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Confirmation Bias CW: Infertility Every fucker’s pregnant. Every single one. You follow a parade of swollen bellies, sashaying from side to side. Mothers-to-be click-clacking along, glowing stars of their own sell-out musicals. My Fair Baby, Jersey Babies, The Sound of Baby. All teeth and jazz hands, the costumes, Bretton stripes. You know some have got one already, screaming in the pram. Doesn’t matter to them. Their ovens are still stoked, cooking up a bun. Fucking three-tiered cake is what it fucking looks like. It’s not their fault, you do know that. But you absolutely hate them. Every single one. Your friend is pregnant. Your colleague is pregnant. And your dentist too. Your sister. Your cousin. That stray cat. Good for her. Whoop-de-fucking-doo. Gym instructor. Bus driver. Bobbies on the beat. What a bunch of fuckers. Every. Single. One. You found a gynaecologist; hoped she could tell you why. Why you’re the only one. The only one who’s rootless, labouring fallow land. Very sorry. Unexplained. Didn’t take. Fat lot of use she turned out to be. You long for an escape. A break from this tiresome fucking thing. An antithesis of maternity. Something adventurous, something ill-advised if only you were a fucker too. Skydiving, abseiling, wing walking all at once while juggling fire, swallowing knives, and drinking yards of ale. Maybe just the yard of ale. A pub. You know the one. Where the carpets looked old 20 years ago and five o’clock shadows cast dark and wide. Where the closest thing to fecundity is infrequent jets of Cif squirted down into the toilets. This pub is what you need. The barmaid grins like the Cheshire Cat, pleased with herself, like she’s the greedy Mr Man. She sends nuts and crisps skittering across the floor with her gargantuan bump. ‘It keeps getting in the way.’ She laughs a fruitful, fertile laugh. Pot-bellied pig. Pregnant twat. You sip your drink. Suppose at least you can – a threadbare silver lining, a bright side dim as dusk. Wonder how many more it will take to douse the scorching hate. The door bursts open, a flood of tulle and satin crowns into the room. The glee repulsive, triumph nauseating. A baby shower. Fucking marvellous. A clucking brood of women surround a bulbous hen. It’s the bastard gynaecologist. Up the fucking duff. Because every fucker’s pregnant. Every. Single. One. The Whale Rider CW: Loss of a child They refused to listen to me when I said there was a right whale in the road, slowing down the traffic. Crashing its great body through the puddles and sending waves over the kerb to swallow the feet of everyone who was stopping to stare at it. They just told me not to be silly. Mum. And Dad. With their faces like pebbles. Told me to be quiet, but then carried on with their conversation. Whispered but sharp. Their mouths full of esses, like the tide creeping closer. Steve, please. I don’t think I can do this. We don’t have a choice. Jesus Christ, his whole class is here. But it definitely was a right whale. I know because they’re really slow swimmers. I remember all about them from the last time Joel read to me. Joel knows everything about the sea, and he has this heavy hardback book he reads to me at night, when Mum and Dad have given us our last warning to get to sleep, flicking off the bedroom light as they leave the room. First, we lie quietly but as soon as the lounge door clicks shut downstairs, Joel’s torch flashes like a lighthouse, and he pokes his head over the top bunk and tells me about what his favourite fish was that day. And the last time he read to me it was all about the right whale. The first time he read to me I didn’t believe him that seawater was salty. Then we all went to Scarborough on holiday, and I scooped up the foamy white wave in my hand and swallowed a mouthful to see if he was lying. He wasn’t. And if water can be salty then why couldn’t a right whale turn up in the middle of the road and slow down all the traffic? The whale stopped then. We stopped too. Close enough to hear its sad cry. I told Mum again, that there was a whale in the road, but she wouldn’t even look at it. Its skin is shiny, wet, and black as coal. Or as dad’s suit and tie. Its upside-down smile is full of baleen, flashing as it hunts for more food to swallow in giant gulps. Behind its head, a smooth rounded back with no fin sticking up. That’s how I know it’s a right whale instead of anything else like a killer. Their back fins grow tall like yacht sails. Right whales don’t need those fins because. Actually, Joel never mentioned why. I turn to his seat, to ask him but it’s emptyempty. Mum unclips me, hauls me up into her arms, even though she normally says I’m too big to carry. Her eyes are full of the whale now, and of Joel tucked up in a wooden box, deep in its belly. I taste the sea as I kiss her cheek and tell her not to be sad, Joel would be so happy he got to ride a whale. Martha Lane is a writer by the sea. She writes extensively about grief, love, and all things unrequited. Many of her stories can be read online at marthalane.co.uk. Her novella, Lies Over the Ocean is available to buy on Amazon. Tweets @poor_and_clean

