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Bill Resurrected just a day after hearing of his passing I saw Bill at the liquor store tonguing a toothpick, signing contracts in the air it was a worthy attempt to get this over with at empire’s end caught in the mouth and hanging out ‘neath the corner guillotine it was whispered myth, his death, there was a rock yet to push out front the tomb, up the hill he stood like folded paper about to bend again, to be reborn again on the bench brown bagging and just after Mary wipes his feet with her hair, he’s stumbling through the daytime, seeing by the world’s light if we let him go on like this, everyone will believe in him, they’ll gather ‘round in worship, they’ll expedite the end so I take time to appreciate this morning with a Mexican Coke and an ice cream sandwich, smiling Congratulations arriving at island’s end the duck pond ducks have made a friend in me, having forgiven me for making an omelette from their eggs in the spring most days I unhitch the two-person swan boat and pedal in a circle while my face wavers in the pond most days I fish for every meal and pray for forgiveness for the pain that I’ve caused, that I’m causing when reeling up their auburn eyes even now, with my beard grown to the point that people keep their distance, I do not feel much has changed, I cannot say just what has kept me through the nights with the lights from the lampposts, the science museum and the towers detracting from the aurora I’ve told the ducks about my wife taking the tables and how I was sprawled on the ground eating ramen reading by candlelight until law enforcement spun the deadbolt I’ve told them how special I was and after carving my face in the ancient dirt, they pulled the worms from it they and I know that no angel is appearing in a North Face Jacket or Patagonia cap unless it is an angel of displacement we all laughed when I told them about how I drove the retired teacher to his DUI case that morning a few weeks before joining them on this island, it was that drive, that dust and snow whipping in the dark, giving way to sunrise in the upper valley when I realized all I had gained could get lost with the rest of it it was his snoring in the backseat, it was the cadence of the cattleman’s prayer at breakfast, the open eyes of their adopted child meeting mine, with the rest in reverence, I thought to make a face, give a sign that their family’s view was righteous but altered, that it was not quite right, their need for demarcation meeting their vision of the earth arriving perfect, their need to mold children to a form that each selected or born before had cracked in some way when congealing but it was these pious folks who befriended the sinner next to me like a homeschooled kid finding a mastodon tooth, like they brought in the fresh eggs of their chickens each morning, like they rented out bulls and sows with tedious shipment instructions, and that morning’s eggs were good but now the time has come to give the ducks some wisdom before a final jump out of my skin for a swim today I must tell these ducks, my friends, that the plan to turn into a monument isn’t working out, that I must paddle this fading swan from my overextended infatuation with escape and face myself without ripples, that I must find the man where Monaco meets Colfax with the cardboard behind his wheelchair reading every disease yet to kill him I must reach him before he is done dancing beneath sunspots, I must give him my name, my dreams and my car with the windshield cracked in the shape of an eyelash fallen on the pavement, and I’ll park before six o’clock in the middle of the longest commercial street in these United States, and we’ll trade spots and as he takes the wheel I’ll tell him, finally as me, that it all will end, but that there is still a warranty on the engine, I’ll tell him to try and make it home before it gives Josh Gaydos (he/him) is a self-taught poet who currently resides in Colorado. He has been published in Barren Magazine, Door Is A Jar Literary Magazine, South Broadway Ghost Society and The Lettered Olive. Follow him @jgwrites22.

Three by Tuite is a battle cry, among many other things. As the title suggests, Meg Tuite has broken this brilliant bone in three places: Her Skin Is a Costume, Domestic Apparitions, and Bound by Blue, and left every splintered piece unset, or maybe set incorrectly, like the shoulder that still pops years after injury, still makes you flinch a little when it's touched. While each book portrays different characters, an earthquake undercurrent connects them, each marked by all that's buried struggling to reveal itself. The prose dances masterfully with poetry in places, each line sprinkled in monochromatic glitter, each word chasing the next for the lead in a sharp and well-crafted tumble forward. The result isn't a melody like a song would have, but a tension building to a crescendo—a battle cry. Her Skin Is a Costume, comprised of micro and flash-length pieces, tells of an on-paper-perfect doll family threaded together by dynamite and all the little explosions between the ties that bind. Sometimes they detonate in ugly arguments, violence, backseat pinches amid standard-issue sibling wars. Other times, they blow wholly apart, requiring some reassembly somewhere apart from the others. In other captured explosions, the subject matter turns to love. From May I Please Be Excused from Reality: I can’t see. The homework is a foreign language. I start to shake. Dad pulls my head back with my hair and slaps me across the face. His hand traces the air around it. I feel the bite, but the fever of infestation is what bores a hole in me, deeper than any wound to the skin. I run to my room as tears enlarge into oceans. Mom comes in to kiss me. My sisters call him an asshole. Night descends. I am too tired to cry