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America's greatest First Daughter, the lovely Chelsea Clinton, graced the bedroom wall of every teenage boy from my generation. She was, to us, a glowing jack-o-lantern of warmth and hope in an uncertain time. Her appeal was not the same as the other starlets of our day with whom the boys were enamored – Sarah Michelle Gellar, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Ginger Spice... all my 35-year-olds, holler if you hear me! Am I right? While other women over whom we fawned bore an edgy broodiness, Chelsea's beauty was the stark opposite – her beauty lay in her smile, a collection of 32 beacons of light made of calcium. It was a smile of hope. Pure, unadulterated hope. I myself do not possess such immaculate pearly white pillars as Chelsea Clinton's. A year ago, an accident shattered what was once a fairly well-maintained grill. For a dreary time rank with self-pity, I was quite self-conscious of the fact that my tongue looked like it was in a Chilean prison cell. When COVID-19 struck our planet, I took solace in wearing a mask. But, I learned to love my smile. To be proud of it even, going so far as to think of my broken and jagged front row of teeth as one of my most charming features (the other being my avocado shape, evoking images of the Mr. Stay-Puft). What helped me to learn to cherish this busted grill? An ally who helps us more than we know, a friend we often don't know we have – sorrow. I grew up in the small town of Starkweather, Nebraska, population: 3,000. I come from a family of what's known as “oil field trash.” Some might see this as a derogatory term, but I don't shy away from it. Though I myself never had the grit to work in the oil fields, my father, uncles, aunts, and grandfather all labored their lives away to draw that crude, black gold from the ground, to put food on our table, and ironically, keep us routinely in the dentist's chair of sadism. Though Dick Cheney and the others who got rich off the precious slime never knew my family's name, I'm proud of my family's work ethic, the calluses on their hands, the bloodshot eyes they wore from copious amounts of marijuana smoked on the derricks (that is, one of those big oil towers you may have seen in There Will Be Blood), puffed to make a long day seem a little shorter. My family were as crude as the oil which they drew from the depths of the earth. They cursed in the presence of children, they smoked Camel Reds, they wore caps indoors and at church, at funerals, and those caps usually bore some crude double-entendre slogan, like Professional Crop Duster. Their red beards never quite connected with the nicotine-stained mustaches that accented their missing and broken teeth. They wore prominent soul patches beneath their bottom lips. They had boisterous laughs, mad cackles not heard since the scurvy-ridden crew of the Pequod (that is, the ship in the whaling novel Moby Dick). When I was a kid, I thought they were the coolest people ever, even surpassing my generation's other staples of cool, like “Stone Cold” Steve Austin and Joe Lieberman. They regularly took the Lord's name in vain, on both mundane and heartbreaking occasions: when the Cornhuskers lost a game, or when each of them died, one by one, year by year it seemed, consumed by bad hearts, bad lungs, bad habits, or bad reputations. The clean white shirts and bolo ties in which they were buried lent their soul patches and the gunpowder on their lips a strange dignity. When I became an adult, and my family had faded until the disarrayed teeth in their smiles were obscured behind layers of dust on picture frames, I knew the time had come to leave Starkweather, Nebraska and its population of 3,000 souls, minus those of my kin. There comes a time when everybody runs away from home, I suppose. Me, I ran to the city. I walked before I could crawl, so to speak. I went from the tiny town of Starkweather to the metropolis of Jezebel, New Mexico, population: 30,000. Needless to say, I was slack-jawed and gobsmacked, flabbergasted even, at the Gotham that loomed around me. But when I felt overwhelmed by the twenty-story buildings and neon lights of the buffets and even a movie theater, I molded that feeling into a reminder that I was hidden, a drop in a bucket, far away from the grasp of weariness and loss I'd left behind in Nebraska. There was no way all that sorrow could find me in such a crowded place as Jezebel, I told myself. I shaved my own beard, and my admittedly baby-like face gave no hint as to the men and women I'd loved and lost, who'd faded into thin air. As long as I wasn't reminded of them each day in the mirror, they couldn't hurt me. All this aesthetic effort was dashed one fateful day in Target. When I went to Target for the first time, I was rather discombobulated. I'd never been in such a swanky, upscale store. It was Dollar General times ten! I was in awe, being the rube that I was, at this place the Kardashians would surely frequent if they ever came to New Mexico. I wandered through the ominous store, amazed at the glitz and glamor. But before I knew it, I was in the women's undergarment section. The wrong part of town, so to speak. I snapped out of my trance when I noticed a woman looking at me, warily and suspiciously, as though I were Ted Bundy or some other such panty-thief. Unable to find words to explain what I was doing amid the ladies' underthings, that I'd innocently wandered into Victoria Secret City, I panicked, turned and began to run. My instinct to run away apparently not only applied to lonesome hometowns. In doing so, I tripped on my own feet and down I went. Face-first onto the faux marble floor. My nose gushed with blood, and two and a half of my front teeth were obliterated. When I wasn't toiling away at my job as an inventory clerk at a local tire supplier (fortunately in the back of the building), I was hiding in my apartment, away from the eyes of those who might see my busted grill and shudder. I looked like the love child of Stanley Kubrick and a worm farm proprietor who runs an underground polygamy cult. My COVID mask stayed on not only at work, but at my apartment as well. In my complacency, abandoning any concern for my appearance, I even stopped shaving. What was the point? Razors are expensive, and I looked like a police artist sketch. Then one day, the ear strap on the mask broke. I was forced to see my own face in the mirror when I went to brush my teeth. I didn't see myself that morning – I saw my family. I saw my father, I saw every one of my uncles. I saw a composite of ghosts with tangled red beards and broken teeth. It was a shock at first. To see men long dead looking back at me in the mirror. The dam that held back the waters of memory buckled and burst, letting loose a flood of mixed emotions that swept me away (that is, figuratively speaking). After I recovered from the initial shock, the waters of the metaphorical flood having dried, I felt an odd peace. I suddenly felt like it was okay to remember all those callous and coarse men and women I'd lost. It was more than okay, I realized – it was right. I felt rather ashamed at myself for trying so hard to forget my family for so long, to suppress their sparkling eyes surrounded by dark circles to spare myself a bit of pain. Pain is an important part of life. Without it, we'd never learn, never be shaped and refined, never rejoice when better days come. I don't want to forget my family. I've carefully kept the combing and trimming of my beard to a minimum. My soul patch is, dare I say, immaculate. My smile has a rustic charm, and I'm proud of it. If my busted grill is all I have left of my family, I'll cherish it. My smile is almost as beautiful as Chelsea Clinton's. It would be pretentious to say just as beautiful, but I'm confident I'm almost in the same league. My smile is not as enlightened, not as classy or pearly. But the smile in the mirror gives me just as much hope as the smile that radiated from the poster on my wall all those years ago. “Sorrow is better than laughter, for by a sad countenance the heart is made better.” –Ecclesiastes 7:3 Bud Sturguess lives in Amarillo, Texas. He has self-published several books, his latest being the novel Sick Things. His writing appears in such publications as Longleaf Review, Spoonie Press, and Erato. Bud is a collector of neckties and books about Abraham Lincoln.

The Dream Is Over pt. I It was all good once. Football games on Friday nights and maybe second base under the bleachers before the last call cigarettes and coffee at the Red Oak Diner. The future American heroes saved up for Monday morning war stories and the lucky ones got fist pounds and made bets on what was next. But the stars fell close. And the good ones got out. And those years that once felt endless didn’t prepare us for a future alone. A Life I used to walk around and look at alleys or hidden corners of parks and think, when I’ve finally lost everything I can be homeless here. But then I got older and left New York. I drove through Appalachia and the sad and stalled Midwest and finally made it to Montana, where the wheat was so healthy it was almost gold, and no money had ever talked to the land. It had escaped the experiment. It remained free. I saw myself as a successful writer looking out over that grass and thought, someday when I’ve had enough of this awful world I can kill myself here. And that’s why I leave instead of just signing the lease. It’s hard on the soul to stay. I hit a new city like a camera and memorize everything. And once I’ve drank in all the bars and had coffee in the morning it’s time to run. It’s the same conversation every time. With my girlfriend, with my mother, that it’s nothing they did, I just never learned to take life as it comes. There’s never been a past, it’s all new to me. Maybe you know what I mean. I’ve looked at women with the old soul eyes, who’ve stood on this dirt before, and they know for sure this is just one life and so it will be again. But not me. I clocked in with clean lungs. A boy that learned fear. That became too sad to cry. That didn’t know there would be a second chance. Always remember, if there’s nothing left to lose run for the finish line. Always remember, it’s the fight of the century every time. Always remember, death will be easier. Songs For The New War I’ve heard songs for the new war. They chant over crank radios like heartbeats from a Shaman’s drum. They come out of subways on a three-string guitar and the words of a runaway who still believes in his favorite band. They live in hog squeals you can hear from rooftops in Chicago, trapped in perdition, riding the currents of the universe like a crest without a trough. These are the songs for the new war. I heard my first from a Rat King who ended his sermon with, “ Humans have infinite past lives ... but animals get none.” I heard my second in a dream where a black moon rose over a shallow lake and tadpoles swam circles around the reflection like black stars in orbit. Is this what gets lost when we die? Does the melody cling too tight to your soul? What if you kept in no tears and never found a lie you didn’t tell? Anyone who ever lived, any martian who ever visited, any elephant who ever buried its friend, it’s all led to this. And when the messenger arrives no one will ask about his chest full of arrows. And no one will care about the conclusion of free will. The songs of the new war will fade out before their last chords. They won’t be hummed in the FEMA camps or by the future Reichs. They’ll be buried like the family dog, mourned for an hour then immediately replaced. Scott Laudati is the author of Play The Devil and Baby, Bring Back 1997. Follow him on Twitter - @ScottLaudati - for opinions on RHONJ and Vanderpump Rules.

The forest preserve rumbles with the deep-throated song of frogs, holed-up in fallen trees or testing the frigid indigo of the lake. The gulley is a bowl of fog, the lake unmoving, no tides to bring forth its secrets. Algae drapes the surface, obscuring what lies beneath. Fish, certainly. A dead tree, maybe. Perhaps even a body. Last fall, a missing man, car abandoned nearby, was found dead in these woods. There were no details provided in the press, but time and weather are not kind to flesh, and animals will do what animals will do. In this maze of trees and unmarked trails, deer and coyote disappear like magician’s tricks when startled from the path. Like the man’s body, undiscovered for weeks. How many times I must have walked right past it, unaware of him just beyond the treeline. There but not there. How many days no one knew I was there, too. Donna Vorreyer is the author of To Everything There Is (2020), Every Love Story is an Apocalypse Story (2016) and A House of Many Windows (2013), all from Sundress Publications. She lives in the suburbs of Chicago and hosts the monthly online reading series A Hundred Pitchers of Honey.

For the first few years, when his father and Addie went to the Barracks, his father would stop by the welcome center and ask a volunteer for the grave location. The kiosk attendant would take a pre-printed map and outline in blue pen the roads and then unironically mark the grave with an “x,” like a treasure map. After a while, his father remembered what curves to take, what loops appeared to lead in the wrong direction, what low stone walls acted as landmarks. By the time Addie was in high school, his father had remarried. The yearly pilgrimage to the grave had ended, though the shrine with the folded flag, medals, and insignia still took an entire shelf of a bookcase. Addie hadn’t been to his mother’s grave since. Now, the locator was electronic. No need to speak to one of the old people in blue vests who used to staff the desk. After punching in the last name on a screen keyboard, a printed map fell into a waiting tray. Visiting the dead had become colder. Even with the map, Addie missed two or three turns and circled back to the front gate to begin again. Finally, he found the correct section and parked the car. You’d think it was odd to see people sitting in their cars in the middle of a cemetery, but it’s not. Addie was one of those people. With the windows up and the A/C on, he watched clouds drift across an Edenic blue summer sky. Patchwork shadows crisscrossed over the trees. Through the branches, he could see the bottomlands on the other side of the river. He felt like the car was submerged in that river and if he opened the door, even cracked the window, water would fill the car and he would drown. The asphalt of the road shimmered in the heat as if to prove the point. Finally, after three deep inhales, Addie held his breath and opened the car door. Nothing happened, except the June sun’s heat that he could feel pressing on his skin. As the heat pushed him downward, the humid air held him up. He let out that breath. The location of each grave was chiseled on the back of each stone, with name, rank, birth and death dates, medals, campaigns, on the front. Addie followed the sequence and stopped at times to read the names of loved ones he never loved. So many from such distant wars. Who comes to visit them, now, after so many years? Addie felt dizzy from the heat and knelt. From a distance, he appeared in prayer. He stood and continued and found his mother, her resting date so much nearer to this day than the others but so distant from the present. He took his finger and outlined the date, five years after he was born. He traced all the letters, all the numbers, as if he were tracing a route on a map. He could not remember her. His memories, if they were memories, were a collage of photographs his sister made for the funeral. His mother as a schoolgirl. At high school prom. The wedding. Holding her daughter. Then her son. Smiling on a trip with her husband to the Ozarks. Addie closed his eyes and tried to force himself to remember his mother, something, some word, smile, lullaby. He sat on the grass in front of the stone and began to cry. He hadn’t forgotten his mother. There were no memories to forget. He took out his wallet from his front pocket and then he took out a picture of his son from the wallet. The boy was happy, smiling, a joy in his eyes, oblivious to the absence of his grandmother in his life. “Here he is,” Addie said. He held the small image before his mother. “Your grandson.” For a moment, Addie was jealous, even bitter, at his son’s ignorance. Pain comes only from memory. Addie wondered, what if he died, now, today? His grandchildren would know him only as a myth, stories told at bedtime, or at holiday meals, with faded photographs, or images stored in a cloud. And what of great grandchildren? And after them? So many futures, each with their own past. Addie looked at the rows of graves, some of them two-hundred years old. So many dead, only known in books, or, today, electronic files, no longer in anyone’s heart. That was it, wasn’t it? Addie thought. And lightness overcame him. Maybe it was the humid heat and the oppressive sun. Or maybe, it was the knowing that his life, all our lives, are destined not to be forgotten but not even to be a memory to be forgotten. Whatever it was, he felt a calm as he put his son’s photo back in his wallet. Addie tried to stand but wobbled a bit. Reluctantly, he put his hands on the curved top of his mother’s stone. As he pushed himself up, his eyes caught movement in the section across the road. A doe and two fawns wandered among the graves and the trees. The doe nervously peered here, then jerked her head there, and froze while her nose trembled. The fawns mindlessly grazed, in full trust of their mother. The three deer headed straight towards Addie who stood ramrod straight. Thirty yards, then twenty, ten years, finally ten feet. The doe knew something was there. She could smell it. Addie’s knees ached from his sitting on the ground and he flexed them, ever so slightly, to alleviate the pain. At this small movement, the doe straightened, her fawns with her, then all three sprang into the undergrowth along the fence. Addie watched them go, and then, after a moment, he started his car and he, too, went on his way. Richard Stimac has published a full-length book of poetry Bricolage (Spartan Press), over forty poems in Michigan Quarterly Review, Faultline, and december, and others, nearly two-dozen flash fiction in Blue Mountain, Good Life, Typescript, and three scripts. He is a poetry reader for Ariel Publishing and a prose reader for The Maine Review.

