who’ve worked. You’re running on your daddy’s money, aren’t you?” “Well, yes,” the girl said blankly. “Isn’t it sad that he didn’t get to use it himself? He worked real hard all his life to save up money and retire here. Then one week into retirement, his heart gave out and he went eurgh… agghhh… bleh… and died.” “Very nice,” Milton said. Here she is, sitting in the sun and smacking her lips all day. Is she oblivious to her luck? Does she appreciate the sun and the breeze and the taste of taffy and the smooth slide of her joints and the springiness in her steps and how she wakes up in the morning without a headache and how she never has to restack milk bottles, restack milk bottles, restack milk bottles until even when they’re stacked the puppet strings of muscle memory urge your hands into more and more stacking. “You know,” the girl said, “the lifespan of crabs is only three or four years.” “…” “They lay, like, a thousand eggs, though. If I was a crab, I wouldn’t want to spend so much time laying eggs if I only had three or four years to live.” --- The girl was back at dawn watching the sunrise when Milton got there to open up shop for the day. “Morning, Milton.” Milton mumbled a greeting. “Look at the sun. It looks like a big fat tangerine.” Milton glanced at the big fat tangerine. Unremarkable. “Once you’ve seen one sunrise you’ve seen them all.” “Agreed,” the girl said. She turned away from the conflagration of colors and put a five on the booth counter. Milton gave her a bucket of fifteen balls. She didn’t win. “Taffy for breakfast?” Milton asked, as the girl unfurled a bright blue piece. She nodded and put another bright blue piece on the next five she slid over. “Try it. It’s a new flavor. Sour blue raspberry.” Milton waved a hand and gave her the taffy back and a new bucket of softballs. She spent thirty more dollars trying to knock over the milk bottles then left to enjoy other parts of the boardwalk, and Milton was alone. After noon, he took a long lunch break and ordered a bucket of fries and vinegar, munching them while walking the boardwalk. The rhythmic breathing of the tides were nice. He took his shoes off and walked into the warm sand and smiled out at the ocean. Wavery horizon. Gentle waves. Smooth, moist, dark sand by the water. A clock ticking. His heart. He threw away the half-empty bucket of fries and pulled his shoes back on and trudged back down the boardwalk, wincing at the sounds of laughter sharp as seagull squawks. On the way back he saw her riding the carousel, mounted on a giant white rabbit bounding up and down around and around. She was giggling, away in some euphoric, fey dimension. --- She was at the boardwalk for all of August, every single one of the thirty-one days. Milton scratched tallies into the booth to keep track of her streak. “Your daddy’s money isn’t going to last forever,” Milton said as they watched a surfer dude whip throw after throw at the milk bottles. “I’m not gonna last forever either,” the girl said. “So.” The surfer dude came close on a handful of throws. He thanked Milton and left. “Did you know,” the girl said, looking out to the ocean, “some riptides can pull people out faster than an Olympic swimmer can swim.” --- In September her savings sputtered out. She spent some time fishing through her pockets and managed to scrounge up a hodgepodge menagerie of three wrinkled dollar bills, five quarters, five dimes, a pair of nickels, and fifteen pennies. Milton scooped up the bills and change and scrutinized her. She looked peaceful, placid. “A bucket of fifteen balls, please,” she said, smiling. Milton hoisted up a bucket and clunked it down on the counter. The boardwalk was quiet today, the tide was calm. The sun spilled through wispy clouds. The girl threw and her pitch went wide. “It helps to draw an imaginary line before you throw,” Milton said, “between the ball and the intersection of the bottles at the center of the stack.” The girl nodded. “Huh. Thanks, Milton.” She still missed the next fourteen throws. Then she sat down and had to stifle a fit of giggles with the back of her hand. “This is so silly,” she said. Milton cocked an eyebrow. “I bet nobody’s ever spent this much money here without winning.” Milton shrugged. The girl rummaged around her pockets and came out with a piece of strawberry taffy. She unfurled it, popped it in her mouth. “I love this game,” she said while chewing. “It’s fun to just throw and sometimes hit a bottle or two and not care. If I had ever won, I would have asked a kid nearby which one he or she thinks I should get for myself, and then I’d just give it to them.” Milton sat down in his chair, in the shadowy recesses of the booth, and massaged his temples. A headache was brewing. He didn’t want much more to do with the girl. It was a slow day, and he meant to mellow out his headache with quiet. “Are you gonna play again?” Milton asked. The girl shrugged. “How many throws can I get per piece of taffy?” “Still