I dream of your house often. Musky, earthy mold tickles my nostrils as I climb the stairs from the garage; gradient gray speckles on the pale blue wall like a black and white butterfly emerging from a cocoon of damp. Each step creaks under my slippered feet, a plaintive rhythm beating the cadence of my ascension back into childhood. Crack, crack, crack. The wobbly wooden railing scratches my palm; I hold it too tight for fear it might disappear. I reach the kitchen. The hours of days gone mingle as your long, flowery dressing gown floats from the cooker to the counters; a plate of croissants, piquant coffee grinding tintamarre, butter cuddling homegrown shallot, then a pork chop joining their embrace. The sizzling feast titillates my constricted throat. The living room door groans as I push it open. Beeswax greets me; warm, lustrous, slippery with whiffs of our evening chocolate treats. I find a hidden door in the pretend fireplace that obsessed me as a child. It takes me to the attic. The forbidden kingdom. You never slept on the top floor, so you didn’t know. Sleep evaded me that night. The open window let in traces of freshly cut grass mingled with an ethereal mist of soil, mushrooms, leaves. It was those empty dark hours when all is quiet, allowing one’s own thoughts and melody to be heard. The mattress on the bed was too soft. What had always been a comfort in childhood swallowed me whole that night. The quilt and all those extra layers you insisted on adding to fight the chill of darkness pricked my skin like tiny beaks taking nibs at my limbs. I kicked them off; the bed now an empty nest of torment, a witness to my spiraling grief of memories lost. When the pacing in the attic began, I held my breath, ears prickling. My body grew still. The rhythm soon soothed me like a sweet lullaby pulsing alongside my sorrow. Chocolaty. A melancholic smile uplifted the corners of my trembling lips. I knew it was him. I dream of your house often, and I wonder. Now that its flavor lives in the past—a tasteless store in its place—do you haunt the place together? Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos is a Breton writer, teacher, mother, nature and music lover, foodie, dreamer. She loves butter, needs coffee, hates easy opening packaging, and likes to create stories in her head. She lives in Athens, Greece.

In a perfect world, I can hand in my resignation letter and call it quits. In this world, I squeeze my breasts for milk before collapsing from fatigue the way some clients return overseas because they could no longer afford to live in Flushing. I have no home but here, and best vibes only cannot help me much when they want to hang me upon the stilts for show. I feel cynicism in the photos of mansions you are so eager to show me, flipping through your phone. O mi amor, I want to say, kissing your ears, don’t be naive, your home is right here, the way I want to lie down, dampening my ankles with wet sand. At night, when I can no longer believe in that toxic positivity when I’ve poured all my heart in and look where it’s gotten me, I wonder if I wear the mask and smile in this redemption arc, will I truly be saved, and if so, whether I won’t become a shell imprint of my former self, and be unable to love? Tiffany Troy is a Critic, Translator, and Poet

CW: Suicide I don’t mean the ranch, with Little Joe and Hoss, and their calico-caricature women —pointy breasts, big hair— No, this was a cafeteria Dead cows strung up in the walk-in it wasn’t like the meat counter at Publix I herded customers through the line with a fake smile under my cowboy hat Side salad, ma’am? Right here While Alan bussed tables Hey, listen to this! He’d raise a stack of trays like a set of chocolate wings and release them perfectly, drumming the song: In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida With the kit from my fringed suede purse I sewed a button on his shirt The night our manager’s hand brushed my ass and I stomped his foot—that was instinct, and striped Adidas fury— Alan said, Right on, Mad In the end, I was no more his friend than our hats were real straw All he said was they broke up; his girlfriend hated him But she’d made a wish he was dead, and he granted it Fifty trays beating a dirge now hoofbeats clattering down a canyon of grief Would you like sour cream, sir, on that baked potato? In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida Madeleine French lives in Florida and Virginia with her husband. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Dust Poetry Magazine, West Trade Review, The Madrigal, Hole in the Head Review, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Door Is A Jar, The Westchester Review, and elsewhere. You may find her on Twitter, @maddiethinks

a crumbled yellowed note maybe love — a written sentence faraway stare no epitaph on a tiny tombstone death note — stepping on slippery ground i want to see you she touched me i feel my heart passing through her then vapourises in thin air she & I on a journey my thoughts roam about on empty field frame after frame of endless dandelions after the heated confrontation cold thought her lips frozen events passes by Christina Chin is a painter and haiku poet from Malaysia. She is a four-time recipient of top 100 in the mDAC Summit Contests, exhibited at the Palo Alto Art Center, California. She is 1st prize winner of the 34th Annual Cherry Blossom Sakura Festival 2020 Haiku Contest and 1st prize winner in the 8th Setouchi Matsuyama 2019 Photohaiku Contest. She has been published in numerous journals, multilingual journals, and anthologies, including Japan's prestigious monthly Haikukai Magazine. Uchechukwu Onyedikamis a Nigerian creative artist based in Lagos, Nigeria. His poems have appeared in Amsterdam Quarterly, Brittle Paper, Poetic Africa, Hood Communists and in print anthologies. Christina Chin and he have co-published Pouring Light on the Hills (2022).