The light in the studio (read: closet) was starting to wane as the sun sank behind the apartment building to the west. Kara hopped up and flipped the wall switch, knobby in its many layers of latex paint applied in between tenants. The apartment on a larger scale was a landlord special—sloppy paint job, bad overhead lighting, and minimal direct sunlight among its many delightful features—but Kara hadn’t been in a position to be picky when she was moving. Her bedroom at the shared house she’d frantically vacated in June had plenty of floor space to work on her sculptures, but the house also held a darkness in the form of a horrifically loud and rude roommate named Lila. Once Kara realized that Lila’s tendency to blast Enter Shikari in the shower every morning was probably not going away, no matter how many times she asked them politely, she realized she needed out. So Kara, strapped for choices at the height of student rental season, had moved to the first mold-free studio apartment in Mount Vernon she found. And with the state of her studio practice, she was finally starting to admit that it was not going great. She had almost nothing for her thesis review in just over two weeks’ time. Earlier that afternoon, Kara had picked up her hot glue gun in a fit of creative energy and dumped out the half-empty box of plastic forks she’d somehow acquired, gluing them together at her kitchen table with no real aim. After lighting herself a motivational joint, Kara quickly found herself entranced by the feminine curves of the forks and began to emulate them with the ways she glued them together. It hadn’t been long before she ran down to the corner store for another two boxes of forks, and she found herself at an impasse now, as the sun began to set: she was almost out of hot glue. She thought for a second about seeing if she could get it on Instacart, but she felt bad about making a shopper drive to her apartment at rush hour and closed the app as soon as she opened it. Sighing, she shoved her feet into her threadbare fleece Birkenstock slippers, shrugged on a flannel over her SLUT ERA t-shirt, and grabbed her bag and keys. She’d parked a few blocks over on Chase Street, near The Spot, since that was the only space she could find after getting off work at three in the morning last night. A couple on a first date (she’d overheard) had stayed at her bar talking until 2:30, and the barback working with her had broken a glass in the triple sinks after they’d left. She yawned and took a sip of last night’s Red Bull in her cupholder as she turned the key in the ignition. The engine whimpered before ultimately coming to a halt. Ugh. Kara slung her patchwork tapestry tote back over her shoulder and got out of the car. She scuttled down to Eager to wait for the circulator, skimming Instagram on her phone as she waited for the bus to lumber across the potholes on Saint Paul to pick her up. Paula from Visual Thinking 1 was at a residency in Napoli—lucky. Skip. Someone who worked at XS posted that they were hiring—shocker. Skip. Ugh, Mina from that summer program is ranting on main again. Skip. Kara groaned out loud as she swiped and swiped in the November chill. A shiver ran up her spine as the bus finally pulled up and she locked her phone to board. She popped her airport newsstand earbuds in and sat down, coming face to face with a very interesting proposition when she unlocked her phone again—the local gallery Oliver did his internship at was running a juried sculpture exhibition in January, and Chrysanthemum fucking Hayes was the guest juror. The chance to impress a queer sculpture icon who’d been a Sondheim finalist the previous year was too great to pass up; Kara took a screenshot of the call and pulled out her sketchbook. She frantically sketched the architecture of a large fork made of the smaller forks, noting where she might have to use a heat gun to create the curves with which she was so enamored. Her pen waggled across the page as the bus continued to barrel towards the harbor, where Kara caught the orange line as far east as it would take her, still sketching. She caught a Lime scooter the rest of the way to Canton Crossing, where she skidded to a stop in front of Michaels. Kara was a kid in a candy store—once she had the hot glue, she caught a glimpse of the silk flowers in another aisle. What if I adorned the finished fork with flowers? she thought as she held a bundle of faux gladiolus. Or even better, what if I painted it pink and did that? She wandered over to the paint aisle and thought about spray paint before remembering the tragedy of Ava Ray’s Forms and Figures final freshman year. She’d made a dress out of quart containers she’d stolen from her on-campus café job, but she tried to spray paint it purple in the last hours before class and it melted holes in the dress. Kara chuckled to herself, grabbed three tubes of hot pink acrylic paint, and headed for the checkout. Her previous work about femininity had been poorly received and subsequently scrapped, cited by her most critical classmates as vague and inarticulate. If what they wanted was obvious, Kara would just have to give them obvious, she guessed. A lot was riding on this coat of pink paint—now to pull it off. ◎◎◎ In Senior Thesis that Thursday morning, Kara could barely keep her head off the table. Oliver poked her a few times when she started to really doze off, but she was down for the count; she’d been up for almost 36 continuous hours working on the fork sculpture. It was due for finals in a week, but the deadline for the gallery show was on Sunday. She knew Oliver was just trying to protect her from being called out by their snarky graduate teaching assistant, but god, she was tired. “Let’s break for ten to get coffee,” professor (and renowned fiber artist) Jenna Donovan suggested. “You all seem a little fried this morning.” Kara raised her head and shuffled out of the room with everyone else, jaywalking across the avenue that bisected campus to get to the bookstore café in the nearby Fitzgerald Building. She ordered an iced latte and dumped a few Splenda in before heading back to the classroom, already slightly more awake having taken a stroll through the morning air. “By the way, before we get back into the lecture,” Jenna started. “I wanted to let you all know that we’ve confirmed our guest critic for the individual thesis reviews next week. We’re pleased to be joined by local artist and curator Chrysanthemum Hayes.” Oliver nudged Kara hard. It seemed she was getting a double dose of her absolute idol this semester. It could be said that Chrysanthemum inspired everything Kara was making right now—their emphasis on flawlessly executed craft work had been one of many contributing factors to their local celebrity. And when she’d seen Chrysanthemum’s work at the BMA for the Sondheim show last year, Kara never would have thought she’d get to meet her at all. Here’s hoping my sculpture holds up, she thought as her stomach dropped a little. ◎◎◎ The fork was a fucking failure. Kara was absolutely certain of it. She had hot glue strings everywhere, her heat gun work was sloppy, and the leftmost tine of the fork was a little too thin compared to the other three. She’d also given herself second-degree burns on a few fingers from the glue gun. But it was getting close to ten at night on Sunday, and she needed to get painting if she wanted the paint to be dry in her documentation photos. Kara had hauled the piece to her campus studio, which was mostly full of her studio mate’s work, but she’d carved out a corner to paint the thing hot pink. While the paint dried, she glued the silk flowers across the handle and scattered them up the tines. She started to cry a little as her phone dinged. Central???? Oliver had texted the group chat. Down, James is too, their friend Evonne replied. Grand Central was the bar down the block from where Kara lived. She’d been going with Oliver since before either of them could legally drink, originally making it a tradition after their Tuesday night Intro to Metal class sophomore year. Crying, actually, Kara responded after a second. Wtf??? Oliver sent back only seconds before FaceTiming her. “Oliver, it’s so bad,” Kara said. “Like, terrible. My studio mate gave me this look like she pitied me.” “So?” he replied. “She doesn’t fucking like anything good. She thought Rivera Ann Langley’s mud wrestling paintings were gauche. Doesn’t that tell you you’ve done something right?” Kara sniffled. “Show me,” Oliver said. She shook her head. “Turn the camera around and show me.” She sighed and flipped the camera to show Oliver the fork. “PLEASE!” he said. “That is a gorgeous object. It’s such a powerful commentary on the expectations of femininity. You’ve got nothing to worry about.” Kara smiled a little. Oliver always gave it to her straight if her work was bad. They’d become friends after their first Intro to Painting critique freshman spring, when Kara was fresh out of a breakup and realizing she wasn’t as into men as she thought she was. She’d gravitated towards Oliver, who seemed so comfortable in his identity and was also welcoming, but honest. He’d told her as kindly as possible during that critique that the banana in her still life looked like a penis, and later apologized for his honesty on their lunch break. Luckily, Kara had been in art school for long enough to realize it was worth having someone honest around, and the rest was history. “You really mean that?” Kara said. “You don’t think it’s a poor attempt at craft?” “One thousand percent. Now come on, I’m gonna hang up so you can get those photos into the gallery. We’ll meet you at your studio.” Oliver hung up. Kara hustled the giant fork down to the documentation room and started to set up the lights. She peeked at her watch—10:56. At this point, it was far too late to make any other changes to the sculpture. Kara would end up like Ava Ray if she did. She picked up the camera and began to photograph. At Grand Central, Kara ordered a whiskey ginger and grabbed a seat on the velvet banquette against the wall. On her first sip, she grimaced as she realized that a hefty sip of pure Jack Daniels was sitting on top of the drink. She started to stir it in with a cocktail straw as Oliver walked over and sat down next to her. “I think we should cheers to Kara’s sculpture,” he suggested to the group. Everyone laughed and Kara protested in jest, but she ultimately raised her glass to the fork sitting in her studio—the one she’d gotten uploaded to the gallery’s submission manager by the skin of her teeth. She drank the whiskey ginger and tried to forget about it. Maybe her level of craft wouldn’t match up to Chrysanthemum Hayes, but the piece worked as proof of concept, and maybe no one would really notice its shortcomings. Kara chuckled nervously as she took another sip and vowed to put it out of her mind now, for real this time. ◎◎◎ The following Thursday showed up quicker than Kara expected. She dragged herself out of bed with her last alarm bleat of the morning, brushing her teeth with a shaking hand. It had been easy to forget about the giant fork sitting in her studio when she was at Central with Oliver and her friends, but now that she was about to bring it into thesis, she was panicking all over again. In the room where she was expected to present her work, a pedestal had already been set up on the far wall, per her request. As if it were a baby in her arms, she gently released the fork she was cradling onto the heavily scuffed pedestal and gulped hard. Her classmate across the room was finishing an install of papercut manta rays across the other wall and offered Kara a half-smile from up on the ladder when she saw the fork. Kara dragged a metal stool over to the pedestal and sat next to it, bouncing her foot until she heard the familiar voices of Jenna and her other faculty bounce down the marble hallway. She froze as her classmate scuttled out of the room to give her privacy for the critique. “Hi Kara,” Jenna called from the doorway once she’d arrived. She was joined by Josiah Williams, the metalsmith and previous Guggenheim fellow, and Vidalia Metz, ceramicist and noted hardass. Kara had Vidalia for Forms and Figures and she’d picked up and dropped someone’s polymer clay sculpture on the ground during a critique once, making a point about deconstruction as its little plasticky pieces scattered across the linoleum. She gulped while her critics filed into the room. “And of course, Chrysanthemum Hayes.” Kara felt her soul leave her body when her art crush walked into the room, wearing an appropriately yellow floral jumpsuit and surrounded by an aura of calm power. The fork felt like a big risk, but Oliver had talked her up. Kara put her shoulders back and introduced herself to start the critique. “So, first, I’m going to have everyone respond to what they see initially without you speaking,” Jenna began. “And then I’ll open the floor for you to respond after that.” Kara nodded. The critics fixed their eyes on the hot pink fork before them. “Right off the bat, I’m really struck by the sculptural work you’ve attempted with the heat gun, but I do wish the craft matched up with the conceptual aspects of the piece,” Vidalia said after a moment. “I think it could be such an interesting exploration of the ways craft work is regarded as women’s work.” “It’s also not bad enough to be intentional, you know?” Josiah piggybacked. “The proportion is off in a few places, but not enough that it’s deliberately exaggerated. There could be such an interesting dichotomy between the craft of the piece and the fact that it’s craft work, and I just feel like that’s missing. I don’t know, I kind of want to see it in metal forks and not plastic ones.” “I almost wish you had explored the idea of multiples,” Jenna added. “Instead of working with the silk flowers. I mean, I don’t think those really add to the piece. But can you imagine if there were three or four of these in different sizes, maybe different cutlery?” “I absolutely agree, Jenna,” Chrysanthemum chimed in. Kara winced on the inside. “I can see where you were going with the silk flowers, but I think they make the piece look like it’s trying a little too hard, you know? Same with the hot pink—I just think it’s all a little too obvious.” “Definitely,” Josiah said. “I think there’s still a direction for this, you know, maybe painted blue or purple and pushed more with the heat gun. And I don’t disagree about multiples—what if you made an entire place setting of these?” “Or an entire kitchen, really,” Chrysanthemum suggested. “What about a frying pan or a blender?” Kara continued to sit in the din of four highly respected artists tearing her piece apart as she thought about the gallery show. If by some miracle she got in, her piece would probably be hung by the emergency exit if this was how Chrysanthemum was responding to it. But honestly, her hopes weren’t very high anymore. Why had she listened to Oliver? Jenna’s voice snapped Kara out of the trance she’d found herself in: “Kara, did you have anything you wanted to add?” Kara’s face was blank. ◎◎◎ Kara rolled over in her bed on the following Tuesday morning, still hesitant to open her eyes just yet after another late shift the night before. She checked her watch to find that it was almost noon. Begrudgingly, she opened her phone and scrolled through her notifications, wrapped in a blanket like a burrito. The group chat wants to get brunch on Saturday. Grubhub coupon. Rain alert from the Weather Channel. Kara paused as she caught the subject line of the first email in her inbox: Groff Contemporary juried exhibition results. Her stomach plummeted and she tapped the notification. Thank you for your submission to “Queer Forms” guest juried by Chrysanthemum Hayes. We received a substantial number of excellent submissions and regretfully, yours was not chosen by our juror for the exhibition. Kara hauled herself out of bed and walked across the room to the giant pink fork she’d leaned against her kitchen table. Well buddy, she thought. You’ve served me well, I guess. Kara threw open her kitchen window and, after only a moment’s hesitation, dropped the fork four stories down into the alley. The handle held together surprisingly well, but the tines shattered off in various directions. Kara then reached for the gin on her kitchen table and poured a shot out for her fallen friend. nat raum (b. 1996) is a disabled artist, writer, and genderless disaster from Baltimore, MD. They’re the editor-in-chief of fifth wheel press, as well as the author of you stupid slut, the abyss is staring back, random access memory, and several chapbooks. Find them online: natraum.com/links.

