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no love fiercer than coyotes no joy louder i heard their warbling in the night as i lay in bed inviting the internet  i found the buck the next morning  as I was checking my fences already half a skeleton somebody really wanted his meat this big eight pointer who took the shot and bled his way to my land leaving himself to me who wished him no harm and to the coyotes who are always hungry a hunter who kills deer to feed coyotes is surplus to requirements and his soul is just an idea blackberry canes and poison ivy were even then full overgrowing  for all the deer left in the wood so i placed his skull in the arm of a tree and prayed to saint placebo and saint corolla and felt much safer for it never a sunrise in this dark dingle where the wind seldom reaches  the old earthen tank  that never did hold water w v sutra is the author of skeuomorphia , recently released by White Donkey Publishing. His poetics seek at all times to destabilize and undermine received praxis in the hope of achieving a novel manifestation.

“The numbers are in, sir.”   “Oh yes?”   “They are not looking good.”   “Oh no, hmmm?”   He has a dummy, inside which a fungus grows to imitate human organs. An amazing approximation. It has no thought. It can be trained.   “No. They’re not looking good at all.”   Outside their cells, the employees watch. They cannot decide if this is the best solution. A bit unsanitary. Yet it has made the workplace more humane, that’s undeniable.   They taught the dummy to err. To rebel gently. When it was too compliant the boss simply stored it in the closet. A threshold was discovered. The right amount of challenge. Plus, the incompetence makes it more palatable for the employees.   “Why the 18th-century aesthetic? Why the Renaissance? The Roman?”   “That’s what he wanted. I dunno. Some sort of fantasy.”   Our job is to give the boss pieces of paper on which we write numbers. We read the number off gauges, through which flows a steady stream of pressure. So long as the numbers go up, he is happy. And, luckily, numbers can always get bigger.   He likes big numbers.   But sometimes, they just don’t get bigger. Sometimes, they get smaller.   Hence, the dummy. Árón Ó Maolagáin is a writer and visual artist from Colorado and based in New York City. He studied English and Visual Art at the Metropolitan State University of Denver. After completing his undergraduate degree, he earned an MFA from the New York Academy of Art. Before focusing on fiction, Ó Maolagáin published writings on art theory and criticism. This theoretical background informs his prose. Artists of the uncanny, such as Hieronymus Bosch, inspire Ó Maolagáin’s imagery and themes.

Selkie The women at the docks say she ate the man who stole her skin, mashed his bones between aragonite teeth. His vocal cords she added to her lyre, an instrument made from the debris of sunken ships. Such a woman I wished to know, so I went looking for her at the beach head, close to the caves where it was rumored she dwelt. I waited until twilight, sun cresting over the shoreline, my hands pink and raw from the cold. She emerged from the wave foam that crashed against the cave mouth, dressed in black-green gown, threads stitched with thick sea-grass taken from the ocean floor. Virescent jewels were sewn into her salty hair, and she regarded me curiously with pebble dark eyes. I stayed with her that night, and the night after, told her of the man who killed my sister. She smiled, her mouth a dark maw of seabed and fishbone, kissed me softly on my bleeding lips. All will be righted, little one , her voice that of an ocean god, men forget often the retribution of the sea . Banshee   I will tell you what a haunting is. It is a girl, dead and buried, put to the ground. She is  face up, she is face down, she is naked, is dressed in someone’s clothes. She is pale, she is dark, she has auburn curls or corn silk tresses.  Her mouth is open, her mouth is sewn shut.  Her fingers are bloody, clean, callused,  and her skin holds every secret and knows nothing. Her body is folklore, her body is a forest, her body is in the ground. The maggots have eaten her now. She is eternal, she is nothing. She is dirt. She is a memory.  She is regret. Ashling Meehan-Fanning is a poet based in Wisconsin whose work often includes themes of magic, ancestry, and the American Midwest. She spends a lot of time thinking about ghosts and trees.