don’t like taffy.” She sighed. “Dang.” “Did Daddy’s money run out?” “Yup,” she said. She looked out to the ocean. “I figured it would.” “Time to get a job and become a real person.” “I dunno,” she said. “When are you gonna retire, Milton?” Milton chuckled. “You don’t want my job. Go down to the ring toss and work there, they pay commission. Better for somebody who’s young and pretty.” “I still don’t believe in jobs,” the girl said. “I was just wondering when you’re gonna retire.” “Five or six years, maybe.” “Why wait?” Milton rubbed his thumb and index finger together. “Money. I’m going to buy a sailboat and have enough money to live out the rest of my days comfortable and alone. That’ll be real living.” “You might fall off the boat and drown within a week of retiring.” Milton shrugged. “Or have a heart attack.” Milton shrugged. The girl mimicked his shrug. “It happens more often than you think. I’m retired now because I figured, why wait for that to happen to me? I figured I’d just skip the boring parts of life. Nobody stopped me.” Milton narrowed his eyes. She was twisting and untwisting a taffy wrapper in her hand, smiling at it like it was the most amusing thing in the world. How crafty she was to find loopholes in the absurd. He hid a smile. Beyond the boardwalk, the sky was awash with sunset. The big fat tangerine had overripened and hung low in the sky. “You know,” the girl said, “everybody says not to swim at night because it’s harder to spot riptides. I don’t think it’s that hard to find them though. The moon is usually bright enough.” --- The next morning a taffy wrapper washed up on shore. Lance Colet is a hobbyist writer from Virginia. He has previously been published in A Thin Slice of Anxiety and a handful of Penn State publications.

I (23F) am looking for a ghost (M/F/NB, 21-99 at time of death, dead for <50 years) to haunt a 3-bedroom 3rd-floor apartment in Flatbush. Haunting would be mostly low-key (scaring rats away, creaking noises to accompany scary movies, enhancement of whooshing sounds during rainstorms) with the occasional outburst of moderate activity (disruption of electronic devices, displacement of items, etc.) during visits from certain people. Discretion will be required as the apartment is technically shared. What I can offer you: -A crawlspace under the floorboards that spans the entire living room and which, barring any potential repairs, you will have to yourself at all times; -Full use of my bedroom when I am not home and my biggest closet when I am; -Freedom to roam the apartment as desired when both my roommates and I are asleep and/or away; -A guarantee that the apartment contains NO RELIGIOUS ITEMS of ANY KIND (if you find any left by previous tenants, I will personally remove them). If interested, call the disconnected landline, 917-4875807. If anyone other than Jess answers, hang up and try again at a later time. Luc Diamant is a perpetual student from Amsterdam, where he lives with his partner and their imaginary pets. He has writing out or forthcoming in The Deeps, Canthius, and Oh Reader, among others. When not writing, he enjoys spending time with the aforementioned partner, watching the plants on his balcony grow, and thinking about lemurs. You can find him on Instagram and Twitter @lucdaniel94.

On a placid, still night, we see Brooke awaken to the chime of the security camera, and we feel it pluck a chord in her, like a seventh note, F minor, flush and boozy, and we see her move to silence it. She’s only a little concerned about waking Jackson, his sleep like a prelude to death. It always amazes her how he can shut it down and let it all go like an exhausted toddler. Still, she doesn’t want to take a chance he’ll wake. She’s come to live for these moments, and there’s only a whisper in her head asking her what she thinks she’s doing. We know it’s Thursday, 12:45 a.m. on the dot. How prompt cheaters are, Brooke had thought to herself when this all started. Yet as the weeks wore on, she came to realize that synchronicity was critical to their enterprise, all of them. There was a golden hour, she supposed, when Colin’s wife and kids were in a state somewhat like Jackson’s, such an oblivion that Colin could somehow slip away when no one would notice. Maybe leaving the garage door open so he could back his Tesla out quietly and trust, or risk, that on Thursday, his tools, the lawnmower, the kids bikes and beach chairs, even his own treasured longboard, would be safe to allow for his get-away. Lilly, too, must have determined the precise deep of night when she could ease out of bed, slip into her coral tennies, silence her own camera, and head out without waking poor oblivious Will and the boys. We watch Brooke throw on her robe and slippers and make her way to the room at the front of her house that sits on a hill with its picture window and sweeping view of practically the whole neighborhood. We see how the pale hue of the street lamp lights the sidewalk