In setting down this story of my son, Isaiah Monkford, I, Dane Alexander Bettingsley, am guilty of a bit of a misnomer. Because it isn’t after all, the story of his life, for which he is responsible and will have to account before God, his Maker, and will, I trust, be able to make his final account in good order, as I have found him a good and willing Servant of the Lord, if a little wayward at times in his methods. No, it is only the account of how I came to be his father, and his mother, which may perhaps interest my friend Mr. Pettis the lawyer to read in the family records, if no other soul ever sees it. For it is now time for me to make my final response for my choices, days of life, and habits, and as I am at the same time and at an advanced age writing my will and preparing my instructions for Isaiah and Mr. Pettis, following the recent and much-mourned departure of Isaiah’s mother, Alice Wright Bettingsley after a long, eventful, and happy life together with me, as I hope I may account it and hope she will in the afterlife be so valuing it and waiting to greet me on the Other Side, I thought it good to reveal the story of Isaiah Monkford’s origins as far as I know them. My life has been long, as I am now 85, and at the beginning of my young adulthood, I was not so trustworthy a Steward of the Lord as I hope and pray I will be estimated when I cross the Final Divide someday soon. I was far more wayward in a kind of ordinary depravity, namely, drinking and carousing with those I mistakenly judged to be bosom intimates, when in fact they were only typical young wasters and immature beings like myself. They were drawn to me mostly by force of the “deeper pockets” allowed me by my indulgent and wealthy parents, the Rockingham Bettingsleys of the state of ----------------. This was only borne in upon me in my young days of stupor and foolishness, after finally my father and mother earnestly beseeched me to change my way of life, and on the same week I happened to accidentally overhear from a private place a group of my friends, as I had thought them, making fun of me and referring with satisfaction to my wealth and mistaken generosity. A man of pride and overweening conceit at the time—though in this case such feelings were the beginnings of my developing a better course of action and leading a more superior life—I was understandably revolted and taken aback by this, and resolved to revise my list of friends and cut them off “at the source.” But as I soon found, in our small town I had acquired a bad reputation, and the gentler and more sober youths of my acquaintance were leery of me and resolute in their tactful avoidance of me, even those who also more moderately frequented the bars and taverns as one of their pastimes. There was no choice other than to make a complete revision of my ways, and to find another place for my recently acquired and more temperate habits and indulgences. For this, I sought out a mild and well-tended little tavern in the main part of town, run by a well-known deacon of one of the local churches, named George Barnes. George was an honest and trusted older friend for me to take my troubles to in the time-honored and stereotypical relationship of barkeep to patron, and until his death fifteen years ago or so, was a treasured confidant and friend. It was through him that I met my wife, his first-cousin, a fine girl and a modest one named casually “Molly,” though as I said, Alice Wright was her real name. Though my parents in their perhaps over-fortunate way of life at first had questions about my courtship and eventual marriage to a member of the mere middle class who was moreover working for George as a barmaid at the Quail and Pheasant, the bar he had named in affection for his own birdwatching pursuits, they soon fell in love with Alice and her humorous temper and loving ways; moreover, as she had a very good influence on me, I was soon reading for the law with my father’s law firm, and after I went through the premier university in the state for four years, starting as a slightly older student, and took my law degree, Alice and I were married in a quiet ceremony. She had meantime gone to the university in accounting and economics, and became a sharp-minded and equal partner in my business affairs and conduct. We joined my parents’ church, a really rather milquetoast non-denominational congregation, as a way of joining in a proper local community for socialization and pleasurable activities. In a small country town in a rather rural state, as it was at the time, there weren’t many options. I continued to frequent the Quail and Pheasant, though my drinking was now quite restrained, and so as not to deprive George of a portion of his income, Alice and I often took a working lunch there during the week, as George’s wife Melody ran an excellent kitchen behind the scenes. I perceive that I have wandered, in the way of many an older person, in the supposed course of talking about my son, Isaiah Monkford, into talking about myself and my life. But as one thing leads to another and all lives the world over are intertwined at some points, perhaps I may be forgiven for starting a history of my son’s beginnings with some of those of his predecessor, myself. As I now come to the part of the tale that more deeply and accurately concerns Isaiah, I will now move to it without further ado. It was the wish of myself and my wife, as it most usually is with newly married couples once they have experienced the first fine savor of being together in intimate circumstances, to add to our family, namely, to bear offspring. But after many attempts to bring this about and much consultation with specialists of the time, not only in our own small town with our trusted family physician of superior merit and worth, but also with experts and attendants from the university’s hospital and even a time or two beyond, it was determined that due to some quirk of strange fate (as I suppose it must often seem to those on the receiving end of its dictates), I was unable to father a child. At the time, choices for reproductive science weren’t as profound and numerous as they are today, and after mastering the heartache and pain of the verdict as well as we could, Alice thought that we definitely should look into adoption. In the generosity of her heart and her nature, as I trust and believe it to be, since I suspect she too would have liked for the two of us to be able to have a child made of our own beings, she even presented this to me as a sort of slight advantage, in that she would not have to go through the physical trials and tribulations of bearing a child, but would be able to experience only the joy. While we didn’t definitely choose against adopting an older child, who might possibly have issues of abandonment or other problems from having been a ward of the system for some years, we were admittedly selfish in our preference for a baby or younger child, whom we might influence more readily to adopt our way of life and who might be fitted into the form of our family more easily. But although my new friends and acquaintances had accepted me as an upstanding citizen and worthwhile person, we came to find that the adoption system of the time, statewide and even beyond, could not look past my early records of a number of arrests by the town constable for drunk and disorderly behavior during evenings and early morning carousals out with my former cohorts. No doubt this matter would have been different had my parents done as most privileged people as a regular thing do and bought me out of my punishments, but in their general wisdom and their own good conduct and discipline, they had left me to take my “licks” of short spans of jail time in the local hoosegow; fines; and other penalties. So, we were having too much difficulty gaining traction with adoption agencies, always dreading the moments after their receipt and review of our records as individuals. My friend George was naturally sympathetic with us, and one day when I was having a lone lunch at the Quail and Pheasant, his former barmaid “Molly,” called that in fun by him at first, as barmaids must all be named “Molly,” that is to say, my wife Alice, had not come with me. She had cried off due to having to finish up a series of accounts we were having trouble with; it’s a strange truth of at least modern human nature, but even in the most peaceable and gentle community, people will still find reason to sue their acquaintances and neighbors, so we were kept busy. George, in the accustomed place behind the bar, was also kept busy, not only by the lunch crowd, some of whom were sitting there and ordered there, and others whom his two new barmaids served at their tables. But when he got a moment, he looked around, observed that the crowd had thinned and that most of the remaining bar-sitters were at one end, and then beckoned me to the other end, where he quickly became confidential. He inquired after our health, but then went rapidly on to the matter which he was interested in communicating. “Have you had any better luck with the adoption agencies lately?” he asked. “We have temporarily put that matter on hold, George, as it has become very time-consuming at a date when we are busy with work. We want to go on, but don’t want to leave it in the hands of others. It is, after all, a personal matter.” “Well, I hope that as a sort of remote connection of the wife you won’t mind me commenting, then, but I have a private word to drop in your ear, a sort of thing you might not know about, confided to me a few years ago, and not known to many at all. So, I’m hoping that as a personal friend whom I’m trusting with this tip, you’ll never spread it about to any others afflicted with your situation or to anyone else at all but Molly, but only send them my way should they need help, without saying at all why you’re sending them to me. It’s strictly on the qt, you see.” Mystified, but buoyed up by the very suggestion that George might have a solution to our problem, I agreed. “Seek out the Monkfords, of Briary Glen, down by the old sawmill road path, Dane. That’s the best I can tell you. I don’t know that they’ll help you, but if anybody may, they will. They are strictly not legit, though they are kind and well-intended and a bit quirky. Some have called them ‘Gypsies,’ because they’ve seen a large crowd of children there when they trespass that way, but Mr. Monkford and his older boys keep most people away at a distance, so it doesn’t happen often. As to the right or wrong of it and name-calling of Romany peoples, I don’t know the truth of it, and don’t think it important. They are clean and upright citizens from what I’ve seen of them, no troubles with the law from what I’ve ever heard of them, none of that gossipy stuff people usually say about people who keep themselves to themselves. But Mr. Monkford and I go a ways back, to when we were young men working on the railroad together, and though I haven’t seen him lately, and he’s getting on for middle age like me now, I trust he’s still up to conducting his real business these days, other than the farming and firewood supply he does on the side with his boys. “His wife, Annabeth, is a good person in the extreme, a beauty in her day, and a good mother to all the children who pass their way. The way it’s done is that I or one other of the few people he trusts drop him a word that you’re interested in having a child, and he makes it happen. As simple as that. Not much paperwork, no queries, though your wife and you will need to keep up the fiction among people that you found some out-of-state agency which made it happen for you. And then take your chances that someone else will ask you for help getting in touch with it. I mean, you don’t want anyone to use you as a recommendation at some agency you lie about, only to start questions going.” “That shouldn’t be a problem,” I spoke up eagerly and a little too loudly, so George lowered one hand in midair for me to keep it down. In a quieter tone, I said, “Most people who aren’t in our family aren’t aware of how long we’ve been trying to adopt, and no one we know is having trouble conceiving. It’s at times seemed like a mockery of fate, that they’ve all had children so easily.” Then another thought came to me. “But what about the child’s health? And how old will it be? Will it be a boy or a girl?” George smiled. He was clearly gratified at having been able to help. “The child has been well cared for by Annabeth and Elizias Monkford, fed good, healthy farm food whatever its age. If it’s an older child, it’s been given lots of good exercise and good home teaching, as Annabeth was a teacher before she married, and it knows some things about proper discipline and respect and has some book learning, including the Good Book. Look, why don’t you go home and confide in Molly—Alice, I mean, of course—and the two of you decide about what age you’re looking for, what sex, and come back and see me. Meantime, I’ll speak to Elizias and let him know I may have someone else interested. The last point is, though he doesn’t sell children, as that would be slaving, he does charge a small finder’s fee of $100 per child for infants and children under three, and $200 for older ones. But the ones above five or six, he keeps and raises as his own, and has never had a single problem with any of his kids.” I laughed, in some relief still, but with some bemusement. “It’s funny that he charges more for those older ones; that’s the reverse attitude of adoption agencies, where they seem to regard the older ones as harder to place.” “Ah, well, for Elizias and Annabeth, they’ve spent more time and money and upbringing attention on the older ones. You’ll see, they don’t regard it as a commercial transaction, really. They take my vouching for you as adequate proof of your trustworthiness and kindness, they don’t serve strangers. If you knew how many people here, in this state alone, they have helped! But I don’t mean to make you start looking askance at your neighbors for evidence of illicit adoption, which is what this would be called at the very least if the authorities found it out, so I urge you again to keep it to yourself. Let me know soon. Now, I’ll bet Alice would like to hear from you, so you finish up and toddle on home with the news, my friend. And if it can suit as a plan, it’s been a pleasure to help.” With this subtle hint, I was careful only to leave George his usual tip with my meal, which, while generous, did not reflect all that I owed him then, or that we’ve come to owe him since. And that was the way the whole thing was set up. I went home and did as he suggested, and though she found it hard to believe that our luck could have changed and was quite suspicious at first of the Monkfords, finally Alice had to admit that George would never steer us wrong, and that whomever he vouched for was certainly likely to be worthy. We agreed that we preferred to have a male child, as at the time in society matters of inheritance and legality were unfairly but rather strictly geared to favoring the male line. We also wanted in our heart of hearts an infant, and, as we weren’t in any way experienced with children and infants, one who was fairly tranquil, though we knew that babies as a lot were unpredictably querulous at times. We were more than willing to embark upon this new chapter of our lives, however, and to that end, Alice went out of town and bought the best-recommended books on infant- and child-rearing that she could find, in preparation. In between the consultations for our practice, we read them to each other in the most important parts, often getting amused at the huge challenge we had set ourselves and feeling elated at the same time. On the appointed day when I was to pick up our infant, whom we had decided to name Isaiah, after the prophet who predicted the coming of Christ and whose name means “God is Salvation,” I was filled with a certain amount of trepidation, not unlike that I had felt in my early life when I was hellbent upon some form of mischief, with accomplices in mayhem, that would lead to disorder and chaos, for I think and hope that I was not bad by inclination, but only by casual habit, and I often hesitated when about to follow a bad course. My trepidation at this time was because I feared that someone would see me with the bassinette bearing it into the woody area where the Monkfords lived and that I would get them into trouble or even myself likewise. But they had left instructions with George as to where I should go, and so I was unattended by any intruders as I walked across the sward to a wooded area away from the high road up above, where I could still see occasional sluggish country vehicles passing, hay wains and chugging tractors and the like. Suddenly, though, as I kept bearing down on the path I’d been instructed to follow, I heard a loud, cacophonous noise, attempting to approach a sort of melody but sounding more like simple caterwauling of instruments, perhaps a calliope. When in apprehension I looked back to the road on my left up the bank, I saw a crawling, huge series of arm and leg extensions atop machine parts of all different sizes and shapes and colorful in the extreme, in all shades of the rainbow. The procession resembled nothing so much to my startled mind as something out of the science fiction of the writer H. G. Wells, of whose work I had long been a devotee. When I recollected myself, and my good sense and reassured conscience reasserted themselves, I saw that it was simply the machinery of the summer travelling carnival come to town, on its way to a farther field down the road where it would set up shop for a few weeks for the edification of its local country audience. I bore on, now doubly intent on my mission to escape detection and come away with the new member of our family, the one who would be our heir and scion. As I reached the heavy tree line, I saw a man approaching through a break in the trees. This seemed unusual, and I wasn’t sure who he was, but it was the appointed time for the meeting with Elizias Monkford, so I first plumped up the covers in the bassinette as a facsimile of a baby already there but turned it away from the one who approached me, so it couldn’t be seen to be empty. There was no reason to worry, however. He stopped; waiting for me to come closer, as I warily made my way towards him, he raised a cautious hand and waved. “Dane Bettingsley?” he asked when I got to him. He was dark-featured and intense-looking, but had a kind face and manner. Though he looked a bit worn, he seemed strong and in the prime of life still. When I nodded and flipped open my wallet in my spare hand to my driver’s license and solicitor’s card for identification, his mouth quirked a bit, but he held out a weathered hand when I had put it up and said, “Monkford. I’ve got to go ahead of you and get the small things packed up, and such papers as we have, you know, an approximate birthday and health records—” “You’ve kept up with that? How? I mean, without being—caught.” His mouth smirked again, but not in an unfriendly way. “We have our own network of friends, and a doctor who comes to treat us. Not to worry, the baby’s healthy, five months or so old, born in January, things like that in the records we have. It’s not much. We don’t want to hand you the papers and the infant out here, that’s why we instructed you to bring a bassinette, where they could be hidden. George Barnes will of course have given you the usual precautions.” He paused and looked at me with one of the keenest and most intent examinations I’ve ever been subjected to. When I meet my Maker, I think to find such a glance as that, questioning my conscience and intentions. “Yes,” I answered. “We, my wife Alice and I, commit to keeping faith with you and won’t ever reveal anything about you to anyone else.” I paused. “Look, I hate to bring this up, it seems petty, but do I give you the $100 now, or—I’m a little nervous from all the recent excitement and traffic up the road, and I want to be back home as soon as possible. I’m so worried about being detected!” His voice was soothing, but firm. “Nothing to worry