It hovers in the sky like a baby killer whale. I avoid day light because at night it’s harder to make out, but it’s still unmistakable. Starless and shiny, an obsidian square. It calls to me as I traipse down the main strip of El Poblado, the street burning with salsa and motorcycles. Overhead, the black window creeps after me and I duck into a steak restaurant.  A half-naked woman dangles from the ceiling on a hula-hoop. I ask the waitress to be seated in the back, far from my stalker. Techno pounds my ears and basketball plays on televisions—lots of tourists. I devour liquor and ribs, hoping for a reprieve. No luck. The black window opens on the restaurant wall. I voyaged to Medellin to escape the nights back home in Orlando where it lives on my ceiling—calling for me to climb up through it and vanquish the surging anxiety in my muscles. I engulf my face in my pillow. Looking up, it demands me to let go, grant it to crucify every throbbing image. Once I cross through, there’ll be no more good days but no bads ones equally. I left the country to evade the window, but it followed me to Colombia. It follows me everywhere. Shutting my eyes, it unlocks inside me, floats in my blood. I traverse past neon lights and drug dealers. Rain drizzles onto my leather jacket. It’s rainy season in Medellin. Long mirrors line the walls of the elevator in my hotel. Idling at my reflection, the mirrors turn black. The window found me. A depiction of me shunned by friends appears, which morphs into one of me in a prison cell. An inmate shoves his heel into my mouth. It transmutes again. I’m in a hospital bed, breathing into a mask. The elevator opens and I bolt to my room. Inside, I sit on the balcony, the black window back in the sky. I would go to bed, but I worry the black window is me. Brett Pribble’s work has appeared in Aquifer: The Florida Review Online, decomP, Stirring: A Literary Collection, Saw Palm, The Molotov Cocktail, Five on the Fifth, Maudlin House, Bending Genres, Bright Flash Literary Review , and other places. He is the Founder and Editor-in-Chief of Ghost Parachute.  Follow him on Instagram/X/Bluesky @brettpribble.

You’re eight and at a Pick-Your-Own farm in Southern Ontario, the sun pressing down the part in your hair until it feels like one long blister. Your father is trying to explain he’s there with his whole family, you’re there to pick berries, and the college guy whose summer job this is gives him that funny look. That look you’re familiar with whenever anyone hears your parents’ thick Polish accent. Like there’s something funny, something strange going on. In a few years, you will hate this look, but for now you hear your father’s “stav-birry” and you step in, the smooth way you have been stepping in since you were six. The voice of the family. “We three would like to pick strawberries, please. How much for three pints?” The college guy’s face turns to you, a sun moving, and the wrinkle between his brows smooths out. His swagger comes back and he snaps his gum as he tells you three bucks.  And so you get to picking, your mother telling you to eat as much as you can in the field, because no one can see, because the prices are high, because this is part of the deal. She is wearing a kerchief around her head in a way she thinks glamorous women in Canada do, the way she wears a fur coat and heels in winter, because she has learned the rituals of this strange land through movies and has brought those images in a battered leather suitcase across twenty years and an ocean. The fruit bursts hot in your mouth and the flies buzz dizzy around you. The smell of dirt and mud here, stains on your fingers. You can’t say if you like strawberries. You can’t say whether this is the way you want to spend an idle June afternoon. Your parents are focused on placing each berry in plastic tubs. You watch the way red flesh disappears between their lips. Next week you will go to Niagara Falls. The week after you will get a small barbecue and grill pale hot dogs in the front yard. Your parents are always learning to be Canadian but even now you see that they get the fractions wrong, like stubborn rows of numbers in class that slide and shift before your eyes. Subtracting Polish words and clothes and foods does not equal Canadian, does not equal new. There is yet another formula you don’t know. In other rows, you see other families. The little girls aren’t wearing a straw hat (strav hat) and sundresses like you. Jeans and bucket hats. Your mother does not seem to notice this. But you notice the easy confidence of overalls and words, the way the little boy two rows over pops three berries into his mouth at the same time, picks his nose, and sticks his tongue at you. In the distance, the college guy is wiping his face with a towel and leaning down to someone with long hair and a bathing suit.  You have a dim memory of the fields at your grandmother’s house. Fields of green cabbage, fields of tobacco plants taller than you. There, you picked because it was what the family did. What would your grandmother think of the idea of paying to pick fruit, eating it furtively? You think you wouldn’t like the answer. Is this what being Canadian means—having enough money to pay for something that families have been doing for years just to survive? Sitting outside in the hot sun? You look down the long rows. Plant after plant in perfect lines, like rows of numbers. The salt of your sweat stings the insides of your eyes. The berries are red and sweet and you will never eat them all.   Agata Antonow is a writer living and working in Canada. Her work has been featured in the Mile End Poets' Festival, Our Times, The Gravity of the Thing, Defenestration, Eunoia Review, and the FOLD (Festival of Literary Diversity) program, among other places.