and the asphalt, lights all the way to the barricade where the road ends in front of the widow Betty's house next door. Where there is no reason for anyone to be there at 12:45 in the morning. And that was how it began. That first night when the chimes went off at a time when Betty and her fluffball Scooter were, of course, in for the night, and Brooke saw on her app the video of the black Tesla pulling up to the barricade. Then, instead of turning around as most cars did, the car stopped and the headlights darkened. Heart pumping, Brooke left her bed and went to the window. The darkened car was still at the barricade, and, in the direction of the car, someone was running. God, maybe this person’s in trouble, maybe Brooke should wake Jackson, call someone, she thought, that first night. There was that button on the app that would bring the police. But something kept her from hitting it. Brooke watched the figure reach the focused beam of the streetlight and gasped. Lilly? Lilly. Lilly in her lavender robe and coral tennies. Lilly breathless as she arrived at the Tesla and opened the door to the back seat. And in a display of seamless sameness that would become a reliable tender for them all, the driver’s door opened at that exact moment and a man stepped out. I know him, Brook thought. Colin opened the driver’s side back door and climbed in. The car dark, Brooke fell back in her chair near the window, the fact of Lilly and Colin sinking in. Colin, whose son played JV baseball with her Drew. Lilly who’d lived five doors down for ten years, and who every Friday morning met her under that same street light to begin their walk. Lilly who never gave a hint that things were off with Will. Sitting there she thought she should go to bed. But she kept looking at the darkened car, picturing Lilly and Colin making out, slow and improvisational, like that was the point. But it wasn’t, we all knew, and Brooke now imagines them urgent, desperate even, hands groping, legs akimbo. And Brooke, well Brooke was melting, runny and warm to the touch. She remembered one day talking about sex with Lilly, telling her how she should be having more, how Jackson clearly wanted more. The guy deserved it. He was so good, kind, and still so attractive. Yet, many nights all Brooke desired was to be left alone, without one person wanting or needing a thing from her. Lilly said jokingly, “Come on, Brooke, it’s only five minutes out of your life.” They both laughed hard and loud. Brooke looked at her phone and noticed that more than 30 minutes had passed and the car was still dark. The Friday morning after that first night Lilly was outside waiting for Brooke under the street lamp at 8:30 on the dot. Brooke never mentioned what she saw and Lilly was Lilly as always, and they’ve continued that way, same as ever. Yet on Friday nights, Brooke is no longer Brooke. At ll:30 p.m. we see her hand as it slides over the rise of Jackson’s chest, and we see Jackson grab her, letting out a sleepy satisfied moan, as he pulls her toward him. Now we see Brooke drawn every week to these early hours of Thursday and the dead end of her street. This night we see Lilly exit the car as Brooke watches. As Lilly strolls home, hips swaying, arms swinging in the furl of her robe, we see her stop under the streetlight and look into Brooke’s window. She can’t see me, Brooke thinks. Yet we see Lilly standing there as if she’s waiting for Brooke, just like on Friday mornings, and we all know she does. Gina Harlow is a writer and a whole lot of other things living in Southern California. She loves good pizza, tall tales, and Friday nights. You can find her musings at www.ginaharlowwrites.com, on Twitter @ginasays2, and on Instagram @ginaharlowwrites

when anger elbowed in followed by fear through the door I failed to secure and the shame of another thing I’ve left undone So sleep was elusive with all that banging around every thought a potential victim for the chopping block of my brain the faucets wouldn’t stop running so any dreams were flooded Saturday’s exhaustion inevitable no match for mounting tension the darkness around here could be bruises or shadows I can’t tell anymore The gables have butterflied and the arches inverted windows broken like promises, the last of the bracing collapses and I’m broken I can’t remember who I was when I saw a picture of a house falling in on itself I didn’t know it would be a premonition that by Sunday I would be fallen in on myself Beth Mulcahy is a poet and writer whose work has appeared in various journals. She writes to bridge the gaps between history and the self, between hurt and healing. Beth lives in Ohio with her husband and two children. She works for a company that provides technology to people without natural speech. Beth’s debut Chapbook with Anxiety Press, Firmer Ground, is now available. Learn more about Firmer Ground and check out her latest publications on her website: https://www.bethmulcahywriter.com.