about, all you look like is a man out for a walk with his baby in a bassinette, and that’ll all be true enough very soon. Just keep calm. I’m going to go back to the house on Briary Glen and tell Annabeth you’re on your way. You bear on down against the tree line—see that path there, that I crossed?” I nodded. “You keep walking in the same direction you’re going now, on that path, and one of my boys will meet you and bring you down through the trees to our place. We’ll be waiting for you, and you and I and Annabeth can settle things then.” It was curious, but as he started to turn away and go back the way he had come, instead of shaking my hand again, he made some sort of salute like a dismissed soldier in a very casual way. Then, he was gone, and disappeared back through the trees as I kept bearing on where he had described and instructed. The woods were filled with a riotous chorus of birds, and butterflies flitted from the field which I was leaving across my path as I approached the trees. All this and being closer to being in private relieved my mind and lifted my spirits. I looked at my watch. It was about midafternoon, but the June sun was quite hot on my back, and I resolved to be sure and cover up the baby’s tender skin well with the bassinette blankets. I’d earlier had fears that maybe the baby would fret and be discontented, but that was the least of my worries now; as long as I could get him safely home, he was welcome to set up as big a fuss as his little healthy lungs could manage! Nearly as suddenly as Elizias had appeared, a far smaller figure appeared from the trees ahead as I walked along. He was only about seven or so by appearance, and was wearing a checked shirt, suspenders, and a pair of short pants. His feet were bare, and his cheeks as ruddy as those of any country boy I’d ever seen. His hair was dark, his eyes snapping black even at this distance. He was featured so like his father and protector that I concluded this boy was one of Elizias’s own sons, sent to lead me on. He waited until I reached him, then asked, “What’s your name?” “Dane. What’s yours?” “Never mind. Look at the violets up here, just this way. This is the way we go, to Briary Glen. Watch your step now, Dane.” I was enchanted by the combination of his secrecy about his name, his interest in the flowers, which were not after all violets, but were purple, and his concern about my balance. “You know, it’s late in the season for violets. They’re much earlier. They are purple flowers, though, and of about the same shade as violets, I’ll give you that.” “That’s okay, you don’t have to give me any, I like them blooming where they are. I see them every time this season when I come up here.” Before I could explain my idiomatic expression, he continued, asking, “What are they, if they aren’t violets?” “You know, I don’t know. I bet, though, if you took some home to your mom the teacher, she could tell you. Maybe you could pick just one.” He looked as if considering this, and then reached down and plucked one, tucking it into his shirt pocket. “Thanks.” “Don’t mention it. That means, ‘You’re welcome.’” “Oh, okay. C’mon, we’d better go now, or we’ll be late.” I wondered if there was some time frame during which I was supposed to arrive and be seen, but I’d only been told the time for the original meeting with Elizias. “Okay, this is the hard part. Do you want me to carry the little basket?” he asked. We had approached a perpendicular path that led down the bank through the woods, and it was steep. Luckily, I was wearing shoes that could grip such a path fairly well. “This is called a ‘bassinette.’ It’s a basket just for a baby. And no, I thank you for the thought, but it’s a bit cumbersome. I’d better carry it. You go ahead and just lead the way, but go slowly. I’ll follow your lead.” It took some doing, and I wondered how we were going to get back up the bank well and safely with a baby of five months’ weight inside, but that was something I thought I could deal with later, and so I edged my way down the bank behind my mystery benefactor and guide, one foot higher than the other, until we reached the bottom of the rise. The woods were cool and breezy, and it was a relief to be in a world of green ceiling so thick that it was nearly impossible to see sky for the leaves and overhanging branches. The boy continued to lead me along a well-worn path until we saw a sprightly and quite large country cottage ahead, with numerous room additions built on, obviously though not inharmoniously since the original construction. When we had been greeted and ushered inside by Elizias himself, who handed me papers of various kinds and explained them, next watching me secrete them in the depths of the bassinette along with a few teddies and stray bits of baby clothes below the platform for the baby, I took a minute to look around. We were in the informal foyer of the main section. To one side, which he led me into next, was a room filled to every corner and nook with cozy little tables and chairs, all prettily painted and well kept up. And at each table was at least one child and usually several, engaged in eating a late afternoon snack. They were mostly very young, and of all complexions and ethnicities, so that I knew Elizias was spending well more than he took in for their upkeep, as most of them were not the children of his body. From another room nearby and to the back, I could hear the sounds of several infants, some fretting or crying in a normal sort of baby way, others making chortling or cooing sounds, and I could hear more than one adult female voice making appropriate sounds of response. Elizias and I concluded the business part of the deal, with my handing him the $100 in cash plus another $200 that I hoped he would accept. I had spoken to George about this further donation, and he had said that he wasn’t sure Elizias would accept, but as most people who came to him didn’t have my means, maybe he would find it welcome when knowing that it posed no hardship to me. I explained this to the children’s benefactor, and he reddened, and thanked me heartily, still not shaking my hand, but taking it between the two of his and giving it a good hard pat on the back. “You’re doing good here,” I said. And he thanked me again for the thought. Then, from the babies’ room, I heard “Elizias, would you come now?” Giving me a final salute as he had before, he went to the babies’ room and soon amid directions about certain babies from a mature female voice, and some laughter from a younger woman’s voice, I heard—improbably to my mind at the time, though I would soon be assuming such a role myself—a male voice singing a lullaby that seemed to quiet most of the crying, if not all. A buxom woman with the same rosy cheeks as the little boy of my first acquaintance and the same brunette coloring as her husband and child came in bearing a baby swaddled up in warm blankets, one which was waving a fist in the air in a languid manner and making a few stray baby sounds. Momentarily distracted, I thought to myself that it was no wonder people thought they were Romany people, as it was a typical supposition that all Roms were saturnine, dark-haired and -eyed folk, despite much evidence to the contrary, particularly in Scandinavian and Northern lands and climes. She approached me at first uncertainly, but as I placed the bassinette on a spare table and made it ready in top to receive its intended inhabitant, smiling at her as reassuringly as I could, she came towards me with more self-command. “Annabeth?” I said. “Hello, I’m Dane Bettingsley. Is that the young man I am to pick up today?” “Yes,” she said, very tremulous all of a sudden. “And he’s a dear. Just to have something to call him, we’ve been calling him ‘Charlie,’ but of course, you’ll already have a name picked out. He’s the most pleasant and happy little baby, already laughs and coos and tries to sing with us when we sing to him. We’re going to miss him—” she seemed near to tears. “—but we’re all very happy that you’re taking him to a good home.” She hesitated, not really wanting to give him up, but then handing him across to me. I did my best to take him in the approved baby-holding manner taught me by my wife, and George’s wife on a slack shift at the tavern. He looked up at me in a noncommittal manner. I awkwardly made some inarticulate sounds that were not like anything I’d ever made before, but evidently, ‘Charlie’ was of a temperate, even an optimistic, frame of mind, and he cautiously hazarded a slight smile. I thought that at the age of five months, surely such a smile was no longer just gas, as George’s wife had instructed might be the case. Annabeth and I looked at each other, I at her for approval of my tactics and apparent success, she at me as reassurance. She patted my outside hand and squeezed it, not able to venture upon words for the threat of tears. Looking at her, I made a decision then and there about the naming of the infant. I couldn’t very well name him Isaiah Charlie or Charlie Isaiah, but there was something I could do, and I vowed I would. “Annabeth,” I said, taking another look down at the tiny, scrunched-up face of the baby, who seemed now to be waiting for something momentous, such as I hoped it would be, “This baby is named Isaiah Monkford Bettingsley. And if you or any of yours at any time are in any difficulty or trouble whether legal or financial or something else, you come to me, and in the course of things, after me to him. We’ll look after you. My wife’s name is Alice, though she used to be known as ‘Molly’ when she tended bar for George Barnes at the Quail and Pheasant. You can also approach her. She’s my accountant, and if you feel the need of a woman’s support at any time, she’s your woman. If anybody queries the middle name ‘Monkford,’ we’ll claim some long-lost distant connections in England or somewhere. You can count on us.” Of course, I had intended to be supportive of her womanly and adoptive parental difficulties at separating from Isaiah, but for the moment, she was overcome with tears and sighs and solemn “thank-you’s” and “you’ve been so kind,” and the like. We said goodbye at the door without my having seen Elizias again, though she regained enough composure to tell me to walk in the opposite direction to that in which I had originally walked, ignoring the path up the incline entirely. I would come, she said, to the end of the tree line for a space in a clearing, and that would lead directly up a much gentler hillside to the parking lot where the car was. And the upshot of all this was, that we, Alice and I, had our son. We have raised him without any problem or inquiry from anyone, and he has been a model of rectitude and superior intellect, barring a few slight missteps in adolescence, such as most parents experience from their young. We also only heard from the Monkfords one more time, when Annabeth’s mother was ailing and needed care. When we found out how serious her health problems were, we helped to place her in one of the best nursing care facilities in the nation, to Isaiah’s great approval and appreciation, and he periodically took trips to visit her before her death at the age of 105. I perceive, to the possible frustration and boredom of Mr. Pettis, my worthy lawyer, that I have overstepped the bounds of personal legal record and in many places embarked upon the guessing and guessable realm of creative endeavor, as I have tried to portray my son’s beginnings with our family. Such medical papers as we have regarding his infant health have been placed with Mr. Pettis, and are kept with this account in our family legal documents. My son, Isaiah Monkford Bettingsley, though not the son of my body, will never be declared to be otherwise by my will, whereon he will figure as my only heir, and co-trustee of my accounts with Mr. Pettis and Ms. Zebulah Anderson, my financial advisor, and as inheritor likewise of any accounts, or remainders, or items left by his mother, Alice Wright Bettingsley, to me. In perpetuity. As we are at death, so God shall find us in Eternity, Blesséd be the Name of the Lord. Dane Alexander Bettingsley Addendum: Re: The above account of my father, Dane Alexander Bettingsley. Though my first adoptive mother, Annabeth Honoria Monkford, died a natural death at the early age of 63, my first adoptive father, Elizias Monkford, is alive, and lives at Briary Glen Cottage still, though I have provided him with a male nurse-companion, as he often exerts himself unnecessarily with woodchopping and other farm tasks even now, in his old age. I go to see him sometimes, and to hear about his adventures in various railroad jobs and during his time as an enlisted man in the Air Force when he was really a young man, who signed up as soon as got his GED early at the age of sixteen, falsely claiming to be eighteen in order to “pass.” The old cottage is still in fairly good repair, partly in response to his own efforts and partly in respect to my own, as I have had it remodeled on the inside, in an attempt to eliminate some of the “loneliness” he says he feels without Annabeth and all the youngsters there. Also visiting him from time to time is his and Annabeth’s niece, Ebriony James, who was with them as a young attendant of the children at the time I was adopted, or around then. She too is now getting on in years, but still brings him some baked goods or cooked items which are not that good for him, as his nurse attests, but as he is an old man and not in really bad health, we let it go. The above account, though perhaps unduly pious and apprehensive of the judgment of the God my father Dane so strongly came to believe in, or at least to attempt to appease in his later years, is as far as I know accurate in all particulars, as I have chatted with the people concerned who were in his and my mother’s confidence. I have never met knowingly any of the other children who must still be alive around here somewhere who also were provided for by the Monkfords, but every now and then over the years, when I have met someone my age or older who doesn’t at all resemble the rest of their family, I do wonder. As far as I have discovered, none of the rest of them bear the middle name Monkford, or indeed, any last name at all but their adoptive families’. Here ends this account of the beginnings of my life, some of which must always remain open to conjecture and mysterious, except that Elizias Monkford was able at the first to write among my papers for Dane and Alice that my birth parents were from “far away,” and thus I need not fear the almost infinitesimal chance of marrying a near relative. As I at the age of fifty am not yet married, but have recently moved in with my long-time friend and companion, Bertrand Millander, also from “far away,” in this case Provence, I don’t think there’s reason to worry. Both my adoptive father Dane, to whom the main question about Bertrand was whether he was a good Christian or not, and my original adoptive father, Elizias, have for men of their age and cultures been after a while accepting and tolerant of my relationship with Bertrand. Dane left Bertrand a small legacy in his will, and Elizias welcomes him to visit with me sometimes. And now, despite the example of my father Dane’s wordiness, here actually ends the record, for now. Note to Readers: Dear Friends, This story of mine is a mystery to me, as I might as well confess, but I did not write it in any conscious imitation of anyone else; a number of my friends have said it reminds them of the tone and style of Dickens or Hawthorne, and others have teased me about passing some man's writing off as my own, as they don't think a woman could have written it. To resolve the matter once and for all, please let me explain: I dreamed this whole story one night in the fall of 2022, from start to finish. I've had dream fragments before which have inspired poems, stories, what have you, but this one was the story with complete characterization, images, events, and most of the conversations complete when I awoke. Like Coleridge, I too attribute my dream to the overabundance in my system of an intoxicant, though mine was caffeine, not opium. I had been staying up many nights to the dawn more than was good for me, with the result that even when I drank one or two cups of coffee, I could still fall asleep within the hour and sleep uninterrupted for at least five hours at a time. When I awoke one night from such a sleep, this story was the result; all that remained was to rush to write it down. As to the question of whether or not a woman can write a story in a man's voice or a man in a woman's, though it probably depends on the individual, I'd say I prefer to entertain no piggish or priggish prejudices: it happened the way I have said. I hope you will be intrigued by the characterization narratives of my two speakers. VLB Victoria Leigh Bennett, (she/her). Greater Boston, MA area, born WV. Ph.D., English/Theater. Website: creative-shadows.com. In-Print: "Poems from the Northeast," 2021. OOP but on website: "Scenes de la Vie Americaine (en Paris)," [in English], 2022. Between Fall 2021-Spring 2023, Victoria will have published at least 34 times in: @Feversof, @press_roi, @HooghlyReview, @LovesDiscretion, @barzakhmag, @TheUnconCourier, @AmphoraMagazine, @thealienbuddha, @madrigalpress, @winningwriters, @cultofclio. She has also been accepted with 4 poems for the November 2023 issue of @Dreich25197318. Victoria writes Fiction/Flash/CNF/Poetry/Essays. She is the organizer behind the poets' collective @PoetsonThursday on Twitter along with Dave Garbutt and Alex Guenther. Twitter: @vicklbennett & @PoetsonThursday. Mastodon: @vickileigh@mstdn.social & @vickileigh@writing.exchange. Victoria is ocularly and emotionally disabled, which accounts for her running into walls and them shouting at them for getting in her way.