A dog-eared rag of duct tape flaps on our plane’s wing outside my window as we take off; my cell signal falling away with the earth, leaving behind the guy who doesn’t want to meet my parents yet. My sister’s last text, flying with me: Until you become a parent, you really can’t understand what real love is. A thirty-day AA chip rattles in the pocket of my winter coat against a tube of lipstick in time with the engine. An electric whine audible over noise-canceling headphones; an indecipherable Marvel movie on my phone. The cookies the flight attendant hands over instead of a hot meal. Santa hats and a beverage cart strung with Christmas lights. They take credit cards, including the Visa gift card from my aunt. Somewhere on the ground, my sister and her new baby are in a bedroom with the words New Beginnings  in gold cursive over the crib. Somewhere else on the ground, my parents are making up my old bedroom for me to stay with them for a week and yesterday someone stole my car battery and slashed my tires just for good measure so I took an Uber to the airport. I don’t want to spend eight bucks for Wifi to text my sponsor. My phone’s screen hurts my eyes in the dark; outside my window the duct tape waves like a lover on a train platform and I know the most dangerous words for an alcoholic are ‘I’ve been thinking.’ Ordering Jack and Coke feels like hugging a friend waiting at baggage claim. My I’ll go everywhere with you drink. I hold out my card to pay. The stewardess waves me off: ‘ Merry Christmas .’ She says the words the way you’d say, ‘screw it.’ My movie gets a little better. Outside my window the duct tape on the wing does the mashed potato in the jetstream. I do a little math problem, about my three-hour flight; the size of the airplane Jack bottles; how much time I’ll need to get squared away when we land. I press the service light again and chew the ice in my little plastic cup. The same stewardess only she’s ditched the Santa hat. When I order another she’s ready with her card reader before I get the words out. Outside my window I see a creature at the tip of the wing. Small, like a piece of garbage clinging to the leading edge. It hangs there on claws a little like a sloth. The duct tape, closer to my window, does a king cobra twirl and grows a little longer. I order a double that tastes like ‘ Fairytale of New York ’ on a jukebox while the creature outside struggles against the wind. The person next to me is watching HBO and I shoulder-surf the plot because he’s got subtitles on. The air outside must be cold; the creature has brown-black fur like a mink coat that whips in the wind like palm trees in a hurricane. A little square mouth loaded with teeth bared to the gale. One fish-hooked claw works at the wing, striking it the way a carpenter hits a stubborn nail. The engine gives a little whinny; a square piece of aluminum no bigger than a playing card flies off behind us and the creatures hugs the wing with one claw dug into the hole left behind. A different flight attendant this time; he doesn’t have the beverage cart or anything but I flag him down all the same and this time I hold up the cash I have on hand, including five for a tip. This time it’s me who says  Merry Christmas  and he gives me a thumbs up; our special bond among the world-weary and cool.  The creature outside my window works on another hole; one claw dug in securely in the guts of the wing, the other claw chipping away at the wing closer to the cabin. Big headlight eyes – a little like an owl– and a slit nose to keep out the chill. The eyes narrow while the creature works, and this time when the claw connects just right, ping , the whole cabin reverberates. A section of metal skin tears away, the size of a bath towel this time, and flies out into nothingness like the prayer at the end of a meeting. The flight attendant hands me three bottles this time along with the can of Coke. ‘We’ve got to end service ,’ he says. ‘ Turbulence ,’ shrugging, the way someone might say ‘traffic.’ My lips feel dry and I go for my lipstick. My hand fishes around in my pocket a little too clumsy. It works if you work it . Outside the plane, the creature finds the duct tape and goes to town pulling the strip clear from the plane. The adhesive clings to the creature’s fur and our eyes make contact as it rips the last of the tape free. There’s so much you can find in the bottom of a glass; there’s so much you can tell from a pinched, hairless face on the wrong side of a pressurized cabin. I want to tear the wings off this airplane , the creature is thinking. I purse my lips, nodding. I know, buddy. I’m going to shred this metal bird, no matter the cold, no matter how much I get cut up in the process. I think about the plastic bag covering my car’s broken window back home; about giving up my 30-day chip and washing coffee cups when I go back to meetings. The creature gives one hard pull at the open wound beneath the duct tape. This time a section of wire comes loose. Inside the cabin, every surface rattles like the hands of an old drunk and the captain’s voice comes over the loudspeaker. The creature’s face, when it looks back at me: I won’t survive the crash . I raise my little plastic cup in a salute. None of us will . A.D. Schweiss has worked as a prosecutor in California for 14 years, mostly handling crimes of intimate partner violence. He lives in Northern California with his troublesome kids, his troublesome wife, and a well-behaved dog.

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

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

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

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

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

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