Meet (insert name here) the latest sensation in the world of transgressive fiction. With his shocking, provocative, and downright offensive writing, (insert name here) has taken the literary world by storm. But don't let his bad boy image fool you: deep down, (insert name here) is just a misunderstood artist with a passion for pushing the envelope. (Insert name here) rise to fame began with his debut novel, "Killing Kittens." The book tells the story of a serial killer who preys on young women, brutally murdering them and leaving their mutilated bodies in alleyways. The book caused quite a stir in the literary world, with some critics calling it a masterpiece of transgressive fiction, and others calling it a disgusting, misogynistic piece of trash. But (insert name here) didn't care. He was just happy to be causing a stink. His next book, "Tortured Souls," was an even bigger hit. It's a collection of short stories that explored the dark, twisted world of BDSM and fetishism. The book was banned in several countries and sparked outrage among feminist groups, but (insert name here) just laughed it off. He was making a name for himself as the enfant terrible of the literary world, and he loved every minute of it. But (insert name here) greatest achievement came with his third book, "The Pedophile's Lament." The novel follows the story of a man who falls in love with a young girl, and their twisted relationship as he struggles with his own desires and the societal pressure to conform. The book caused an uproar, with many calling for its immediate removal from bookstores. But (insert name here) didn't back down. He defended his work as a brave exploration of taboo subjects and continued to shock and offend with his writing. Yet behind the controversy and the offensive subject matter, (insert name here) is just a man with a passion for writing. He may be an enfant terrible, but he's also a master of his craft, and his words will continue to shock and outrage for years to come. There's just one problem: (insert name here) is a complete fraud. First, there's his writing. It's violent, disturbing, and highly offensive, with graphic scenes of rape, torture, and murder. He claims to be pushing the boundaries of literature, but in reality, he's just recycling the same tired, cliched tropes that have been done to death. Then, there's his persona. He's cultivated a reputation as a rebellious outsider, a fierce critic of the establishment. But behind the facade, he's just a bored, middle-aged man with a day job and a lot of free time. He talks a big game, but he's never actually experienced the things he writes about. And finally, there's his popularity. He's gained a massive following, with fans hanging on his every word. But it's all based on lies and manipulation. He's used fake online accounts to boost his sales and trash the competition. He's even been caught plagiarizing from other writers. In short, (insert name here) is a grifter, a hack, and a liar. He's riding the wave of transgressive fiction, but he's just another cog in the machine, pumping out second-rate, offensive drivel. So, the next time you see his name on a book, just remember: he’s not worth your time or your money. Cody Sexton is the Managing Editor for A Thin Slice of Anxiety and founder of Anxiety Press.

her face soft as fingers creeping on wood there is the look of something you never know in the clean flow of saliva where telemarketers trip on my name like a banana peel and i’m sick at brown midnight from mutations squeaking like piranhas, but still i answer the phone. and then my feet swivel and splash in the blue dirty under streams, and from interruptions in the crisp pastry of the sun religions spill down slopes like newly hatched weather. but, for clarity, i don’t need full comparisons of brain and spirit; brute and saint; abbreviations will do. and war carries on. and though i have an october face, uncarved and unpainted, you will know me by my tilt in the field. you will know me as the first lick of alzheimer’s nudges you like a circling fly. and then on sundays, when so many gods are sleeping, she pulls three children along a dusty road with tears falling to match the setting sun and says she has beautiful butterflies for sale. and i remember one more time, the cops saying it simply got out of hand; it had nothing to do with who they were and what they weren’t. and then there’s the peace and omnipotence of the dentist manipulating the only orifice that can kill us all. and i still answer the phone. celestial syncopation a beveled head, clam-shaped and archaic; sungassed and melodramatic is the conscience of a primitive frown. and i’m bent on feeding the squalor puffed in shallow streams where dna was once a hodgepodge that lacked the gravity to spin a simple song. one planet is never enough for fingering calculus or stripping varnish from a mass grave. i’ll bring coffee and sea urchins unable to swim. i’ll remember to tell the calendar of simple ores not found in dirt. and i’ll slip on a slurry of shoreline nodding at the ocean to stay away. Livio Farallo is co-editor of Slipstream and Professor of Biology at Niagara County Community College in Sanborn, New York. His stuff has appeared or, is forthcoming, in The Cordite Review, Triggerfish, North Dakota Quarterly, Straylight, Beatnik Cowboy, Panoplyzine, J Journal, and elsewhere. His collection "Dead Calls and Walk-Ins" follows his job as a taxi driver some centuries ago.