The old pick-up truck rolled over parched gravel, kicking up blankets of dust that settled over the boxes tied in the back. Jostled together, heavy. Cardboard blanched from the sun. Five hundred miles of dust robbed everything of color. Except the one box, jolted open, and the old antique radio in it gleaming green and white like a corpse. The dial, a wide green eye, stared blank at the sun. A peeling blue house on the corner, that was the place I would stay in for the summer. It wasn't home and never would be, but I felt nothing particular. Past is the past. I can't even call it to mind most days. Don't look at something long enough, it hardly exists. Like a dream, a nightmare leaving nothing behind but the unease of forgotten terror. The roommates were on the porch, lounging like dogs in the panting heat. They looked suspicious as I rumbled the truck into the drive. I got out, starting untying ropes keeping the boxes down. Then they figured I was the one meant to move in. Must be the guy from the ad, I heard them. Looks younger than he said he was. Never mind, he's paying cash up front. Saw them saunter over, beers in hand. Offered names, handshakes and to help unload. Long trip? Not really, drove straight from Blair, Nebraska, no stopping. Boxes got heaved out the rusted truck bed, oof. Carried, shoved through the back door, scraped onto the linoleum. It was sparkling. Not a speck of dust. Somebody took pride in it, keeping things neat. Someone else explained how the air conditioner broke and as I had the attic room, it was hotter than Hell. I could sleep on the sofa til it was fixed, if I didn't mind. I didn't mind. The TV was broke, too. That's all right, I didn't bother with TV. I had my guitar. Just as well, I saw that old TV set in a corner. The butt end of a bottle sticking out the screen. Must've been a rough night for somebody, I said. They laughed. Some of them didn't have all their teeth. They brightened up over the old radio. I'd hoped they wouldn't see it. Damn box wouldn't stay closed. Got rained on last night. Did it work? I hope not, I said. Of course they didn't know I wasn't joking and laughed. They set it on the dining room table, plugged in the old cord. I stood in the kitchen doorway looking in. It popped and whined, the old tubes glowing red in back. Hoped they'd bust in the heat, but no. The round green eye glowed, staring at them. Gathered round, they sucked on sweating beer bottles, stared back. Like primitives beholding the eye of the oldest god in the world. They were dumb, in awe of it. That talking box. Forget Top-40 shit, someone said. I wanna hear the game. Suit yourself, I said. Don't touch that middle dial, or you'll regret it. They didn't hear me. The game squawked on without nobody changing the dial. I heard them marveling at it but walked straight out the room. Hauled my stuff to the attic. Up and down stairs in the heat. Couldn't help listening for what happened in the other room. Nothing, just the game. Their voices, cheering their team, booing the other. Just as normal as could be. ### I stopped in the attic room, heat coming up through the floor. Radiating down from the roof. Old house, no insulation. It cooked like an oven. Sucked my wits out with my sweat. Sweat poured from under my arms, made rivers down my sides. The blue denim of my jeans turned dark, soaking in my skin's tears. I didn’t unpack, stood at the window and stared at the big empty yard. The patch of dirt for a vegetable garden growing nothing. Gravel road beyond. No neighbors. Too far to walk into town. Nobody in the whole town of Winteset had seen me, since I drove in on the back roads. Nobody would know when I left, either. Guitar was all I carried downstairs, and a wad of cash to pay the rent in advance. I stopped on the last step, empty kitchen in front of me. Sparkling linoleum. Round the corner, everyone had gone quiet. The game wasn't on. Instead, just static laced with piano music. Old timey stuff. Every last note twanged out of tune. Sophisticated and childish at the same time. But rhythmic. Building. Those off tune notes clanged and rang. Mesmerizing. Communicating. I peeked in. Roommates were staring, dumb as corpses. Like kids getting foggy before nap time. I wished I'd never bought that damned device. Some things end up in your life like they been stalking you. Can't get rid of them, either. Not without trouble. The dining room was hotter than when I left. All the windows open, fans running constant. Flies swarming in. Floorboards creaked under my feet as I stepped in. Joined them. The radio jumped to static. Roommates came to, saw me. Came back to life like resurrected figures. Might storm later, somebody said. He always says that, said another. Well, that would be a blessed relief, I said. I'd forgotten their names already. Switched off the radio like it was nothing. Got the last few boxes out the truck in case it rained. Heavy ones. Stiff and wooden like bodies. Six of them. My burdens, I called them. Hauled them upstairs, came back down again. A time would come, maybe soon, I wouldn't be able to move them no more. Took a beer from the fridge, ran it over my forehead, neck, bare chest. Put it back unopened. Never touched the stuff. Man's more civilized inventions were not man's at all—but knowledge handed down from the gods. And everything the gods handed down was nothing but an open door for evil. Not the evil in men, but another kind. The kind with purposes all its own. In my rucksack was a jar of honeycomb. I unscrewed the lid, took a couple bites, then hid it away. I had come to know through the years that my habits were unusual. It made living with people difficult sometimes, even when it all went well. Conversation ran dry as the dirt road sprinkled in hot rain. Radio wouldn't play, not when I set both feet in the same room. They couldn't figure it out. Played with the tuning knobs. It was too old to have an antenna. I sat in the corner, strumming the guitar. Music breaks apart the spell, you see. The green eye still glowed, but it wouldn't play. Not even static. Hell, this damn thing! I'll go crazy if it don't play something, somebody said. What about that middle dial? What's it do? They looked at me, remembering what I'd said. Wondering if it mattered. Wondering what regret tasted like. I watched them, cool as a bottle from the fridge. Sometimes people know better. They know better but help themselves. They hunkered down, staring at that middle dial made of ebony and carved with letters. One of them reached out, touched it. My fingers clenched up, guitar strings twanged off tune. Are these channels or something? A, Z, O. They tried each one. Click. Silence of a black hole on channel A. Click, click. Microphone dropped into the ocean on channel O. Click. A human sound on channel Z. Faint, disturbing. We strained to listen. Whispering voices but not loud enough to make it out. The volume got turned all the way up but no difference. A violin played just beneath, one constant note. Off tune. My hands went limp, nearly dropped the guitar. Familiar. Couldn't tell where I had heard it before. Lately my memory had more and more blank spaces. Gaps like vast stretches of ocean. A surface gray and shifting. Like old blankets draped over rooms full of furniture. Couldn't tell what was underneath. Months? Years? Everyone’s eyes turned hollow. Expressions blank. Turn it off! It was barely my voice. A croak. No one moved. Heavy like too much dope. The sluggish feeling of a dream body unable to take another step, get out the way of a speeding truck. The whispering got louder, voices in any language. Couldn’t make it out, but there was snarling underneath. Animal sound. Someone came home from work, found us like that. Ripped the plug out the wall. We blinked at each other. Wary. Animals in a zoo: cautious, measuring each other up. Friend or foe. The hell you guys listening to? Nobody had an answer. Somehow it was dark. Near midnight. Rain blasted down. Thunder brought our wits back. The radio sat dead on the table. Forgotten. We went to our separate rooms, the doors left open for the cool air roaming the house. I took the couch. Guitar on the floor beside me. Didn't think about pillow or blankets. Just sank down into sleep like a tomb. Day hot as ever, house empty. All of them gone to work I guessed. Sprawled in the shade outside, shirt off, propped against a tree, guitar strumming lazy. The notes jangled and jarred, like I’d forgotten what music meant. Fingers moved on their own. Whispering over the strings. Strange whispers. Off tune. I'd catch myself doing it. Willed it to stop Then my thoughts would wander, get caught in the shifting leaves above me. Then I'd hear it again. My fingers working against me. Fed up, I went in. Found myself minutes—hours?—later on my knees beside the kitchen table. Power cord in hand. It was frayed, the plug half ripped off. An easy fix, just copper wires. Thought about getting my tool kit out the truck. Stood up and then I saw it. Strangest thing. Someone put flowers around the radio—not proper in a vase, just strewn all over the top and in front. Marigolds. Hello? I called, thinking one of them came home early. No answer. A floorboard creaked somewhere. A rusty hinge on a door shrieked—cut off. Silence held its breath. Went and stood by the hall that lead to the bedrooms. Listened. Imagined one of them crouched behind a door, listening back. I didn’t go looking. Went outside, sat on the porch swing and rocked, the guitar sitting next to me. If I could play one chord, remember one song, I might snap out of it. Just couldn't trust my hands. The sun set, sky blanketed in red. Crickets started a tune, synchronized from across the yard. Cars came home. Headlights blinded my night-calmed eyes. Dust rose up as one by one they parked in the drive. Footsteps and voices in the house. Normal. Civilized. Laughter. The hiss of beer bottles being opened. Hey, look! The power cord got fixed, somebody said. The radio turned alive. An angry hiss and crackle. Old timey music blared, out of tune. My body protested moving, standing. I pushed myself to go in. Held onto the door frame of the dining room, looking in. It blazed with light. Everyone stood round the table, attentive as disciples. Their faces shone green in the light of that glowing eye. Hungry for them. And they were hungry for it. I wanted to laugh, but couldn’t make my face move. I felt dull and heavy. Started craving that off tune note of the violin. The whispered voices. The animal growl. How long we all stood there, I don't know. Somebody came home late, found us like that. Frozen. I looked at him, pleading. Mute. He didn’t say anything, switched off the radio and cleared away the flowers. There were dangerous eyes on his hands. Large and work-tanned. A mole on his right thumb. A thick, steel chained wrist watch. Spell broken, I shuffled into the living room and collapsed on the couch. The wind outside whipped up dust and gravel. Rattled against windows. Howling. I felt sad like a child robbed of their best toy. Couldn't understand it. Tears ran down my face as I fell asleep without thoughts or dreams. The house was hot and empty. Bright and aching with the white noon day sun. Swung my feet off the couch and knocked over several beer bottles. Days worth. Some had mold in them. Knew they weren't mine. Picked them up in my arms and carried them to the kitchen. The flowers were back on the radio, I saw in passing. A silver platter was in front of it, antique like. A porcelain bowl, paper towel covering something wet and sticky that flies fought over. Kept walking, set bottles on the kitchen counter. Tripped over a knife on the floor all wet and sticky. Tossed it in the sink and opened up the fridge, just for the cool air. A thud from upstairs. I looked at the ceiling, at dust filtering down. The attic room was just above. A rustling sound from up there. Heavy, like boxes tipped over. Climbed up the narrow stairs. My feet crunched on glass. Twigs. Leaves. Inside the room, I saw the window smashed in. A tree beside the house had fallen right through the window. Heavy branches covered the bed. Would have killed me if I'd been sleeping there. I checked the large boxes, secured with cords. One got open. Tree branch tore through it. Cords were cut. I stared at it, knowing that was a bad thing but couldn't say why. Come to think of it, everything was wet. Like rain got in, but no rain last night. How long since there was a storm? The night I arrived. But when was that? Downstairs my guitar was missing. Found it on the porch. Tripped over it when I went outside. The strings thrummed in harmony. My thoughts cleared. I should leave. Up and leave it all. The boxes, the radio. All of it. Get in the truck, peel out. Don't take anything but what's in my pockets. Okay, I decided. But somehow I walked back through the house, instead of just walking through the yard to my truck. I passed the dining room table. Flowers were back. Dull green eye fixed to the top of the old radio. My hand reached for it—like my body had its own plan, nothing to do with my head. Reached over the silver platter. The porcelain bowl. Flies crawling over it thick like a black handkerchief. Hand clasped the smooth green eye. It began to glow, cool and liquid smooth as stone. I pulled at it, trying to rip it off the radio. My other hand went for the ebony carved dial. Neither of them were part of the original radio. They had been added. Somehow doing this disturbed the flies. The paper towel fell to the floor. I saw what was inside the bowl. Blood dried black against work-tanned skin. A mole by the thumb. Severed at the wrist. Thick, steel chained wrist watch still on it. Sick, I doubled over. Vomited on the carpet. Last thing I saw, my face pressed against the carpet, was cords. Severed cords, dragged round a pair of ankles. Bare feet walking towards me. Waxy brown skin. Glass, twigs, leaves. A naked man stood over me. My gaze traced his body, strong as an ox in the sun. Instead of a face or a head, there was just a glowing green dial. He raised his hand. I flinched but he only turned on the radio. Static. Violin. Whispers. Growls. ### Headlights brighten up the room. The back door bangs to. Lights switch on. The dining room blares into existence. I sit up blinking. Roommates stare at me, laughing. What happened to you? somebody asks. Look at all these beer bottles on this counter. Man, you musicians. Somebody else helps me up. The mess is all gone. The carpet cleaned. Flowers cleared. Silver platter and bowl and all the rest, gone. No trace. Girls, brightened up faces and tight jeans. Cool radio! What is that, an antique? Looks like something from Mars. Yeah those old sci-fi films. Geez, it's hot in here. Air conditioner's busted, somebody says. Yeah let's get outta here, the girls say. You coming? We're going to Des Moines. I get my shirt from the bathroom. Realize I've been wearing the same jeans—for how long? I change those too, join the others outside. We pile into the back of somebody's pick up. Cool breeze on the drive. Clear night sky. Stars. Where you from? Here and there; nowhere. You look kinda exotic for Iowa. Like super tan, black hair, pretty blue eyes. What are you? Human, I guess. They laugh. What are you doing here? Gotta job lined up out of state, don't start for another month. The bar is smoky crowded, lined faces and old bottles. Dusty. Old cowboy prints on the walls, steer horns at attention. What do you drink? Nothing, water. That's weird for a musician. There’s laughter and smoke and money brings beer. I start feeling more alive. Did you ever think you’d end up like this when you were in high school? What's high school? I ask. This brings giggles. Sparkling eyes and glossy smiles. I bet you were like real popular in high school. I bet all the girls were after you. I don't remember, I tell them. When's the last time you got laid? Three thousand years ago. The house, peeling blue, pops out of the dark, caught in the circle of headlights. The girls find the garden hose. Headlights left on, the car stereo plays Simon and Garfunkel. Sprayed water, laughter, cheerful screaming through the yard chasing each other with the hose. Their bodies dance in the headlights and halo of water. I join them. Chase follow drenched. Beautiful faces, full of life. I hope they leave before it's too late, and then wonder why. Can't remember. Morning headache. The girls bustle about, talking, laughing, up early. The kitchen homely with the smell of cooking. Sausages, eggs frying. I can't eat flesh but take a warm plain biscuit. A bite of honeycomb. The radio is on the floor, smashed. The green eye separated from the body. Ebony dial amid the rubble. No one asks how it happened. I haul it outside to the trash can. Inside, a silver platter. A broken porcelain bowl. Wadded up paper towel, stained with red. Ketchup, I see clear as day taking it out. It was nothing, just a dream. But something falls out the paper. Thuds to the ground. A thick steel chained wrist watch. Stained red and black. A fly lands on it. Heart racing, I start to feel sick. Glance up at the attic window. Covered over in thick white plastic. Broken glass still in the frame. Behind it, faint shadow, like an arm. A strong body. Naked, fetal, pushing against the opaque membrane. I mean to kill it, whatever it is lurking up there. Grabbing a thick branch from the woodpile, I run inside. Up the stairs. Slower with each step, like I'm caught in a dream. I frab the old iron door knob and twist it. The door is locked. I crouch down, peer through the old key hole. Blackness. The key stuck in it, from the inside. Everyone’s gone out. I go looking for my guitar. The music from last night still in my head. I need to play it before I forget. Guitar behind the sofa. I take it out, hold it, about the strum a chord—then I see it. The green glowing eye. Atop the busted television. The ebony dial too where the tuning knob should be. Somebody fixed the it up. There's no way it works, I tell myself. My hand reaches out. Fingers stretch, pulling me toward the ebony dial. To turn it on? To rip it off? My head can't tell what my body is planning. The roommates come home. Rustling grocery bags. Footsteps linger in the dining room—confused. Something missing, they can't tell what. Anybody seen Justin? somebody asks. Hasn't paid rent in a while. Did he up and move out? They come in the living room. See me crouched in front of the old antique box. Hey buddy, you fix the TV? Awesome! Somebody flicks the power button on. Tubes groan to life, zap, pop, casting a red glow up the wall. We glance nervously one to the other. Is it gonna explode? Here, have a beer. Just water for me. You look tired, man. A hand reaches out to turn the ebony dial. Click. Channel A glows white. Fleeing black shapes and silence. Click, click. Channel O swirls with melted blue and red like blood in the ocean. Click. I’m laughing far away and saying, ‘Don't do it now. You'll regret—' Green and black static flashes rapidly an image we can’t quite make out. Somebody adjusts the old style antenna. Wait, there it goes! Move it to the right. There! Don't touch it. Stand back. The image comes into focus only for an instant. We kneel, transfixed. A naked man with brown waxy skin. Strong as an ox. Instead of a head, a huge glowing green eye. Faintly at first then louder, the sound of a violin. Off tune. Playing a single note. My heart freezes, craving and dreading to hear a whispered voice, an animal growl. Tired, so tired, my head drops to my chest. Somewhere in the house, a rattling CLACK. The door to the attic room unlocks. It's dark. We sit around the dining table. Cords tied round us, each tied to a chair. The TV plays in the other room. Green flashing light shows our faces to one another. The white of our eyes. Terrified. We listen and wait, dumb as beasts. Two of us are missing. Upstairs, heavy footsteps. Thuds. Boxes being overturned, dragged across the floor. Unpacking. The phone rings loud and terrible. Drowns out the whining violin static noise. My thoughts come back to me like dropped marbles. Can you guys see me? Am I dreaming? somebody whimpers. Somebody else gets an arm free. The phone quits ringing. Static violin sails over us. Our minds go blank. The one with the free arm starts to pull out his hair strand by strand with jerky movements. Another one with wild eyes looks at the open door to the kitchen, opens his mouth in a silent scream. In the doorway, three naked men stare at us. Naked with waxy brown skin. Heads replaced with glowing green dials. More footsteps, descending the stairs slow. There are six of them all together. They communicate to one another in soft beeping. Maybe I don't even see them, and close my eyes. I’m all alone when I wake up. The TV's off, the green eye dull and blind. My arms ache, rope burns on them. The house smells like something burnt. Stuffy, rotten. I open up the windows. Flies get in. There are flowers everywhere, trails of them down the hall. From bedroom to bedroom. Little piles in front of each door. I start to sweep up, but in the piles there are bones. The doors are shut, locked from inside. Sobbing from somewhere far away. Maybe under the floor. The basement? I never did ask about it. Never seen a door going down there. Maybe there's a cellar, outside. Hello? I call out. It gets quiet. I head to the back door but stop at the kitchen. The floor is sticky and black. Smells rotten. I don't go in. Don't go looking to see what's upstairs. The house has gone bad. I stay out on the porch til its gets dark. When I go in, the TV turns on by itself. Bright green flashing light. I try not to look at it. The sound reaches me. My mind starts to go. In the flashing light, I see somebody standing over me. Bare feet, pale legs. He's missing his right hand. His head is his own and he looks at me with hunted eyes. Muffled inside a room somewhere, I hear screaming. Can you stop them? the man asks. There's a crowbar in his hand. If I knew how, I've forgotten. He tries to tell me things. How when he kills one of them, they replace themselves. Hunting down another. So there's always six. They take off the head, replace it with a green dial. It makes the body grow strong. Unstoppable. He's tried everything he knew. Marigolds to appease the gods. Burnt offerings. His own hand. What do they want? He runs before I can answer. To the cellar. Somehow I know, his is the voice I heard sobbing beneath the floor boards. They will find him