cicadas seventeen years ago beneath the bridge i drift along our names still scrawled below still the cicadas sing their song babe in the woods dead plants by the door handshake just a touch too strong dull knives in the drawer pray my intuition’s wrong J. R. Wilkerson is a resident of Northern Virginia with roots in the Missouri Ozarks. He has an amazing wife, a bonny girl, and a handsome boy.

That first time we screwed around with the possibility of insemination looming, I couldn’t focus. I kept thinking about the state of our country, the planet, of catastrophic events—both manmade and natural—and how cruel it would be to bring another person into this world. I tried to push these thoughts out of my mind while I cupped one of Kristen’s breasts, licked the shallow valley speckled with freckles between them, and worked on her with my fingers. But after she placed her hands on my ass and banged our hips together, she noticed the problem. “Is it my breath?” she said. I had a whole list prepared. I started with those right-wing, gun-nut assholes. The “don’t-tread-on-me, all-lives-matter, Let’s go Brandon” dipshits who, if they had the ability to fuck an AR-15, would fuck an AR-15. Then there was Deepwater Horizon, Fukushima, Chernobyl, the Trump presidency, which was another nuclear meltdown in and of itself, Chicxalub, and climate change. I said, “I don’t want our kid coming home from college to 125-degree summers.” Kristen laughed and playfully slapped my face with her long, delicate fingers, then reached down to begin again. “You should try focusing on the here and now,” she said. “I haven’t even gotten to viruses, diseases—fucking bacteria.” “You need to stop doom-scrolling.” “I’m addicted.” “To being an idiot.” She brought up her hand and spit into her palm. She reached down and grabbed again. I flinched. It was surprisingly cold. “You inundate yourself with all the terrible stuff. It’s no wonder you think everything’s fucked,” she said. “It gets better. It always does.” I wished I could share in her optimism. We read the same news. And maybe I read too much of it, sure; it’s just that I had a hard time pretending things weren’t bad. I’d tried in my mind to live in a mental bomb shelter with fake windows depicting rolling hills covered in apple trees, deer grazing, children spinning on a tire swing, but somewhere in the back of it, I knew the truth—that the real landscape was on fire. Just last month there was a shooting at East High, not three miles from our house. Seventeen minutes south, the Derby school board banned a novel by Sherman Alexie. Plenty of Kansas politicians cried socialism because they didn’t understand or hated something or someone, and had support from all these morons with room-temperature IQs sporting MAGA hats. Whenever I read about stuff like that, I couldn’t help but bring it up. And it never took long for doom and gloom to consume me. I’d get emotional, go worst-case, and dominate the conversation. I expressed how I was at my wit’s end with these people. Weeks ago, I’d fallen into a deep, Wikipedia rabbit hole on medieval torture devices and wanted to bring every one back for them. And Kristen listened to my barbaric suggestions earnestly, as if I wasn’t unhinged. Her tolerant, impartial lips glistening from saliva out of the habit of licking them when she concentrated. She offered nods, added “hmms” the few times I came up with rational, more humane solutions. When I finished, usually I was left more emotionally exhausted, depressed, and miserable than angry. “I’m just saying,” I said, “nearly seventy-five percent of all life on Earth went extinct after the Chicxulub impact.” “That’s the example you’re going with?” We both laughed. “Why not?” “Because it happened during the Mesozoic period,” she said. “I’m impressed.” “You’ve literally brought it up a thousand times,” she said. “I get it. You’re upset you’ll never get to pet a triceratops.” “That would have been pretty awesome.” Kristen’s eyes bobbed down to our waists. By then I was hard. “Look who’s awake,” she said, removing her hand. “Not so worried about big, bad meteorites now, are you?” *** An IUD had been out of the question. Besides, we’d loosely talked about having kids in the future, and Kristen didn’t want to go through the hassle of getting one put in, only to have it removed years before it expired. Unofficially, we’d been trying to get pregnant after she quit birth control. She was tired of it fucking with her mood. There had been days when her breasts were so tender wearing a bra was agonizing. She got headaches that bordered on migraines, then turned into migraines. She became anxious, which led to bouts of depression that sometimes lasted days, and during these spells, she’d seldom leave the bedroom and cry so hard I kept spoons for her swollen eyes below a box of fish sticks in the freezer. Even though Kristen no longer took the pill, I sometimes broke the habit of pulling out. When I didn’t, there were no theatrics. She didn’t stick her ass into the air or refuse to move, lying prone for twenty minutes so she wouldn’t disturb the swimming lane. We’d clean up and go about our business. We shared, I believed, the same feeling: If it happened, it happened. If not? It didn’t. We had a good life. We weren’t rich, weren’t poor, but straddled the middle, comfortably. We owned a small bungalow that needed some work. Between us, we had $37,000 in savings; worked careers we loved. Our circle of friends was small, but close. We had decent relationships with