The washing machine made noises as it spun its cycles. This added life to the quiet house. Any guitarist with a soft shell case does not tour much. The luggage carousels at airports eat guitars. Choi Seung-ja gave little room to sentiment; she was all business. The prom committee broke down over the color of ribbons. Rainbows, they decided, were not appropriate. David Harrison Horton is a Beijing-based writer, artist, editor and curator. He is author of Maze Poems (Arteidolia) and the chapbooks Pete Hoffman Days (Pinball) and BeiHai (Nanjing Poetry). He edits the poetry zine SAGINAW. davidharrisonhorton.com

“...like when you ask a dream to give you more light...” ~David Allen Sullivan Borges put us in time's labyrinths, spoke to us about the immortals and histories of infamy. Today, we should ask, what have we become, what have we made of ourselves? We surrender our dreams, ask for more light in the darkness parading inside. I wake up some mornings, observing how dead I am and have been, chasing all evidence of untamed ceaselessness. Infinity. It's built on light. You only know it's there when your soul blocks its path, throws a shadow. But is it yours? Out there, do they see us as cephalopods, as curious suspicions fighting good with folly and plunder? I am charged with belief, with admiration for some great character to come unseen, sparking between the lines of newspaper ink and ballets of truth swollen on TV on streaming media in full doses. Something may happen. I won't look to Congress for that. I dream of light, a safe country, we-ness working here. The animals are hushed listening to us. They are more interesting, so we bring them closer for common sense, love. We deconstruct the fragment, take ourselves so close to ruin's edge for a quick selfie, ask AI to explain it. The distortions of great writers made labyrinths for us. My quit reality's still searching for a way out. Twice Pushcart nominated, Ignatius Valentine Aloysius earned his MFA in Creative Writing from Northwestern University and is the author of the novel Fishhead. Republic of Want (Tortoise Books). His poetry and prose appear in or are forthcoming in Tofu Ink Arts Press, Trampset, Cold Mountain Review, and the Coalition for Digital Narratives. He is host of Sunday Salon Chicago and lives in Evanston, IL.

The Witch I’m trying to tell you that I love your aerobic dance class but jazzercise is isn’t cool anymore, right? It’s so bad for the knees with all of that high impact and jumping up and down. The body shaming aspect is terrible as well. I don’t know how you get past that on a political level. None of what you say to us seems body positive to me. I mean, why do you tell us to go for the burn? My kind is sensitive about the burning bit anyway. You would understand if I asked you not to tell us to go for the burn. At least offer a trigger warning before class begins. I notice that you tuck in your thumbs like a ballerina when you do the arm swings like you wish you were a real dancer. Your formal training shows in your turnout. I guess you never outgrow the ballerina’s duck walk. You never outgrow tucking in your thumbs and going for the long lean line between the middle finger and the shoulder, the hip to the knee, the ribcage down the stomach. My wrists are as thin as sticks. My hands are triangular as the heads of vipers. The waistband of my leggings is a bridge across my hipbones. They stick out like handles. Can you see my pretty bones? I am always hungry. I can tell you had dinner last night. Is it weird if I say I want your body? You have the expensive leggings that are powerful fat compressors. Where does your fat go when you squish it so? Would the fat pop out of your neck like a balloon animal body part if I squeezed? How your head would explode if I squeezed your neck. How pretty would be your bones. # The Teacher The class started out fine. She played “Jump” by the Pointer Sisters to get them started because she considered that song to be a real pick-me-up. Old school. She started doing a little jumping herself, on her toes, side to side. Elbows up. Her job was to show everyone that exercise was fun. Everything was possible with exercise. Anyone could have the body they wanted as long as they were willing to work for it. # The Lady Taking The Aerobic Dance Class On Her Lunch Break The women at the school where I teach sit around the lunch table in the break room and say terrible things about people. They took the Spanish teacher Ms. Mendez who was on yard duty in the cafeteria and shredded her between them with their filthy claws, talking about her gray roots, her too easy laugh, her shoes from Target. When the bell rang Ms. Mendez might as well lay bleeding on the table, her flesh torn from her bones. I vowed never to eat with those women again. I have a prep period after lunch so I thought I would get some exercise instead. I thought I could dance to the music and forget that in my absence two English teachers were ripping out my entrails and feasting on my blood. The dance teacher started playing a tune from the 80’s and I thought, oh this will be fun. And then my skin started burning as if someone turned on a heat lamp. As if someone in the room were on fire. # The Man At The Front Desk I couldn’t