soon. Or maybe I dreamed it. The phone rings all day. I keep to the porch, day and night now. Still hear it through the open window: the violin, static, growls. Cocooned in nothing, I lay unmoving on the porch swing. Awake without thinking. Somebody else is in the house, I think sometimes. I hear things in the day. At night, the green men look for something. Someone. Morning, the spell breaks. TV cuts out, quiet. Through the window, I see strange marks drawn over the TV. Letters or hieroglyphs. A prayer. Fresh flowers. The silver platter, polished, set before the TV. Sometimes there's a bowl covered in rags. Flies everywhere. At night, the attic door unlocks. Footsteps creep. Green lights flash through the windows. Soft beeping noises move from room to room. I never remember what happens next. A memory hovers out of reach. There's a reason for all this. Twilight, a car pulls up. Girls get out. Familiar looking. They bang on the door. Look in the windows. I lay beneath the porch swing, like somebody placed me there out of sight. Hands crossed on my chest, corpse like. Their heels thud onto the porch. Busy, full of life. Nice, clean hands rattle the door knob. Faces peer in the windows. Oh my God, look at the mess! That's creepy, let's just leave. Should we call the police? Nobody's seen them for weeks. Is it really our problem, Cassie? Maybe they don't answer the phone because they didn't pay the bill. Deadbeats. Or they went camping or something. I don't think so, something's wrong here. The car pulls out. Tears over the gravel. Music blares from the open windows. A familiar harmony. Same music the night we went out. I sit up, cracking my forehead against the swing. The pain, the music. My mind jolts up to speed, like a skipped record. I have to get out of here! Now, before it's too late. My memories are shot, but my instincts are back. Crouched there, I know I can't go inside for my car keys. Not without passing the green eye. If it switches on, I'll be lost in the fog again. My stomach growls. My limbs are shaky, weak. I remember what the girls said about the phone bill. The phone hasn't rang in days. Or weeks? I can only hope the electric will get cut off too. I shuffle around the house, ducking low to keep out of sight of the windows. The garden hose in back. I turn the spigot. Nothing. The water company cut the supply. Any day now, the power company might, too. Then I can get in the house, find my keys without the risk. I camp in the shed. Find my guitar, half buried in the dirt. Wrapped in a garbage bag. Like someone tried to hide it. To save it? I stare out the small, dirt smeared window toward the house. Then I see it. The cellar door hidden in the shade. I wait until dark, scavenge in my truck for a jar of honeycomb. In the moonlight, I see myself reflected in the car window. Skeletal, brown skin stretched over bones. Hair turned white. An old man, nearly mummified. Movement catches my eye. The attic window burns lurid green. Shapes pass in front of it. Hulking men with orbs instead of heads. I crawl in the truck bed and lay down flat. Whisper to myself half remembered lyrics. Hum. Not a full song, but enough. My memory sputters to life. They have been with me a long time. Ages. I cart them from place to place, bound to them. And they to me. Six of them, and me the seventh. The head. They hunt for the smartest. It is a game. Only the smartest can outwit them. Prove himself worthy to serve the old god with the green eye. They will turn him into one of them, fortifying his body. Strong as an ox. Then the chosen one will turn against the weakest of the seven. Sacrificing it. Taking the head for itself. I examine my thin, wasted arms in the moonlight. Soon I will pass beyond hunger and thirst. The last piece to fall in the game. Midnight or so, I venture out. The house is dark. Silent. Even the attic window is dark. I search the truck, find a flashlight. Now or never. Gently I place the guitar inside. Everything else, I will leave behind. My burdens. This game. It ends with me. I walk to the house, careful not to scuff the gravel. Open the door, flick on the beam. Black grease covers every surface. The walls stained and streaked. Fresh blood stains the stairs going to the attic. I stop and listen. No sound but my own breathing. My frail body barely heavy enough to make the floorboards creak. The living room. The TV black with paint, dead and quiet. Dead flowers everywhere. The bowl and silver platter broken and overturned. Tiny black beetles everywhere. The sofa broken, cushions slashed. Bloodied. I search the crevices, find my keys. Okay, then—a noise stops me. Gentle as a mouse. Something brushed up against the floorboards from beneath the house. Quick, I run to my truck. Crawl in the cab. Bang the door shut. Keys. Turn. The engine roars to life. BANG BANG BANG! Fists pound on the driver's side window. I cry out, shine the flashlight at it. A woman's face. Let me in! Oh, let me in, mister! My car won't start. There's somebody in the yard! I yank open the passenger door for her. She scrambles in. I peel out before she even grabs a seat belt. Breathless, panting. She looks back at the house. I went in there looking for my friend Justin. Do you know him? It takes me a moment to recognize Cassie, the gal from the bar crawl in Des Moines. She doesn't recognize me. “Get in, it ain't safe,” I told her. She crawled in the passenger side and barely got on her seatbelt before I peeled out of the drive, sped round the corner and got on the back road going toward the highway. Going so fast the truck was bumping, rolling like it was tearing over corpses piled high over the road. But it was just a road, I told myself. “Guess you're pretty spooked too,” Cassie said. “I saw you go in the house. What was in there?” Her eyes were wide and worried. “Nothing,” I said. “Looks like they cleared out.” “You came running out that door like a shot.” “So did you.” She gave a shrug. Shivered. “Something about that place. I can't—can't ever quite remember what it is. Like as soon as I'm not there, I forget. Hey, if you take the next left, we'll circle back round to town. You can drop me off at my folks.” I could tell it occurred to her she was in a car in the middle of the night, speeding over back roads, with a strange man. I had no intention of going back. “I ain't stopping till we get to Grinnell,” I said. “Lots of people around. Bright lights. I just—can't be in the dark no more.” “I got friends in Grinnell, at the college. Say, if you need a place to stay...” She looked me up and down, figuring I was too old to be introduced to her friends. Too old to surf a sofa. I don't blame her. It was my own scent, a kind of outdoorsy funk from sleeping on the porch several nights—how many nights? Too polite to say anything, she rolled down her window to let the cool night air in. I rolled down mine and opened up the hatch in the back window. The house has gone bad. I stay out on the porch til its gets dark. When I go in, the TV turns on by itself. Bright green flashing light. I try not to look at it. The sound reaches me. My mind starts to go. In the flashing light, I see somebody standing over me. Bare feet, pale legs. He's missing his right hand. His head is his own and he looks at me with hunted eyes. Muffled inside a room somewhere, I hear screaming. Can you stop them? the man asks. There's a crowbar in his hand. If I knew how, I've forgotten. He tries to tell me things. How when he kills one of them, they replace themselves. Hunting down another. So there's always six. They take off the head, replace it with a green dial. It makes the body grow strong. Unstoppable. He's tried everything he knew. Marigolds to appease the gods. Burnt offerings. His own hand. What do they want? He runs before I can answer. To the cellar. Somehow I know, his is the voice I heard sobbing beneath the floor boards. They will find him soon. Or maybe I dreamed it. The phone rings all day. I keep to the porch, day and night now. Still hear it through the open window: the violin, static, growls. Cocooned in nothing, I lay unmoving on the porch swing. Awake without thinking. Somebody else is in the house, I think sometimes. I hear things in the day. At night, the green men look for something. Someone. Morning, the spell breaks. TV cuts out, quiet. Through the window, I see strange marks drawn over the TV. Letters or hieroglyphs. A prayer. Fresh flowers. The silver platter, polished, set before the TV. Sometimes there's a bowl covered in rags. Flies everywhere. At night, the attic door unlocks. Footsteps creep. Green lights flash through the windows. Soft beeping noises move from room to room. I never remember what happens next. A memory hovers out of reach. There's a reason for all this. Twilight, a car pulls up. Girls get out. Familiar looking. They bang on the door. Look in the windows. I lay beneath the porch swing, like somebody placed me there out of sight. Hands crossed on my chest, corpse like. Their heels thud onto the porch. Busy, full of life. Nice, clean hands rattle the door knob. Faces peer in the windows. Oh my God, look at the mess! That's creepy, let's just leave. Should we call the police? Nobody's seen them for weeks. Is it really our problem, Cassie? Maybe they don't answer the phone because they didn't pay the bill. Deadbeats. Or they went camping or something. I don't think so, something's wrong here. The car pulls out. Tears over the gravel. Music blares from the open windows. A familiar harmony. Same music the night we went out. I sit up, cracking my forehead against the swing. The pain, the music. My mind jolts up to speed, like a skipped record. I have to get out of here! Now, before it's too late. My memories are shot, but my instincts are back. Crouched there, I know I can't go inside for my car keys. Not without passing the green eye. If it switches on, I'll be lost in the fog again. My stomach growls. My limbs are shaky, weak. I remember what the girls said about the phone bill. The phone hasn't rang in days. Or weeks? I can only hope the electric will get cut off too. I shuffle around the house, ducking low to keep out of sight of the windows. The garden hose in back. I turn the spigot. Nothing. The water company cut the supply. Any day now, the power company might, too. Then I can get in the house, find my keys without the risk. I camp in the shed. Find my guitar, half buried in the dirt. Wrapped in a garbage bag. Like someone tried to hide it. To save it? I stare out the small, dirt smeared window toward the house. Then I see it. The cellar door hidden in the shade. I wait until dark, scavenge in my truck for a jar of honeycomb. In the moonlight, I see myself reflected in the car window. Skeletal, brown skin stretched over bones. Hair turned white. An old man, nearly mummified. Movement catches my eye. The attic window burns lurid green. Shapes pass in front of it. Hulking men with orbs instead of heads. I crawl in the truck bed and lay down flat. Whisper to myself half remembered lyrics. Hum. Not a full song, but enough. My memory sputters to life. They have been with me a long time. Ages. I cart them from place to place, bound to them. And they to me. Six of them, and me the seventh. The head. They hunt for the smartest. It is a game. Only the smartest can outwit them. Prove himself worthy to serve the old god with the green eye. They will turn him into one of them, fortifying his body. Strong as an ox. Then the chosen one will turn against the weakest of the seven. Sacrificing it. Taking the head for itself. I examine my thin, wasted arms in the moonlight. Soon I will pass beyond hunger and thirst. The last piece to fall in the game. Midnight or so, I venture out. The house is dark. Silent. Even the attic window is dark. I search the truck, find a flashlight. Now or never. Gently I place the guitar inside. Everything else, I will leave behind. My burdens. This game. It ends with me. I walk to the house, careful not to scuff the gravel. Open the door, flick on the beam. Black grease covers every surface. The walls stained and streaked. Fresh blood stains the stairs going to the attic. I stop and listen. No sound but my own breathing. My frail body barely heavy enough to make the floorboards creak. The living room. The TV black with paint, dead and quiet. Dead flowers everywhere. The bowl and silver platter broken and overturned. Tiny black beetles everywhere. The sofa broken, cushions slashed. Bloodied. I search the crevices, find my keys. Okay, then—a noise stops me. Gentle as a mouse. Something brushed up against the floorboards from beneath the house. Quick, I run to my truck. Crawl in the cab. Bang the door shut. Keys. Turn. The engine roars to life. BANG BANG BANG! Fists pound on the driver's side window. I cry out, shine the flashlight at it. A woman's face. Let me in! Oh, let me in, mister! My car won't start. There's somebody in the yard! I yank open the passenger door for her. She scrambles in. I peel out before she even grabs a seat belt. Breathless, panting. She looks back at the house. I went in there looking for my friend Justin. Do you know him? It takes me a moment to recognize Cassie, the gal from the bar crawl in Des Moines. She doesn't recognize me. “Get in, it ain't safe,” I told her. She crawled in the passenger side and barely got on her seatbelt before I peeled out of the drive, sped round the corner and got on the back road going toward the highway. Going so fast the truck was bumping, rolling like it was tearing over corpses piled high over the road. But it was just a road, I told myself. “Guess you're pretty spooked too,” Cassie said. “I saw you go in the house. What was in there?” Her eyes were wide and worried. “Nothing,” I said. “Looks like they cleared out.” “You came running out that door like a shot.” “So did you.” She gave a shrug. Shivered. “Something about that place. I can't—can't ever quite remember what it is. Like as soon as I'm not there, I forget. Hey, if you take the next left, we'll circle back round to town. You can drop me off at my folks.” I could tell it occurred to her she was in a car in the middle of the night, speeding over back roads, with a strange man. I had no intention of going back. “I ain't stopping till we get to Grinnell,” I said. “Lots of people around. Bright lights. I just—can't be in the dark no more.” “I got friends in Grinnell, at the college. Say, if you need a place to stay...” She looked me up and down, figuring I was too old to be introduced to her friends. Too old to surf a sofa. I don't blame her. It was my own scent, a kind of outdoorsy funk from sleeping on the porch several nights—how many nights? Too polite to say anything, she rolled down her window to let the cool night air in. I rolled down mine and opened up the hatch in the back window. “Suppose I could use a shower,” I said by way of apology. “Get me a nice motel room, after I get you to your friend's house.” “I appreciate that,” she said, prim as a secretary. “But don't apologize. My dad's a farmer. When he hoses down out back, a century of dirt comes off him. Are you related to that musician guy? The one at the house, with the guitar. He the prettiest blue eyes.” “We're acquainted,” I said, gripping tight the steering wheel because what if she realized that he and I were one and the same? Over the gravel roar of the tires, I could hear the high corn rushing past with a hissing kind of hush. Whispering. A shiver crawled down my spine. Instinctively I reached out to turn on the radio—hesitated—then turned the dial. Buddy Holly sang out, filling the night with joy, living on in spite of his fate. Like myself. The young lady kept talking about all her friends in Grinnell. Probably just nervous. Wanting me to know how many people would miss her if anything happened. I wasn't listening. Memories flipping past my eyes like an old movie. The bar in Des Moines. How long since you got laid? A thousand years. Laughter. The heavy boxes tied with cord. Six of them. Always six of them. The green orb, all seeing eye. Three thousand years ago it had sat in a pharaoh's tomb. “Oh god,” I murmured, remembering the moment the ancient priests set it there. Beside my coffin. Giving me the tour before my eternal journey. Explaining the procedures of mummification. Honey. Needle and thread. Gold. “What's wrong?” Cassie asked. “Immortality,” I said. “There's always a price.” She didn't know what I meant, why would she? Sat there in silence as I rambled half-remembered things. When the god Osiris was killed, his body was torn into seven pieces. His wife, the goddess Isis, put him back together again. In Ancient Egypt, the pharaohs expected that by imitating the mummification of Osiris they too would gain immortality. They buried themselves in tombs with seven servants and the eye of Ra. The priests were meant to do the ritual of resurrection. Except priests were often corrupt. They took money and didn't do the ritual, or they didn't get it right. Every mummified pharaoh ever found is proof that the priests failed. You see, the ones that succeeded didn't stay in the tombs. They walked—and they still do. You see, the life force was divided among the seven strong, healthy servants. One became the resurrected pharaoh, and received the pharaoh's head. The other six waited in a kind of suspended animation until the seventh began to grow old. Meantime, he was meant to care for them—to keep them hidden and well fed. Then, when it was time, the six awoke and searched for another to join them—someone surprisingly strong and resilient. With survival instincts, intelligence—worthy of wearing the crown someday. That's what happened at the house, to all the others. My servants had woken and set the game in motion. The strongest, the one who had survived them up till the very end—he was one of them now. Most likely he was the one who would hunt me down. It had been going on for three thousand years. My head, worn by countless bodies. My memory fractured. Each of my servants was my burden to bear. Mouths to feed. And once my body began to wither, and my memories knit together the soiled tapestry of my life, that was the sign of the end—and the beginning. Cassie retreated to the far corner of her seat away from me. Her hand clenched the door handle. I realized what she was planning. “Don't do anything stupid to hurt yourself,” I said, slowing down as we came to a T-intersection. She didn't wait for the truck to stop before she jumped. Sprawled on the gravel with a scream. Scraped up arms and legs. Then she was running, down into the ditch, up into the high corn, swallowed by the night. “Cassie, wait!” I yelled after her. “It ain't safe! They're coming!” I opened the door to go after her. Just then I glanced in the rear view mirror. That's when I saw it. In the truck bed. The old television. The glowing green eye fixed on top of it. Been there the whole time. Beside it, a single heavy box, the cords cut, the lid askew. Opened. How did it even get there? Quick, I shut the door. Reached across to close the passenger door that Cassie left open. Hands grabbed me through the open hatch of the cabin. Strong hands. Violent. They pulled at my head—pulled and pulled. I screamed, with all my life. Not again. There wasn't a curse in any language that could stop it. Another thousand years, another and another—because they would never left me die. “Come on, you sunnofabitch,” a voice growled in my ear. “This ends now!” And in the rear view mirror, I saw Cassie's face— Hanna Nielson is an Irish-American writer-editor based in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Her novel The Burning Child of Bantry is due to be published with Wild Hunt Books. She has published art, short stories, and blogs. Currently she is editor at Variant Literature. Cool note from Author: I wrote the first draft of this age 14 while staying up late one summer after my radio started playing the strangest sounds, both beautiful but inhuman. Inspired both by The Tell Tale Heart and the song Channel Z by The B-52s, the resulting story title got me accepted into every MFA program I applied for since then. Recently, I redrafted and expanded it, going deeper into the mythology and creepiness.