our parents, found the humor in memes and bad television. We were young, healthy, and good-looking, which beat the alternative. At worst, which wasn’t bad, for the foreseeable future, things would continue on this same, steady course. Next thing I knew, we went the better part of a year without so much as a “scare,” or whatever people who weren’t afraid to get pregnant called those. I began to think I was sterile or she was infertile. I never brought it up. If we took tests and it was on my end, she might resent me; if the problem was her, she’d hate herself. Then one night in bed, Kristen paused from the book she was reading, saving the page with her thumb, looked over at me and said, “If you came into this relationship with a vasectomy already, you would’ve told me, right?” Trying to lighten the mood, I said, “This is the first time I’ve had health insurance since I was on my parents’ plan.” Which, at thirty, was true. I worked remotely for a decent-size literary press in Oregon, thanks to a connection a friend from grad school hooked me up with. The salary was great, double what I’d previously made waiting tables and freelancing combined. But it was the benefits that wowed me: medical, dental, PTO, vision—the works. This also played a factor in our venture into unprotected sex. It had been four years since I was insured. Now if something happened, like a long bout with a mysterious illness, or if I careened my car into a telephone pole, a hospital bill wouldn’t send us into the poor house. This went for our offspring, too. “I know the whole prospect of becoming a father freaks you out,” Kristen said. “Which is perfectly normal,” I said. “It seems like something’s up, is all.” “I’m not snipped,” I assured her. I grabbed the book out of Kristen’s hand and dropped it onto the floor. She looked at me like she wanted to ask what I was doing, but she knew what I was doing. What we were going to do. When I took off my shirt, she took off hers. I slid out of my boxers, rolled onto my side to face her and while we kissed, pulled down her underwear. *** Kristen called one morning on FaceTime while I was in bed at the hotel. This was two months later, while I was in Seattle for a week-long conference. Her hair sat messily piled on top of her head, tied in a bun that looked like a ball of yarn starting to come undone. “I was going to wait to call,” she said, “but I thought you should know right away.” “Were you in an accident?” “What?” she said. “No.” “Everything’s all right?” “Why wouldn’t it be?” She smiled and brought something up, but dropped it. “Shit,” she said, and picked up whatever had clattered to the floor; blew on it, shook it, and held it too close to the screen. “Check this shit out.” It was small, thin, rectangular, and blurry. “That your toothbrush?” I said. She grunted and moved it back and forth. “Better?” “Sort of.” She moved the thing again. “How about now?” “Is that what I think it is?” I said. Two pink lines in a small oval toward the middle of a plastic stick. Kristen started to nod like crazy, her eyes welling. “We did it,” she said, and burst out crying—happy tears—because we had. I spent that afternoon in a daze stuck behind a booth covered in books the press released in the last couple of years, some as far back as a decade ago. I was there to promote the titles and authors with another editor, Samira, who was nice to my face, though I knew resented me because I was one of two people who got to work from home and she’d been with the company longer. I tried to bullshit with writing students, instructors, poets, professors, other editors, novelists, agents, book cover designers, screenwriters, and people who were there because they were interested in becoming one or more of these things. But I had a hard time thinking about anything but the pregnancy. Once, a young woman asked me three times how much a novel cost, and I stared blankly at her as if she spoke another language. After she left, Samira snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Earth to Ben,” she said. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” “What?” “Are you here?” “Sorry,” I said. “It’s just—I found out earlier that I’m going to be a dad.” Relief washed over me soon as I finished speaking. It hadn’t sounded so terrible when I said it out loud. That evening, after we packed up, Samira surprised me by offering to buy me a drink. “To celebrate.” And after I gave her a suspicious look, she said, “And if I’m going to be honest, I’m sick of these off-site events. This is as good excuse as any.” We found an empty Irish pub near our hotel. The place was dim, musty smelling, and when we sat in stools, the chair legs barked, summoning the attention of the bartender, who’d been staring at a small wall-mounted television. He looked like a retired biker gang leader, his white beard braided with a red rubber band, a leather vest covered in patches; large, shiny rings glimmering from each of his fingers. He turned around, looking annoyed, and asked what we wanted. I ordered a Guinness—because why not?