tell at first if it was just woo-hoos from ladies excited to take the class or actual screaming. I thought at first, woah those chicks are really into that old school jazzercise. I was thinking we should add a few more to the schedule, get enrollment up. Then I was like, I better call 911. # A Child Of One Of The Dance Class Student In The Gym Daycare Room My mom ran in all sweaty and crying just when I got my turn to play with the Barbie car. She grabbed me and ran with me out the door. She squeezed me too hard. She hurt my ribs. She smelled like smoke. She smelled like bacon. # The Police Report Officers responded to a report of a fire in the dance studio at In Shape Health Club on the 1900 Block of Broadway. Upon arrival the officers located the victim, an adult female, with life-threatening burns and a missing arm. The victim was transported to an area hospital and died at the scene. Several dance class members claimed to witness an adult female set the victim on fire. No incendiary materials were located. The suspect was not located and is considered at large. Officers conducted an investigation and generated a crime report. # The Woman Who Cleans The Bathrooms After Hours The witch jumped down from where she was hiding behind a panel in the ceiling. These old buildings and their hidey-holes, I swear to God. You’re not getting the best of me, I said. I know what you are already. You ruined the dance studio floor with your tricks. You killed a nice lady. But she didn’t care about anyone but herself. She checked her teeth in the mirror, picked out the meat. She wanted to know: Are you going to snitch on me? She smelled like a barbeque and that made me kind of hungry even though I knew where that stink came from. I never had enough at the end of the pay period to eat so I always had to go a couple of days every month on peanut butter and crackers. I am no rat, I said. She looked at me in the mirror where I stood behind her and she put her head to the side a little in a way that made me think of a viper. Snakes eat rats as well I know, but I said to her, I am not afraid of you. And she said, why not join me? Become one like me? And I thought about that offer for a good hot minute before I said, no way, mean lady. Now be on your way. Maureen O'Leary is a graduate of Ashland MFA.

It had been a month since Carol sent her friend Leona an email telling her about Brute, the dog Carol had recently rescued. She thought maybe they could go hiking together along with Peggy, Leona’s partner. Carol had never been included on their hikes and she’d always hoped to join them. Maybe Brute would be a draw. Leona and Peggy were lesbians, but Carol never for a moment thought that should make any difference. She could be dead wrong, but still, it didn’t make sense for Leona not to answer her. They’d been friends. And Carol missed Leona. Carol had heard about ghosting and wondered if that’s what had happened to her and Leona had simply disappeared. But why? What had Carol done? If there was something she should apologize for, she would. She had a hard time understanding anyone so afraid of confrontation they preferred to go silent. She spread out on the sofa and thought about the situation. Dan, her ex-husband, hadn’t died from his recent heart attack, but now he was in rehab so she still had his dog Big Black at her house. Dan had left her fifteen years ago for his secretary and Carol had no interest in doing him any favors, but she’d never say no to a dog. Meanwhile, their son across the country still hadn’t bothered to get off his ass and onto a flight to see his father. Or better yet, to take his dog off her hands. Brute was on the sofa with her and since there wasn’t enough room, Big Black rested his chin on the edge with a forlorn look in his eyes, then stretched out below like a furry farting rug. When she got to her office the next day with Brute and Big Black dragging her through the door, she told Troy about the Leona dilemma. Troy was Carol’s assistant and her friend. He was also gay, so maybe he had some gay wisdom to impart, although she knew it was dumb to think such a thing. “Fuck her,” he said. “She was never really your friend.” “But we’ve known each other for years, even before she found out she was a lesbian.” Troy rubbed all four dog ears and gave Carol one of his most withering looks. “She found out? You mean, like she got a notice in the mail: we are pleased to inform you, you’re queer?” “She said she’d been engaged to a man, but couldn’t go through with it. So maybe not everyone knows they’re gay at three years old?” “Forget her, doll. She’s part of a club you’re never getting into.” But Carol didn’t want to forget it. She wanted Leona to acknowledge her, she wanted resolution. So she sent her flowers and a picture of Brute. By four o’clock, Troy had finished the specs for the bridesmaid dresses Carol had designed, and after sending it to the cutting room, they decided to duck out early for a drink. They did this every couple of weeks. Carol, older than Troy, and hopelessly in love with him, relished these times. It was a warm evening and they found a table on the patio at El Coyote, a favorite. The two dogs rested nearby with a water bowl between them. Margaritas were served. “You