Harris Caldwell—retired public defender; amateur woodworker; frequent apple juice drinker; thrice-a-day tooth brusher—died just now in his sleep at seventy-two years, three months, and nine days old in HumanTime. He missed the fervent bird chirping by sixteen minutes and ten seconds, and he missed the sunrise and creamsicle sky by twelve minutes and thirty-six seconds. That was Caldwell’s favorite part of the day, that sunrise. He would have loved this one. The death was sudden, and Caldwell did not feel a thing. That is what the coroner will say to comfort the family. The coroner will also say that it was a massive heart attack. He will also joke that neither man nor water buffalo could have survived it. It’s true. It would have killed a water buffalo had a water buffalo suffered the same massive heart attack as Harris Caldwell. Caldwell was tucked in bed with his wife Joyce when he died. She awoke forty-six minutes and eight seconds after Caldwell’s death, and she mistakenly assumed her husband was under the weather. She brought him an additional quilt. She kissed his forehead. It will be another one hour and three minutes before Joyce discovers that her husband has died. Was dead. Would no longer be alive. Had experienced the end of his story. ***** Harris Caldwell—former alive human; current dead entity; eight hours, forty-four minutes, and two seconds old in AfterlifeTime—wondered just now when Joyce would join him. He sat in a blank waiting room, alone, except for the man with wings who sat behind the sturdy front desk. The man with wings wore a golden halo-like crown, and he shined like melting ice. “Are you an angel?” Caldwell finally asked. “Good one,” the man with wings answered. At the end of the room was a heavy-set door with a pull handle the length of a broadsword. Beyond that heavy-set door were one-hundred and six billion individuals—all dead, deceased, departed—all wandering an infinite grassy plain. Among the fields of tall grass were the following: a perfect breeze, a perfect softness, and nothing hurt. Most searched for family. Some chose to make new friends. They certainly had the time to do so. Harris Caldwell had a maximum of thirty days to decide whether or not he would be passing through the door, if he would be joining the rest in wandering the infinite grassy plain. If not, he would be reused. Sent back. Reincarnated. Given a new story. “You must be an angel,” Caldwell said. “Try again,” the man with wings said. Caldwell crossed his arms and sat in the blank waiting room for three weeks, two days, seven hours, and eighteen minutes. In all that time, he had no urge to use the restroom. Up here, there is no urge to use the restroom. “When will Joyce be joining me?” Caldwell asked. “Pardon?” the man with wings asked. “My wife. Joyce. She should have died by now.” The man with wings lifted the page on his clipboard, then another, and then another. “Is that so?” “She should have died by now. That’s how it works. One spouse dies, then the other. Of a broken heart, is how they call it.” The man with wings lifted the page on his clipboard, then another, and then another. “She’s still alive, according to this.” “That’s not like her,” Caldwell said. He shifted in his seat. “Let me see. Let me see what she’s been up to.” The man with wings clicked his pen, and within that click, Caldwell perceived the events of the last three weeks, two days, seven hours, and eighteen minutes. ***** Joyce had not cried when she found him still, stiff. Not immediately, no. The suddenness of it all had confused her. When did it happen? When did he go? Why was there no shout? How much of the night had he still been with her? An hour? Three? Did he hear the early birds chirp? Or had he been long gone? Why? Why did he go? It wasn’t time yet. There was still so much to do. There was still plenty of time. Why, Harris Caldwell, why did you leave Joyce behind? Why The children took over the arrangements. They made the decisions. Box color. Box ornaments. Box type, steel or friendly to the environment. Joyce only nodded, only wanted to choose the wardrobe, only hoped to find Harris Caldwell’s wedding day cufflinks so he could wear them in his box. The viewing was brief. The people had said their words, had shed their tears. A priest spoke. It wasn’t memorable. Joyce cried too, had cried the most that day. Had cried when Harris was revealed in his box. Had cried when she couldn’t recognize his face. Had cried at his neutral expression. Had cried because he wasn’t wearing his cufflinks. Had cried because she had two days, five hours, and twenty minutes to find his wedding day cufflinks. Had cried because they were at home, somewhere. Had cried because she ran out of time. On the day after the burial, Joyce carried an additional eight pounds, three ounces on her heart. She strained to shift. She was mindful of the weight and feared tipping over. That night, she slept next to zero pounds, zero ounces. The people called daily, had said more words. Joyce carried an additional seven pounds, ten ounces on her heart. She attended a brunch with closer people, the kind that say pretty, gentler words. Words with meaning. Joyce went home carrying an additional seven pounds, one ounce on her heart. Joyce continued to search the basement for the cufflinks. Her children joined. They’d realized the preciousness of close proximity, the value of word to ear over word to receiver to ear. They spoke of Caldwell, had focused on the good because all that mattered now was the good. Joyce carried an additional five pounds, five ounces on her heart. At night, she spoke to Caldwell. She knew he was there, was ever presently listening to her speak, would have answered had he been able to. But Joyce was mistaken. Harris Caldwell was in the blank waiting room, waiting for her, waiting for her to join. Joyce carried an additional three pounds, twelve ounces on her heart. The children had left, had returned to the day-to-day, while Joyce searched for the cufflinks. As she rummaged through shoeboxes and dressers, she spoke to Harris, felt comfort knowing he was still with her, that they had endured a lengthy story together, that she would live her days with Harris still there. Joyce carried an additional one pound, eight ounces on her heart. This is where it steadied. This is where it would stay. Joyce would not have to strain to shift, would not fear tipping over, not with Harris Caldwell by her side. ***** There was a gingerly knock-knock at the only window to the waiting room, and the man with wings fluttered to the window and welcomed a breeze from the infinite grassy plain. “I was told to come here,” said a voice. “Yes, shortly. Mr. Caldwell has yet to decide, so I ask you to please be patient,” said the man with wings. “I understand. I’ll wait. And by any chance, is there a restroom nearby?” “Remember, there is no urge to use one up here.” “Oh, goodness. You’re right.” The man with wings closed the window and fluttered back to his desk. He checked the time and flipped through his clipboard. “Mr. Caldwell, I’ll remind you that you still have a choice to make.” “I’m not going until Joyce joins me.” “You’ve made that clear.” “Because she’ll never find me,” Caldwell said, pointing to the heavy-set door. “It’s too crowded out there. She’ll get lost. I’ll never see her again, and I can’t let that happen.” “I understand your concerns, but—” “How many have found each other?” The man with wings sighed. “It’s rare, but not impossible. Most are just happy to be here.” “I don’t believe you.” Caldwell crossed his arms and pouted. “She’ll never find me. We’ll have to go together, and I see no other option.” The man with wings lifted the page on his clipboard. “She’s not scheduled anytime soon.” “And why not?” Caldwell asked. Without realizing, he rubbed his wedding ring. “Hmm? Joyce loves me, and I love her too. Her heart should have broken by now, and it doesn't make a crock of sense why it hasn’t. You should know all about this. One spouse dies, and the other follows. I’ve been with Joyce forty-nine years and some change.” “We know.” “Best forty-nine years and some change a man could ask for, but I don’t want it ending at forty-nine years and some change because I want her by my side till the end, whatever the end is.” Caldwell shifted in his seat, found no comfort, and stood to pace the room. “Before this, the longest we’d been separated was eight days on account of a fishing trip on the other end of the country. I caught three trout. It’s torture up here.” “Incorrect. This is the most peaceful place in existence.” “Not for me it isn’t!” Caldwell gripped the back of a chair and huffed. “I thought I knew her, but I never expected this. To be so happy so soon? It’s unlike her.” The man with wings flipped the page on his clipboard. “According to this, you’re mistaken and you know it.” “And so what if I am? Will you send me down there for it?” “There is no down there, just an up here.” Caldwell squeezed the back of the chair and shook his head. “I couldn’t have held on that long. If Joyce had gone first, I’d be trailing right behind her. Within the half-hour, is my guess.” Caldwell glanced over his shoulder, hoping she’d be there. “She’s strong, that woman. Stronger than I ever was. Ever could be. When I was a boy, my father told me it wasn’t about a pretty smile or promised wealth or Yes, honey’s. He told me to find a woman who’d worry. Who’d worry about your health, your happiness, your dreams, and as long as you worried right back, the two of you would live a prosperous life. Joyce worried, all right. I worried in return, but I could never catch up to her. I should have tried harder. All that time, and I never tried worrying more than her… “Look at me,” Caldwell told the man with wings. “I departed first. I couldn’t even be there for her till her end. How selfish of me.” A phone rang, and the man with wings picked up a receiver from under the desk and listened to the sounds. “Yes, I understand.” He returned the receiver and fluttered around the desk. “Mr. Caldwell, your allotted time is running out. We ask that you make a decision. Pass through the door, or opt to be reused.” “If I’m reused, will I remember her?” “No. You will be a blank slate.” “Then it’s not even worth it.” Caldwell sighed, strained to straighten up, and approached the heavy-set door. “Angel?” “Not an angel.” “Can I see her again? Right now, as she is. Can I see her again?” “Will you exit if I show her? I have others waiting to use this room.” “Yes. I’ll see her, and then I’ll go.” The man with wings clicked his pen, and Harris Caldwell saw Joyce, as she was, currently, digging through a box of mementos on the front porch. ***** Caldwell stood near Joyce, though he was not there. He yearned to hold her hand, but he reached and could not reach far enough. It was not allowed. “Oh, Joyce,” Caldwell said. “I hope somehow you heard what me and Angel were saying. I’ll miss you, Joy. I wish I’d saved the big one for a later time,” Caldwell said, tapping his heart. “Goodness, you’re beautiful.” Joyce admired a photograph of the Caldwells taken forty-nine years, two months, thirteen days, and four hours ago. Her eyes welled up at this reminder of their youthful looks. “Don’t cry,” Caldwell told Joyce. “You know when you cry, I cry.” He felt the oncoming tears. “Ah, there they go. Never had a good grip on them.” Caldwell rubbed his jaw and sighed. “Goodbye, Joyce. I’ll cherish us, hun, and maybe that’s what’ll keep me going up there.” Joyce put the photograph down and curiously reached for the bump in the corner of the shoebox. She lifted the cardboard flap, and there they were, that bronze pair. Caldwell leaned in and looked close. She had found them. Joyce Caldwell had found her husband’s wedding day cufflinks. Joyce looked up and smiled at the clouds above. “Here they are, Harry.” “That’s all I needed to see,” Caldwell said. He blew her a kiss, and returned to the waiting room. “Thank you, Angel.” “You’re very welcome, Mr. Caldwell,” said the man with wings. “Now off you go.” Harris Caldwell pulled the heavy-set door, appreciated the breeze, and joined the others in the infinite grassy plain. He would find a clear spot in the tall grass and sit. He would ask individuals not to crowd around him. He would wait. Michael Lenart is a writer from Chicago, and has forthcoming work in The Bookends Review.

My sister Cape was only two years older than me except for in the summer months we were one thin year apart. And there it is the first sentence which I write similar versions of, maybe identical, once in a while almost involuntarily and then I leave it, I abandon it, for the story of my sister Catherine, Cape I called her, will not easily be told. But maybe this time will be different, the odds can just fuck off, and they can take with them the old saying about expecting different results being the definition of insanity. Do you think optimism is a crutch? Her body always like that of a dancer she knew how to train your eyes, she cat walked, every time I try to write her story it is in a serif font, italic, elegant ascenders and lasting descenders punctuation need not apply. I wonder if she still cooks wherever she is and if she has children like the pages of a picture-book and how she might serve them as she did me her soft sweet creations, I don’t know if there’s a word for them but clouds, they fell into no category, wonderful little enigmas I can taste now and feel, the way she’d watch my face, her own echoing my joy like a mirror and even when she was sitting right there, across from me, I longed for her, more more more I could never get enough, none of us could. And I think that’s why she left we wanted too much. We tried to hold on to her, my parents hired a psychiatrist to learn how to talk to her, how to get her back home after her first fledgling flights, and I heard through electric walls they even considered moving us back to the sticks. I alone understood Cape, and if the odds have room for another saying they can take with them the one about if you love something set it free, because it’s not finite, there’s no deadline, she’ll be back, Cape, I just know it. Sherry is from the wilds of Ontario. She writes the kind of stories she longs for and can rarely find. feelingfunny.ca

We received a King Cake at the office the other day Part coffee cake, part cinnamon roll Bathed in an icing of yellow, green and purple A Mardi Gras rainbow Inside the cake hides a small plastic baby And depending on your view either marks the arrival of the three wise men or symbolizes luck and prosperity But I have questions as always How does the plastic not melt in the baking process? How lucky can you consider yourself after biting into a plastic baby? She was always losing things. The eraser end of a pencil floated in her nostril, it jiggled when she sneezed, but she could never find it. Her keys were somewhere in that purse that she left in the taxi. And the baby, where was that baby? The Soundtrack to My Life Here comes your debaser man to hang on your cross in the Jesus Christ pose. Don’t save it for later, just hammer another nail in my heart. It’s a wave of mutilation. What a fucking lovely day in a beautiful world. You’re under pressure, Annie Hopparen. get your gun, Remember, distance equals rate times time. Goodbye, Gemini girl, go wild in the country. Stand and deliver a swingin' safari. You are a pixie standing in a garden of sound, drumming to an English beat. Slayer of queens A blazing arrow You are Adam, bowing to the Garden of Eden. In sweet soul limbo dancing with ants, you are you and you are music to my ears. Ken Tomaro is a writer living in Cleveland Ohio whose work reflects everyday life with depression. His poetry has appeared in several online and print journals and explores the common themes we all experience in life. Sometimes blunt, often dark but always grounded in reality. He has 4 full-length collections of poetry, most recently, Potholes and Perogies available on Amazon. Nolcha’s poems have been published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Alien Buddha Zine, Medusa’s Kitchen, and others. Her poetry books are available on Amazon. Nominee for 2023 Best of The Net. Editor for Open Arts Forum. Accidental interviewer/reviewer. Faker of fake news. Website: https://bit.ly/3bT9tYu

The Gods of the Riff are inscrutable. They hear neither prayer nor plea. They brook no rebuke. They bestow their favor where they will, and at the time of their own choosing. Their reasons are theirs and theirs alone, they do not share these with mortals. They dwell on an iron mountain; they take their slumber in an anthracite cave wherein no ray of light can find its way. Of the gift of their blessing, I can only say: You’ll know it when you hear it. I: Bruisermania Bruiser had asked Tversky and I to help him move. Spring semester was over, and he was moving back home with his parents for the summer. He didn’t have much stuff, and he’d promised to buy beer. Tversky and I said yes without hesitation. Bruiser was not his given name. He was nicknamed Bruiser because he was all of 5’10’, 135 pounds – maybe. Even at 135 I’d have to say he had heavy bones. There was nothing else to him. The guy was built out of binder twine. He had a mid-70s Chevy pickup he’d nicknamed “Old Betsy” – it was two-tone white and purple. He had a good stereo in Old Betsy and he kept her clean. Tversky was not a nickname, it just rhymes with his actual surname. Tversky rode a ten-speed most places, and liked weed, badminton, and Heavy Metal. At one time he was very serious about starting a metal band. He and some other veteran air-banders had a name picked out, and Tversky was talking about buying leather chaps. He did not play an instrument, so he thought he’d probably have to be the bassist. Bruiser had, at one time, over-consumed at a bar in Great Falls, Montana called Tee-Jay’s. Tee-Jay’s sponsored a lot of slo-pitch tournaments. Our team went often. We’d be in Tee-Jay’s with every other team in the tourney who wasn’t on the field. The place would be packed. They sold beer in 32-ounce plastic cups called “schooners” – you got to keep the cup. Our slo-pitch team – Bruiser included, but not Tversky, who did not play-slo-pitch – made a pyramid of the cups. We impressed ourselves. Bruiser - who did a take-off on wrestler Hulk Hogan’s Hulkamania he called Bruisermania – played pool and flexed around the pool table to the raucous applause of all of us. He’d make a shot, or not, and shout What are you gonna do when Bruisermania runs wild on you? Another slo-pitch team pushed a guy forward. The dude was almost – but not quite – as skinny as Bruiser. The guy leaped on the pool table and ripped his shirt off, challenging Bruiser to a pose-down. Bruiser ripped his shirt off and jumped up there in a non-bodybuilding battle between guys with broomstick bodies and livers under siege. Everyone in the bar was off-their-ass drunk and loud. You could not hear yourself think. About thirty seconds into the pose-down the other guy fell off the pool table and had to be attended to by his friends. Bruiser, claiming victory, repeated his Bruisermania mantra to the crowd, cupped one ear, then the other, hopped off of the pool table, and walked over to the bathroom. He missed the bathroom door and took the exit (the two doors were very close) and then didn’t come back in for fifteen minutes. Someone went out to look for him. He’d passed out sitting on the sidewalk and leaning against the exterior wall of Tee-Jay’s after (evidently) urinating between two parked cars. He was still shirtless. He looked beatific in his slumber. It was just after 4 p.m. I think what I am trying to say is that if Bruiser needs help moving, I am there. II: The Soirée at the Palais The move went easily enough. We had two trucks, Old Betsey and my little black Nissan. Bruiser had, true to his word, bought beverages. We had a six-pack of Molson Canadian Super cans (think Tallboys) and some wine. Cheap wine. I think it was something called Strawberry Angel – but I can’t remember exactly. Unfortunately, there was a map hazard. By map hazard, I mean that my parent’s place was between Bruiser’s old place and his parents. My parents were out of town – Arizona to be specific. In the house I had a bottle of Mescal and a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps. Half-and-half these in a shot glass and you have a shooter called Fire and Ice. The tequila is on top, it goes down like fire, followed by the minty freshness of the schnapps. So, eight kilometers short of Bruiser’s destination I asked if anyone wanted to do some fire and ice shots. No one said they didn’t. A couple of hours in and all of the Schnapps was gone and all of the Mescal save the worm. I cannot explain that. Normally the last shot poured takes the worm, or more likely someone halfway in decides they want it. But there it was. You had to be there. The worm stayed in that bottle for