—and he scoffed. Samira got herself a Sea Breeze. “Thanks for the drink,” I said. She held hers up. “Cheers,” she said, “to your future kiddo.” A news station played on the small television. A grave-looking newscaster stared straight at the camera, which felt like she stared straight at me. She was reporting on a suicide bombing in Sadr City. “An estimated fifty-three killed,” she was saying, but I stopped listening when Samira clinked her glass against mine. A few days after I got back from Seattle, I dreamed Kristen and I were in a huge minivan, a Honda Odyssey or something, the kind of car I never dreamed of owning. We were floating in the middle of the sea. It didn’t matter which. The world had become one big ocean. Volcanoes had erupted. Nukes were dropped. Mountain glaciers and polar ice caps melted away. We were the sole survivors charged by a cruel fate to repopulate what was left of the world. But things didn’t look good. Prehistoric fish breached the water nearby, brandishing teeth as large as tombstones. And it was hot in the van, our clothes stuck to our bodies like wallpaper. I tried the air, but, of course, the A/C didn’t work. Then, like all nightmares, things got worse. The van began sinking. Water bubbled up from the floorboards, poured out of the vents, and Kristen squatted on top of the seat, began screaming for me to do something. But I couldn’t do anything. I only watched the water as it rose past her ankles, then her knees. “Wake up,” Kristen said, and smacked my chest. “Something’s wrong.” I didn’t know what time it was. Early, I guessed. The room was dim. Except for soft gray light sliding through the blinds. I listened. I didn’t know what for: the smoke detector, someone trying to break into the cellar, gunfire, Kristen telling me what the something wrong was. Her teeth gritted and she lay on her back blinking at the ceiling. She had the sheets on her half of the bed pulled down, her shirt pulled up, clutched in a fist, which revealed her flat stomach, smooth and pale as bone. “What is it?” I said, hoping it wasn’t what I thought it might be, already hopping out of bed. I helped her to the bathroom, with a hand wrapped around her waist, the other gently holding her elbow. Kristen’s skin was cold, tight, and clammy. She walked like an octogenarian on the cusp of another impotent decade, with these small steps that scraped the floor. She slid her hand against the wall to brace herself. She winced when I flicked the light on, then asked me if I could please let go of her elbow. When I did, she said, “I’m sorry. I’m just not looking for an audience,” and padded in. In the split second before she closed the door, I caught sight of the blood. A gloopy trail that seeped from the crotch of her underwear and down the inside of her left thigh to her knee. Then the lock clicked. And for a while, I stared at the door. I wondered if I was supposed to camp outside in the hallway, make coffee, or maybe call an ambulance. I waited five minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes—forever minutes. Then I knocked. “Babe, are you all right?” I said, which seemed like the wrong thing to say. I felt ill-equipped to function in a world where I was expected to provide and care for other people. I placed my ear against the door. An ocean-like hum filled my head as if I’d held a seashell up to the side of it. “Just give me a sign or something,” I said, my hand primed on the knob. “Anything?” No answer. I didn’t hear the noises I came to expect either. A toilet flush, paper breaking from the roll, the faucet running, the medicine cabinet popping open, clacking shut, the maraca-like rattle of a pill bottle, or the hard, wet sobs that erupted from the depths of Kristen’s throat and collided against the back of her teeth whenever she was upset. There could be internal bleeding. Would I have heard if she’d passed out and banged her head against the tub? I rattled the knob. “I know you’re freaking out. I’m freaking out too.” I gently knocked. “Kris? Kris, please,” I said, as the shower sputtered on. I stripped the covers and started too large a load. After that, I didn’t know what else to do. I wound up at the kitchen table, the hairs on my neck tingling. I felt nervous and frightened because I wasn’t sure how bad things were or might get. I drank half a carton of chocolate almond milk and stuffed my face with sour cream and onion potato chips. I’d almost gone through the bag when the shower turned off. The washer, near the end of its spin cycle, rocked and thumped against the floor. The bathroom door opened and I got up so fast the chair toppled over. I found Kristen sitting at the foot of the barren mattress, her head and body wrapped in towels. She stared at her bouncing knees, phone to her ear, the other hand pressed against her stomach. I wanted to comfort her. Tell her everything was going to be all right, even though I didn’t know if that was true; take hold of her face, and feel her warm, soft skin in my hands. She spent a bunch of money on fancy lotions, exfoliating serums, retinol. She was 27 but feared in a few years she might look 40 from tanning so much in high school. Some nights, lying in bed, we wouldn’t kiss before we turned the lights off. “I have stuff on my face,” she’d say when I went in for one, the lamplight reflecting white, fuzzy discs on her cheeks, sheen from product, which made her seem doll-like and fragile. She looked fragile now—in a different, more alarming way. I wished we could trade places. In the next breath, I didn’t. I didn’t want her in mine. Standing there, tongue-tied and incapacitated by insecurity and incompetence, not knowing how to navigate this. I was afraid to say or do the wrong thing, to fuck up. Then I wished we could be other people. Or at the very least the people we were the night before. I cleared my throat. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. She looked up. Kristen’s eyelids were as puffy as innertubes, and what little I made out of her actual eyes looked glassy, teeming with thin red veins, exhausted, and miserable. I wondered if there might be a spoon I missed when I put the rest away after their usefulness disappeared with the absence of the pill. Forgotten somewhere in the depths of the freezer, mottled with frost, waiting for this moment. “Let’s get you to a doctor,” I said. I realized I could have better prepared myself before making this statement. I was shirtless, in baggy, gray sweatpants. It would be easy to misconstrue what I said as insincere. I didn’t look ready to do anything but go back to sleep. Kristen bunched her shoulders, shook her head, lifted the hand off her stomach to give me the hold-on-a-sec gesture. She tried to smile, but something closer to a pained grimace that barely lifted her ears, eyebrows, and nose stretched across her face. A moment later she said, “Mom?” in a gravelly, raw voice like she had strep or had blown out her vocal cords screaming, and my heart sank. “Yeah, I know. It’s earlier here if that makes you feel any better. Fine, yeah. It’s just that—could you let me finish?” She mouthed, Unbelievable. “What’s with what attitude? Listen, is Dad with you? No, the both of you, actually.” I made myself useful in the only way I could think of. I began to transfer the laundry, ignoring the conversation that rebooted in the bedroom on speakerphone. I knew where it was going. And I didn’t want to blame her for calling, but a small part of me did. I felt replaced, and jealous because of that. Conflicted because I hadn’t known what to do or say and she called her parents because they would know how to do both of those things. They could navigate tragedy. Steve, her father, had a short-lived affair with a middle-aged Giant Eagle cashier not long after Kristen and I started dating. He’d left a paper trail, got caught, tried to talk his way out of it, couldn’t, and her mother, Tricia, went ahead with divorce proceedings. But Steve atoned, cried, promised it was a stupid, one-off thing, and begged for a chance to make it up to her. And in the end, Tricia gave him one. “We’re looking at tickets now,” Steve’s voice boomed, deep and staticky as if they were communicating on old walkie-talkies. “Will you promise me one thing?” Tricia said. “Are you talking to me?” Kristen said. “Yes.” “Sure, Mom.” “That you’ll go see a doctor,” Tricia said. “Or we won’t book them. Right, Steve?” I tossed a pillowcase into the dryer. “You should listen to your mother,” he said. “I’m fine,” Kristen said. “You’re not fine,” Tricia snapped. “And that’s okay, sweetie.” Her voice softer this time. No one said anything for 10 or 15 seconds. “All right, Mom,” Kristen said. “I’ll make the appointment for tomorrow.” “How long should we come for? Two days?” Tricia said. “We don’t want to smother you.” “Let’s round it up to a week,” Steve said. “Why don’t you ask her?” “Four days should be fine,” Kristen said. “Are you sure?” Steve again. “I don’t want you two to worry about finding someone to catsit on such short notice,” Kristen said. I shut the dryer and cranked the dial to ninety minutes. “I’ll fill salad bowls with food,” Steve said, “and leave the toilet seats up in case they knock over their water dishes.” “What about litter boxes?” Kristen said. Steve went to add his two cents, but Tricia cut in. “Maybe they’ll finally learn how to bury their shit.” I pressed START and the sheets and things began to tumble. After all that almond milk I didn’t realize how badly I had to piss. The stream shot out of me with the force of a firehose. It struck the still, flat toilet water with a slap, splashing some onto the seat and my foot. I flushed and plucked a tissue from the box resting on the back of the toilet, wiped the seat, my foot, plucked out another, blew my nose, and twisted them together. I stepped on the lever to the small trash can next to the lip of the tub and its silver lid opened like a giant, toothless mouth. Resting on top of Q-tips, cotton balls, spirals of frayed dental floss and other junk was Kristen’s bloody underwear. At 8 o’clock the next morning, while Kristen and I were in bed, she negotiated brunch before her 11:30 appointment. Though her phone wasn’t on speaker, Steve was audible from the other end. He said brunch sounded good. “We could stand to eat,” he bellowed, then complained about the flights. A layover at O’Hare, which turned into a delay, that turned their connector into a red-eye. They landed in Wichita at 3 a.m., bleary-eyed, slogging and starving, having survived on Biscoff and diet ginger ale. “We’ll meet you at HomeGrown in forty-five minutes. It’s not far from your hotel.” She and Steve talked a little more, Kristen going “mmm-hmm,” more than saying anything. They hung up. She sighed and said, “I don’t think I’ll have much of an appetite.” She was pale and sluggishly got out of bed, then left the room. A bathroom drawer rattled open; slapped shut. Kristen came back clutching a pantyliner, shucked off her shirt and pajama bottoms and took a bra and pair of underwear out of the dresser drawer, slinging the bra around her shoulder before stepping into the underwear and applying the pantyliner before pulling them up. Last night, she laid towels out on her side of the bed, tossed and turned all night, wrapped and unwrapped herself in blankets. She let off a series of mumbles and whimpers during brief fits of sleep and got out of bed too many times to count. Each time I listened for a cry or moan while she was in the bathroom, but only heard the dull