think when Danny-boy gets out of rehab he’s going to be up to walking Big Black?” Troy asked. Carol hadn’t thought about it and pictured herself driving over to Dan’s house three times a day to walk his dog. “Might be I’ll have to keep Big Black a bit longer.” “Like maybe forever.” Troy scooped guacamole with a giant chip. “You poor dearie.” Carol checked her phone. Leona should have received the flowers by now. She scrolled through her few messages. She knew people complained about having too many emails, but it wasn’t one of Carol’s problems. And, there it was. Leona: “Thank you for the flowers, your dog looks nice. But I think we should stop bothering each other…” Carol read it out loud to Troy. “Stop bothering each other? What the fuck? I guess that means I’m bothering her. Because she wasn’t bothering me.” “She’s just a bitch, forget her.” “She’d never been a bitch before. Maybe she has a brain tumor. You think that’s possible, that she’s not in her right mind?” “Entirely.” Troy touched Carol’s elbow resting on the table and looked around for the waiter. “Let’s have another margarita.” Carol brightened. “And drink to bitches who’ve lost their minds.” They sat for a while, then took the dogs for a short walk. Troy gave her a hug and told her to keep her chin up. As always, he made her feel so much better. When she got home, she gave the dogs dinner and fixed herself a bowl of cold cereal. When the phone rang, her first thought was Leona, but it was Caleb, or Cal, as he preferred. Carol had gone on a date-and-a-half with Cal that included afternoon sex under the steady gaze of two dogs at his Venice apartment with a view of the ocean two blocks away. Some women would never have sex on the first date, but Carol wasn’t one of them. Life was short. And she wasn’t young. Why wait? She was also pleasantly surprised by how much she liked Cal. “How about dinner tomorrow?” he said. “No dogs. Seven o’clock, I’ll pick you up.” Third date, if she counted a walk they’d taken. Three dates was getting serious. She gladly accepted and they hung up. No cereal tomorrow night. At work the next day she didn’t complain to Troy about Leona. Whining was unattractive, and now she was looking forward to seeing Cal. She decided she would make an effort and dress up a bit. When she got home, she took the dogs for a long walk, changed into a simple gray wool dress with high black boots, and put on mascara and red lipstick. Her dark hair shined. She thought she looked pretty okay. When the doorbell rang at 6:50, she didn’t bother to ask who it was. She liked people who were on time, even early, and opened the door wide with a welcoming smile. Leona stood on the porch beside Peggy holding a frosted cake the size of Pittsburgh perched on top of an ornate silver cake platter. “Oh!” “I know,” Leona said. “I was wrong. I apologize for disappearing on you.” “I had a talk with her,” Peggy said. “Can we come in? This cake weighs a ton.” “Peggy bakes wonderful cakes,” Leona said. “Yes, of course.” Carol looked around outside, then stepped back and let them in. “Your place is adorable,” Leona said. “I don’t remember the last time I was here.” “Never,” Carol said. “You were never here.” They all stood awkwardly in the middle of the room until Peggy walked over and put the cake on the dining room table. “I only moved here six months ago.” “Oh, right, I forgot. Well, it’s charming. I love the colors.” Leona had a way of paying a compliment that was utterly convincing. A quality Carol admired and made her wonder if we choose our friends in part because of how they make us feel about ourselves. She believed we did. Brute licked Leona’s hand. Carol was concerned she might be annoyed, but Leona kneeled down and scratched Brute’s big ears and told him he was a good dog and his tongue hung out pink and moist in appreciation. Big Black, seemingly unsure of his position in the house, stood back waiting his turn. “I didn’t know you had two dogs,” Leona said. “It’s a long story,” Carol said. She tried acting cool though she felt awkward with Cal due anytime. The doorbell rang again. Carol turned. “Please, have a seat. Hopefully the dogs won’t crawl all over you.” She opened the door. Cal stood in the porchlight looking like a shiny penny, as her mother would say. All spiffed out with a fresh haircut, clean shaven, and wearing a leather bomber jacket over a blue shirt. He handed her a small bunch of daisies mixed with eucalyptus. The scent was like the park where they’d walked in the wind. “Hey.” Carol opened the door wider and Cal entered the room. He looked from her to the two neatly dressed women seated on the edge of the narrow green sofa with two large dogs sprawled across their laps, eight dog legs dangling among four human legs. “Cal, this is Leona and Peggy. They just stopped by.” “With a cake,” Peggy said. “Yes, with a big cake,” Carol said. Cal took a step closer. “That’s a whole lotta dog on top of you ladies. Happy to shake hands, but I’m afraid you might lose your balance.” Brute’s wagging tail slapped Peggy’s thigh. “Wait, it looks like you and Cal here have plans,” Leona said, shifting her weight under the dogs. “We’ll be on our way, you weren’t expecting us.