a year until I threw it out. I felt shame. Not enough not to do it, but enough so that I never told anyone about it. I’m older now and don’t give a shit. Drink it or not. my older self would say, no one cares - but back then I felt like I’d failed the test. Tversky said he needed a shower and went to the downstairs bathroom where my parents had installed an over-size shower stall. Bruiser and I sat there at the kitchen table, temporarily paralyzed by the Fire and Ice. Hey, he said to me, after a few minutes. I got an idea. Let’s go get some off-sales. By off-sales, he meant buying beer by the case from a hotel bar. It was Sunday, and no liquor stores would be open. This was Alberta in the mid-1980s – all liquor stores were operated by the government and there was no such thing as a 24/7 liquor store. If you wanted anything outside of the Govt’s very specifically set liquor store hours, you had to go get off-sales. I thought this was a very good idea. I was not ready to throw in the towel just yet. It wasn’t even 4 p.m. We went downstairs to check on Tversky. Tversky had passed out in the shower. He was slumped over and still wearing jeans. The hot water had run out, he was lying there in the cold. His pants were wet down to his knees – by some miracle, no water had escaped the shower stall - but his lower legs and feet were still dry. I turned the water off. We tried to get Tversky up. No go. He mumbled something incoherent. It didn’t sound like get me to the hospital, my stomach needs to be pumped or I will die of alcohol poisoning, so we left him. He looked comfortable, to us. Bruiser and I hopped into Old Betsy – the bed still had all of his bed, boxes, and furnishings, and we headed into town to an old hotel called The Palais. The Palais had the cheapest off-sales in town and was the old reliable for Sunday drinkers. When we got there, I couldn’t get my door open. I had suddenly become too drunk to open the door from the inside of the cab. Go figure. I did, however, manage to get my wallet out. I gave Bruiser ten dollars. He left. I didn’t see him for almost half an hour. I think I rested my eyes a little. I am not sure. I remember looking at the door of the Palais – it was still light out – and waiting for it to open and for Bruiser to come out with our off-sales. The driver’s side door opened. There was Bruiser. He’d crawled across the parking lot – with no off-sales in hand – and hoisted himself into the cab via the handle. What happened, I asked him? Where’s our off-sales? Ah fuck, he said. I forgot to order off-sales. Where’s my ten, I asked? Well shit, he said. I walked in and thought I’d just sit down and have a beer. So, I sat down and ordered one. The server brought me my beer, but then, when I reached for it, I fell out of my chair. I could not get up. These two old fuckers in there were laughing at me. Laughing and laughing. I tried to stand back up but couldn’t. They laughed even louder. Finally, I said fuck it and crawled out of the Palais and across the parking lot to here. I guess I left your ten on the table. Beer plus tip. I was quiet for a bit. Steve, he said. What, I said, maybe a little more sharply than I meant to. Ten dollars is ten dollars – and this was mid-80s dollars. It had buying power like you punk-ass pop-metal fans of today can only imagine. Steve, he said again. My knees hurt from the gravel. I mean, they really hurt. I said nothing. He drove me home. When I got out, I asked him what he wanted to do next weekend. While I was getting out, he rested his head on the steering wheel and had a quick micro-nap. I had to ask him twice. With my second query, he snapped to and took a big breath and held it for a second. We’re going to Motley Crüe, he said. III: Motley Crüe The next weekend we piled into my little Nissan with a flat (24) of beer and a 26-ounce bottle of Jack Daniels to go to Motley Crüe. Tversky surprised us. He said that he did not actually enjoy alcohol and was not going to drink. He was just going to smoke weed. More for us, Bruiser and I said at the same time. They have showers at the hotel, I said. You can drink and lie in there as much as you like. They never run out of hot water. Bruiser and I did not actually smoke pot. Neither of us liked it. I think you have to find your vices or let them find you, and that someone else’s vice may not necessarily be yours. No judgments. I also think Tversky was pleased that he’d not have to share. If Tversky had a character defect it was this: He was very strict about getting his fair share. If you ordered pizza, he’d recut it to make sure everyone chipping in got the exact same amount. He’d samurai that pie and if he’d had a laser, he’d have used it to measure. Do you count the pepperonis, I asked him one time? Yes, he said, do you? He had a look about him. I think he’d been shoehorning the odd-number-out pepperonis his own way and he thought I’d caught him. The ride flew by. Tversky was still talking about forming a metal band. He was very animated about it. He’d decided that for their first album cover, he wanted the art to represent him as a demon of sorts, shirtless and muscular in black leather pants with holes slit in the sides, platform boots, and he’d be holding a trident. No bass, I asked? No, he said. I will play bass, but for the album cover I envision – and he held off a little before saying it again – a trident. Yeah, a trident. The Crüe were touring for their Theatre of Pain album, and a band named Autograph was opening for them. Autograph was good, too. We were pumped. We’d booked a hotel – the venue was two-and-a-half hours away from home. Where we’re from the big bands don’t come, so you have to travel if you want to rock. We hit the hotel around 4 p.m. and checked in. Tversky lit up. He really hit it, smoking joint after joint. He’d get down to the cherry and hold it in his roach clip and purse his lips in a particular way to take those last few hits. Hey Tversky I said, you look like a guy blowing a fly. He stopped and gave me some side eye. Fuck off, he said. Keep going, I said, the fly likes it. Let him finish. Be a pro. Don’t think about us watching you, you fly-cock sucker. We had no pretensions about driving to the arena. Bruiser and I walked to a 7-11 across the street from the hotel and got some super big gulps. We went back to the hotel room and drank about a third of the cola and then split the 26 of Jack between us in our Super Big Gulps. Then we walked over to public transit and boarded the train. We were in a good mood. The train was about half people going to the Motley Crüe/Autograph show and half regular citizens who had found themselves in a Twilight Zone episode surrounded by metalheads in black-t-shirts and in various stages of inebriation. I had my best metal tee shirt on. Iron Maiden? No! Motley Crüe? No! Quiet Riot? Good call, but no again. Who then, you ask? I was wearing a Jack Daniels tee shirt. Black with the Jack Daniels label in white. Classic. We loved Jack Daniels. (Well, maybe not Tversky.) All our Metal Gods drank Jack straight from the bottle. David Lee Roth, Nikki Sixx, Kevin DuBrow. DuBrow said he filled his bottle with iced tea. On stage, he said, he was working. Roth said that only punks would do that. We drank ours with coke, and I bought the tee shirt. You can be loyal to a band – and that’s fine. You can be loyal to a genre - and that’s cool. But the bands and the genre are loyal to the deity, and that’s Jack Daniels. Bruiser sloshed his drink to the left and to the right with careless aplomb and was in a general sense, a hazard. Tversky had ceased to speak. I was starting to worry about him. A lady seated across from me looked a little tense. Her lips had compressed into a line so tight she might as well have not had any. I tilted my Super Big Gulp cup towards her, offering her a sip. She looked away, disgusted. I was not offended at all. If I had to guess I’d guess she was around thirty-five years old. I thought she was kind of hot, for an old, angry broad. In another place, at another time, she could have called the cops and had me professionally beaten (this was before the police had tasers) but for now, we were on the Crazy Train, with Mr. Jack Daniels our pilot, and everything was as it should be. Drink up or drink not, my (hot) elderly sister, it’s up to you. This train will roll how it rolls, for now. We got to the arena. It took some coaxing to get Tversky to stand up. He didn’t respond directly to anything we said to him. I think weed was better in those days. It was still illegal, and the stuff that came to our neck of the woods was often cultivated by someone who really cared about it and not a soulless corporation like today. I imagined that Tversky had scored something lovingly grown by some hippie grandmother in British Columbia, where the purest water fell from the sky and the fertilizer was from grass-fed steer manure, manure she’d stolen from some farmer’s pasture by hopping a fence on a moonless night, and that those ingredients, and the pure light of the sun – and her love, too, (yes, her love, don’t say that there isn’t any love in that specific branch of horticulture) – had rendered my boy zonked. We got into the show. I took Tversky to our seats. I actually led him by the hand. At least he was compliant. You know, some people get high and they giggle, others become philosophers. The very worst are seized by some sort of manic anxiety and can be difficult to put up with. Finally, there is the classic stoner. Tversky was of this variety. He was baked and the world was passing by him at light speed and he did not care at all. Whatever it was, it was not his problem. I’m going down to the floor, Bruiser said. He gave me his jacket to hold. I tucked it around Tversky. It was s sheepskin jacket believe it or not. All of us in that arena in denim and leather, with our black t-shirts, and there’s farm-boy Bruiser with his nice sheepskin jacket. The floor is “rush” seating, “rush” meaning there is no assigned seating. It’s folding metal chairs in row after row. Pros: Right in front of that Marshall stack that will elevate your soul and destroy your hearing – and close to any boobies being flashed. Cons, a junkyard of folding metal chairs and rowdies. Rock on Bruiser, I say, and I throw him some horns. He doesn’t hear me, he’s already on his way down. Autograph came on and they were great. Who remembers Turn Up the Radio? I do. Who remembers Blondes in Black Cars? Hell, yes. Nineteen and Nonstop? Yes, yes, yes. My Girlfriend’s Boyfriend Isn’t Me? Autograph felt like autobiography, and Steve Lynch was the best of the underrated guitar gods. Aside: You may have noticed a paucity of female characters in this story. We were for the most part, single. You know how some guys are allergic to cats? Well, some cats are allergic to guys. I think back now and think there was a sort of monastic purity to our lives. Trucks, stereos, metal, and alcohol. There wasn’t room for much else. I think girls understood this instinctively, and generously they made the choice by which we were made single for us. Sue, who I dated irregularly then, I owe you. You had beautiful rock and roll hair when you crimped it and a beautiful speaking voice and I was callow. I was not cool. You deserved better. I hope you found it. Finally: Motley Crüe. Fuck yeah, this is what we came for. Three songs in and Tversky still hasn’t spoken. There is a tug at my arm and there’s a guy in uniform – a St. John’s Ambulance guy. The first aid people. Are you Steve, he says? I am. Your friend Bruiser has been injured. You need to come with me. I look at Tversky. He gives me no sign that he’s heard anything. I followed the St John’s guy who lead me to a little first-aid room. There are multiple St. John’s people in there, in their uniforms with their nice white shirts. There’s Bruiser, hunched over with his arm at an odd angle. I played hockey, I’ve seen this before. I bet it’s a broken collarbone. We think he’s broken his collarbone, says the St, John’s guy. I broke my fucking collarbone, says Bruiser. His eyes are watering. How did this happen, I ask? Some fucking guys pushed me off of a chair, Bruiser says. He says some guys pushed him off of a chair, the St. John Ambulance guy added. Seriously. The St. John’s guy turned to me. You are going to have to take him to emergency. Did you call an ambulance, I asked? Ha! The guy said. We’ll call a cab. Have they played Smoking in the Boy’s Room yet? No, I said, they’ve just started. Good, he says, I want to go out and hear that one when they play it. Then he turned to Bruiser and said, they haven’t played Smoking in the Boy’s Room yet. Bruiser’s eyes were still watering. What, he said? I turned to the St John’s guy. I have to go get our other friend, I said. He’s in a coma. A coma, the St John’s guy asked? I went and got Tversky. I told him what had happened. He looked at me like he was surprised to see me there, at a Motley Crue concert, one that he had driven up to with me, but he got up, handed me Bruiser’s sheepskin coat, and followed me back to the first aid room. With the St. John’s guy’s help, we draped the sheepskin coat over Bruiser’s shaking, bony frame and then followed a different St. John’s guy - The first one was bound and determined to wait for Smoking in the Boy’s Room - down some access corridor into to the bowels of the arena to an exit door. A cab was waiting. The cabbie was an older guy and knew to take us directly to emergency. These metal concerts, he said. They are the worst for this sort of thing. Fights and shit, I asked? No, he said, people getting too drunk and falling down and breaking things. A couple of guys pushed me off of a chair, Bruiser said, between gasps of pain. The cabbie looked at Bruiser via the rear-view mirror and he had the look in his eye you get when you don’t believe a word of what you have just heard. Ah well, the cabbie said. At least it’s not drugs. Overdoses are the worst. Mind you they wouldn’t be calling me for that. For that you get a real ambulance – or a hearse. None of you fellas are high, are you? We’re just drinkers, I said. Bruiser (still gasping) added that we were all just drinkers. Social Drinkers. Heavy social drinkers. Me too, the Cabbie said. Tversky smirked. Hey, he said to the cabbie. What, the cabbie said. Hey, Tversky said again. Hey what, the cabbie said. HEY, Tversky shouted. WHAT, the Cabbie shouted back. Tversky leaned forward, and in a normal inside-speaking voice and with surprising clarity of enunciation (all things considered) asked the cabbie: Have you ever really, really, really had to take a shit and were both scared and excited at the same time? The cabbie laughed. Ah, I thought, Tversky is coming back around. We arrived at emergency. In emergency – which was busy – a doctor came over right away. She was a short, stocky, no-bullshit kind of woman. I could see that right away. When dealing with authority – the police, teachers, doctors, and their kind - I always take a deep breath and remind myself to answer honestly and to remember that whatever it is I am there for, they have seen/heard worse. What happened to you, she asked Bruiser? Basically, some no good fucking cow cunts pushed me off of a chair, Bruiser said. I cringed. She looked directly at me, forcing me to make eye contact even though I tried to avoid it. How much has had to drink tonight, she asked me? A lot, I said. Not that much, Bruiser said. We’re just social drinkers. An aide appeared and Bruiser was put into a wheelchair and wheeled into an examination room. Tversky and I waited. I looked at him – he was still smirking like he had been when the Cabbie brought up drugs and he’d responded with defecation. But whatever he was thinking he wasn’t saying, and he stayed quiet. We sat in silence like an old married couple. It didn’t take too long and Bruiser was pushed back out to us. They’d had to cut his t-shirt off, but they’d set his collarbone and put his arm in a sling and, most thoughtfully, put him in his sheepskin coat. He no longer gasped when he moved and seemed to me to be way better. We called another cab and when it arrived, we piled in and asked to be taken back to our hotel. It wasn’t even 11 p.m. yet. I asked Bruiser how he was feeling and he said great. They’d given him some Percocet for pain and it had kicked in. He said he was ready to party. He told me to look in his coat pocket, he had four more courtesy of the emergency room doctor. Help yourself, he said. I demurred. When we got back to the hotel Tversky finally spoke. I am going to bed, was all that he said. Let’s you and I get a beer, Bruiser said to me. The hotel had a club and we could hear the music thumping. We went to walk in but two bouncers stopped us. Five-foot eight-inch fucksticks in yellow polos with crew cuts and the confidence of law-enforcement students who had been lifting weights for two months and had discovered Dianabol at the same time, but separately, and had not told each other about it, each convinced he was superior to the other. You can’t get in wearing biker regalia, they said to me. I was wearing that Jack Daniels t-shirt. The black shirt with the label in white. That one. It’s a Jack Daniels t-shirt, I said. Sorry, no biker regalia, they said. Can I get in, Bruiser asked? Yep, they said, without hesitation. He doesn’t even have a shirt on, I said. The one bouncer spoke directly to Bruiser. You are welcome but your friend can’t come, he said. Fortunately, the hotel had a lounge and we got in with no problem and sat there and had a beer surrounded by old people and tired travelers. You know, Bruiser, I said, would you recognize the guys that pushed you? I had begun to formulate some plan for vengeance. Not that real vengeance was likely, but it felt good to think about. In the plans for imaginary revenge, we are all ninjas. Nah, said Bruiser, probably not. I never saw who did it. It felt like I was pushed from behind. Did you fall, I asked? I would never fall, he said, offended. I had to have been pushed. We called it a night and went back to the room. The next morning on the way back a much-refreshed Tversky told us about his plans to start his own metal band, and about the album cover he wanted to see where he was a shirtless, leather-pant-covered demon in platform boots holding a trident. Bruiser and I looked at each other. Apparently, Tversky had forgotten about telling us this yesterday, on the ride up. Yeah, Bruiser said. A trident. We all agreed that it would be cool.

THE MALL OF MEN She chooses men the same way you’d pick a detergent bar or a cereal box at a hyperstore Carefully; after looking at the expiry date manufacturing details, ingredients, trademark, et cetera (At best, we are museum exhibits or broken seats of the last matinee) Her aching prurience sways under the glib talk of poetry While she measures our frame on the totem pole of her abstinence Our libido must equal her void Our despair must average her thirst for bestial lunacy Our rough skin must hold the salt of her childhood Our torsos must resemble dim hotel rooms or borrowed flats (Because she has stayed in seven stars with her husband) Our tongues must carry her bittersweet words So, when we sweat above her she can taste herself, more Her trained irises hunger-spot us for signs of buried trauma That way, we could be cold-pressed for character arcs first and then smoothly molten into stories The acid of our triggered abuse could be used for quick exits Someday, We could become poems too So, she can read the in-between of our giving breaths, in festivals far and near, like a lost huntress while tasting our blood, forever unpublished. EXTRA MARITAL We have an extra-marital affair - with time Standing at the door with bags packed ready to move out At the slightest hint of infidelity, ignorance or negligence Time claims everything when it leaves - The past sharing of rooms, kisses and windows pasted with evening skies The earth of our souls and quantum of every journey The stories we kept repeating and the ones we couldn’t tell It takes too much when it leaves you for someone else And worse, for nothing but itself It’s painful to let time depart So, we write and rewrite our lives with the desperation of a thousand atoms Hoping that time understands our honesty waits for some more time a day or two calling it true love Sanket Mhatre has been featured at Kala Ghoda Arts Festival, Jaipur Literature Festival and Glass House Poetry Festival. His first book of cross-translated poems, The Coordinates Of Us won the prestigious Raza Foundation Grant after been shortlisted at IWrite2020 at Jaipur Literature Festival. Sanket’s poems have appeared in multiple anthologies such as Shape Of A Poem, The Well Earned, Home Anthology by Brown Critique, Poetry Conclave Yearbook as well as literary magazines such as Punch, Borderless, Muse India, Madras Courier, The Usawa Literary Review, Men Matters Online, Anthology by Querencia Press and many others.