drone of the overhand fan buzzing like a downed powerline. Each time she crawled back in, I draped an arm over her, and each time she moved it away. “Maybe let’s skip the restaurant,” I said. “It’s just breakfast.” “That you won’t eat.” “I’ll drink a coffee,” she said, “or have a mimosa. Maybe two. Hell, I could go all out and order a Bloody Mary now that I can drink. I’ll get a decent buzz going and maybe nosh on your pancakes.” “I don’t think boozing before seeing a doctor is the smartest move,” I said. “What you ought to do is rest. That’s what your body needs right now.” “What do you know about my body?” “I know you hardly got any sleep last night.” “Yeah? How’s that?” “Because I hardly got any sleep last night.” Outside, a car horn honked. Birds chirped from trees. “I laid in bed all day yesterday,” she said. “I need fresh air. The sun.” “This isn’t some normal, happy visit. Some vacation for your folks. And you shouldn’t feel obligated to entertain them,” I said. “And they shouldn’t expect it. Even as a bargaining chip.” Kristen opened another drawer and took out a pair of jeans, slipped them on. While she messed with the clasp of her bra, she said, “Who said anything about obligations and expectations?” She went to the closet. “Let’s have them over. We’ve got coffee, eggs, mushrooms and arugula. Turkey sausage. Shallots. Half a leek—I think. There’s vodka and whiskey in the cabinet. I’ll run to the store right now for orange and tomato juice; those biscuits that come in tubes. Cheese. Fucking champagne. Whatever else you think they might be into. I’ll be back before they get here. I’ll cook. You literally won’t have to do a thing.” I pulled the covers off and stood. Kristen reared back and looked at me, perplexed, but she smiled. I was already dressed. During one of her late-night bathroom runs, I threw on clothes in case the worst wasn’t over. My boots were at the foot of the bed. “No offense—” “That’s a terrible way to start a sentence,” I interrupted. “—but the last time I checked, you weren’t exactly Top Chef material.” “Not even I can fuck up an omelet.” Kristen dragged a T-shirt off the hanger and put it on. She ran a hand through her thick, curly hair and moved to the foot of the bed, where her shoulders went slack. After placing her hands on her hips, she let out a long, defeated sigh. In that moment, I wondered how much different our lives would have been if I had actually gone through with a vasectomy in my twenties. “Is there enough room for everyone if we eat on the porch do you think?” she said. “We could pretend we’re in Kansas City,” I said, “or Vienna, Paris. Somewhere far, far away.” She nodded and sat down on the bed before she fell back onto it. “My stomach’s killing me,” she said, and grabbed her phone from the nightstand, unlocking it. Her thumbs tapped the screen a couple of times before she added, “By the way…” “What?” “Your shirt’s on backward.” Which I didn’t bother to fix before I left. At the Dillons on 21st and Amidon, I filled a basket with things I came for and things I hadn’t. The cashier smiled when I set the basket on the belt and it started to move toward him. Each item he scanned chirped like a smoke alarm with low batteries. While he bagged, a woman got behind me with what must have been half the vegetarian frozen section piled in her cart. I reached for my wallet, but my pocket was empty. I patted my jeans, front and back. Keys. Loose change. You’ve got to be shitting me, I thought. Somehow, everything fit into two bags, which the cashier set down in front of me. “Machine’s ready when you are,” he said. “Two seconds,” I said, throwing up a peace sign, trying to sound relaxed. The woman who’d hoarded plant-based bulgogi bowls and fake chicken patties muttered something under her breath. I looked back. She rolled her eyes and I was sure she called me an asshole. Before I turned back to the cashier, I shot her a glare, which she snubbed. “I forgot my wallet in the car,” I said. It was 8:30 by then, maybe 8:45 when I pulled into the driveway. I reached for the groceries and remembered there were no groceries. My wallet was inside the house. I stared at the side of the house, unsure what the next shade lighter than baby blue was. That’s what color the siding was. The paint faded, cracked, peeling in places. Above some of these places the blinds that covered the living room and bedroom windows were closed, which was strange. It was a cloudless, bright, mild and windless April morning. And Kristen fed off the sun. Needed it like a Kryptonian. She believed people who lived in the Pacific Northwest were never more than one stubbed toe away from killing themselves. I thought of her inside, sprawled on the couch or in bed, lying in the dark, alone, confused, sad, and in pain. Her mouth dry from the four Extra Strength Tylenol she chewed into dust and was counting down the hours and minutes before she could throw back four more. I felt heavy and couldn’t stand it. One shovelful of invisible dirt at a time, burying me alive. I couldn’t breathe. I tried several breaths and nearly hyperventilated. What good was I anyway? How could I expect to do anything right if I couldn’t even breathe correctly? I started to think I wasn’t wired properly. Or I had been but something got knocked loose. Either way, I didn’t know how to fix it. I slapped myself across the face. “Stupid,” I said, and slapped myself again. My cheek and nose burned; my eyes watered. I pinched my nostrils. After letting go, I expected to find blood on my