…” “No, don’t leave.” Carol put her hands out as if she was going to physically keep them from getting up. As if the dogs weren’t already restraining them. She wondered if somehow Cal could possibly just leave, come back another time, but was that what she wanted? He looked really good to her at the moment. Cal, cracker-jack private investigator that he was, got it. “No, of course, you shouldn’t leave. Plans are made to be changed, right? Anybody hungry? How about some dinner? Happy to have something delivered or would you all like to go out?” “Pizza!” Carol said and whipped out her phone. “And, I’ll make a salad, I’m good at salad.” “I’ll order,” Cal said. “It’s on me, I insist.” Meanwhile, Leona and Peggy tried to extricate themselves from under the dogs who were having none of it, instead rolling their big heads back in pure doggy contentment. “We’re going, really. You two carry on.” Leona attempted to move the dogs and stand up, but failing, she started to laugh as Peggy tried the same maneuver that ended in another round of laughter. Finally, Cal and Carol each took a dog and slowly shoved them to the carpet, the sofa cushions moving along with them and Leona and Peggy ending up on the floor with the dogs licking tears of laughter from their faces. Leona caught her breath, then started laughing harder. “We’re going to need some wine,” Peggy said, crawling onto all fours in order to right herself. “Fortunately, I have two good bottles of red in the car.” “You do?” Leona asked. “I didn’t know that.” “Ah, little known fact about yours truly,” Peggy said. “Some people carry flares or extra water. We all have a different idea of what constitutes an emergency.” Carol was on the floor scratching both dogs to keep them calm as Cal phoned in the order and suddenly it was a party. “Stay where you are, Carol,” Peggy said. “I’ll make the salad.” “But you made the cake.” “Don’t try to argue with Peg about anything having to do with food,” Leona said. “You’ll never win.” Peggy, already in the kitchen, stuck her head out. “And, you don’t have to tell me where anything is. I have a sixth sense.” Cabinets were opened and slammed shut, bowls and silverware rattled on the countertop. “She’s good, but noisy,” Leona said. “The food will be here in twenty minutes,” Cal said, “Got some lasagna, too. You never know.” He relaxed into Carol’s old leather chair like he belonged there and the dogs turned their attention to him, freeing Leona and Carol to brush dog hair from their clothes and wash their hands. “I have dog slime on my face,” Leona said. “La crème de puppi, the new anti-aging sensation,” Carol said. “It’s all the rage.” Leona stopped to look at her. “I really missed you.” Carol nodded. They were back.

True or False: Because of the Time You Spend Caring for Your Mother, You Don’t Have Time for Yourself The time you planned to meet your one friend who still lives in town for one drink and your mother’s tears trickled down her face like snowmelt. The time you didn’t take a shower because the sound of running water made her think of drowning. The time you bought fresh greens and sauteéd them to garlicky unctuousness and because they were not Stouffer’s chipped beef, she knocked over the dinner tray and swiss chard transformed the carpet into a Jackson Pollock. The time you went for a bike ride and as you coasted under maples oozing with sap, shifted gears under the fee bee call of chickadees, you didn’t feel guilty and the time right after that when guilt held its sharpened blade against your neck. The time the home health aide quit because he didn’t do crazy. The time she had a nightmare that you tied her up with ropes and threw her into the sea. The time the new meds made her vomit in the footwell of your car. The time you looked at her and saw her as the mother she was, joy and summer, handing you a popsicle made of frozen strawberries and orange juice, telling your friends to call her Susan, thus bestowing a respect on them that teachers, priests, store clerks, didn’t. The time you looked at her and knew she was seeing you as the little girl you were, knock-kneed and sure, talking to yourself while bouncing a ball against the garage door, the same garage door that is now opened at a broken angle so that the house and its defects smirk at anyone masochistic enough to visit. The time you told her you were driving out to Whiteface for the panoramic view and she heard you say that you were thinking of jumping from it, letting the wind tangle in your hair, letting gravity and granite dissolve you like an easy-to-swallow gelcap, and she heaved herself up from her chair and said she’d tag along if you wouldn’t mind the company, said she’d like to be reminded that there are such things as mountains, beyond the rose-papered walls of the house, beyond the way time, like shale sliding from bedrock, has diminished her, and the way time will continue on as if she never was. Joanna Theiss (she/her) is a writer living in Washington, DC. Her short stories and flash fiction have appeared in publications such as Aquifer: The Florida Review Online, Bending Genres, Anti-Heroin Chic, Fictive Dream, and Best Microfiction 2022. In a previous life, Joanna worked as a lawyer, practicing criminal defense and international trade law. Links to her work are available at www.joannatheiss.com