fingertips, but didn’t. I blinked and a tear knocked loose and clung to my cheek. Yesterday I should have busted the bathroom door down. I should have carried Kristen to the car kicking and screaming or balled up in the fetal position, weeping. People have shown up in a lot worse or less than underwear to the ER. Besides, she had a shirt on. After they admitted her I would have driven home, put on proper clothes, packed Kristen's proper clothes. Filled a water bottle. Brought snacks. Back at the hospital, I’d have sat silently freaking out, fidgeting in my seat, smiling like everything was A-okay whenever someone looked my way. I’d think, Better them than her, if an EMT wheeled someone through the emergency doors strapped to a gurney with a broken neck or gunshot wound to the chest. I caught a glimpse of my pathetic face in the rearview. My cheek pink-going-red, beginning to swell. I grabbed the mirror and turned it. I couldn’t look at myself. And in it, the mirror, I watched a tremendous SUV pull into our driveway. People used it all the time to turn around in. Our cookie-cutter street looked like every other one in a two-mile radius. People got confused. It happened. I waited for this ridiculous vehicle to back out and go away. But then the driver’s-side door opened and Steve hopped out in a pink polo and blue shorts looking like an Easter egg. He rounded its front end and opened the passenger’s-side. Tricia swung her legs out and Steve helped her down. She was dressed casually, in an oversized flannel and slim jeans, her dark hair tied back in a ponytail. In tennis shoes, she was still two inches taller than him. She spoke, her lips moving slowly, and Steve nodded at whatever it was she said, then motioned for her to take the lead after she finished. They paused at the foot of the stairs and stood talking. Neither of them saw me. I thought about getting out but didn’t. Instead, I was mired by an enormous lethargy. The invisible weight returned tenfold, crushing me. I sat paralyzed, watched them finish their conversation, Tricia saying one last thing to Steve, who placed a hand on her shoulder and began to massage it. She looked down, nodding at the earth while grinding the toe of her sneaker into the concrete. When she was through, Tricia looked up with a crimped smile and Steve kissed her. How’d they do it? I wondered. How had they put their tragedy behind them? They climbed the steps holding hands. In a remarkably short amount of time, I could no longer see them. I closed my eyes and I pictured Tricia ringing the doorbell. Kristen, still in bed or on the couch, would think it was me, my elbow mashing the button because my arms were full of groceries. She would resist at first, annoyed with me disturbing the rest I lobbied her to take, especially now that the Tylenol had kicked in. She would roll over, fluff a pillow, plug her ears, hum the noise out. But, the bell again and again. By now she would be up, stomping to the door and making sure that I heard each step. Then, she’d fling the door open. I imagined Kristen’s surprise, happiness, and relief at the sight of her parents. On the backs of my eyelids, I saw the smile on her face so clearly it hurt. And I thought for sure this image would lift away the terrible, unbearable weight. But it didn’t. Nicholas Claro is an MFA candidate in fiction at Wichita State University and reads fiction for Nimrod International Journal. His work has appeared in Cleaver Magazine, Identity Theory, X-R-A-Y Lit Mag, Necessary Fiction, and others.

Do you want to come in? * Robert, this is Fabiane calling from the Blood Center. Thank you for giving the gift of life with us. We are currently facing a blood emergency, with some facilities holding only a two to three day supply of blood. Can we count on you to make an appointment to donate again soon? * We all have our crosses, Robert. How we bear them is our testimony to the power of His grace in our lives. You understand what I mean. * Timothy, 42 2 miles from you Looking for a good time and maybe more? * Thank you for being here today, Robert. Oh, sure—Monica, is it? Yes sir. I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? Could be. I’ve given here a couple of times. Oh, yeah, I can see here you’re a frequent flyer. My parents always told me how much blood my mom lost when I was born. We both almost died. Just kind of seems like— I don’t know. Karma? Forgive my laughter. It’s just if they could hear— Oh, they’re like that, huh? They are. * We’ll be praying for you, Robert. I suppose that’s all we can do now. * I had a great time, Robert. Thanks, Timothy. Yeah, me too. I think you’re making too big of a deal about your age. I mean, I’m out here having a great time, right? You’re sweet. You’re smart. You take care of yourself. You’re going to do great. That’s nice of you to say. It’s taken a while. This is— actually, this is my first—one of these. Your first…date from an app, or…? Date. Ever. Oh, honey. Well, good for you. * Yes. * No, I’m sorry. I can’t. Note from the author: I write poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction on Long Island, New York. My microfiction recently appeared in Milk Candy Review and Heart Balm. My poetry recently appeared in Full Mood Mag, Roi Fainéant, and Amethyst Review, and is forthcoming from Syncopations. My essays have appeared in Phoebe and Variant Literature and are forthcoming from The Other Journal. Keep up with me at abigailmyers.com and @abigailmyers.

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