anymore. Pain will always be another sibling. From No One’s Ever Heard of Two Teacher’s Pets: and I lay in bed that night and sob because I am out of the running and still love you, From Skunk Weed Cookies: I think about penguins and how fractured their time is on this planet and why “an eye for an eye” isn’t translated into “a rape for a castration” when all of a sudden the music blows a fuse and I am bruised by the hopped up pendulum of my boyfriend’s manic secretions. I can see him belch his bombastic rhetoric and sweat slander out of his armpits and salivate his volcanic erection of soapbox corpulence and I detest him. Domestic Apparitions, a novel told in stories, examines pivotal moment’s in each relative’s life from their point of view, diving intimately into their own pool of bruising while noting the reverberation waves on unwitting witnesses. Stuffed with dazzling turns of phrase and razor’s edge one-liners, there is beauty and sometimes even humor in the breaking down. From A Thousand Faces of a Warrior: My sister didn’t talk like anyone else. She was either a genius or a lunatic, like my brother Nathan, I couldn’t tell, but she had her own special language like no one I’d ever heard before. She’d say things like, “That girl was the tallest building I ever lived in,”or after a date with some guy, she’d say, “I invaded the miserable casualty until he was a cornucopia of brazen limbs.” From Family Conference: I turn back to the Family Conference. We are in session. Dad has already recited the various idiocies of his children and wife, one by one. He usually has a clipboard, but today is working off memory. At some point my sister, Stephanie, starts shrieking at him. She is the only one who adds anything to these conferences besides Dad. Then things begin to move. Dad and Stephanie lunge at each other. It’s like one of those wrestling matches on TV. Dad and Stephanie are hunched over, circling, gripping hair from the other’s scalp. Bound By Blue is the third and final family portrait in the collection, containing a mix of longer and shorter pieces that splinter, come together, and shatter again as family does. It’s told in puzzle pieces but not the kind that fit together, but rather one with half the pieces missing, replaced by broken glass and beer caps and whatever slides in to fit the groove at the time, then tossed in the box as a placeholder. It is not the warmth of coming together but those broken pieces displayed, called out in only the way that people who, through shared brutality, know you well enough to do. Damage, some generational, some individual, reflected through years of life belonging to both victim and perpetrator, with those roles likely to reverse, inverse, and cave in on themselves. From Bound by Blue: Edward’s irises were electric blue. Blue as the sky, the sea, the smug smiles, sinister and smothering. Blue as boundaries that were never bound. Blue as his mother holding tight to her blue-eyed bandit in bed who kept her warm, wet, and distended. Blue as the scurrilous pounding of humans approaching. Blue as the dangling bloodline that left him sixty-years-old, flaccid, alone and methodical in his foul play. Meg Tuite boldly resists the concept of renewal in this work, of redemption, of a “happy ending,” opting instead to lay bare the darkness and let it speak its testimony. Does that mean there’s no hope? Not exactly. I believe we are all laced with fingerprints of time and experience, all traces of dynamite doll people, all sticky with the patina of little moments that howl louder than the rest of our lives combined. The crushing blows we don’t deserve, the myriad ways we punish ourselves for other people’s sins and, eventually, commonly commandeer them. Ours may be quieter or smaller, pushed into darker corners. For as long as we’re living, there’s hope, even if it’s just tension rising to collective crescendos. Battle cries for a war that may not occur, at least not where you’d look for it. From Domestic Apparition: I wanted to hug her hell away. I wanted to unhinge her skull and see what it was that kept her alive. Three By Tuite by Meg Tuite (@megtuite) was released by Cowboy Jamboree Press (@CowboyJamboree) and is available for purchase here. You can find more Meg here and more Cowboy Jamboree here. Tiffany M Storrs is editor in chief of Roi Fainéant Press. She is a writer above most other things, but there are so many other things, and she is properly qualified for none of those titles. She loves a lot of stuff but we're not going to get into all of that now. Her recent publications include Red Fez, Punk Noir Magazine, and others. You can find her on Twitter @msladybrute, on Instagram @lady.brute, and out back honing her wit.

You find condom wrappers in the couch while we wait for the power to come back on. It is an old couch, covered in torn, brown faux leather. A drooping, discolored middle section. Pull-out recliners on each end. We purchased it second-hand months earlier and only thought to wipe it down with Clorox, altogether forgetting about the hidden spaces between the cushions and the wooden scaffolding that held it all together. There were three discarded wrappers altogether, which you tossed onto the floor one by one using plastic gloves, while I kept the dog away, watching through the dim, flickering candlelight. You were cleaning because you always got in the mood to clean when you felt anxious, even while the winds outside neared 120 miles per hour and all the grocery stores had cleared their shelves of canned food and water jugs over the last few days. A key signal of catastrophe. “At least they’re only wrappers. Not actually used condoms,” I say. You use a flashlight to investigate the couch further, but I quietly hope you will stop, wait until later, because I forgot to buy batteries, and the candles would not be much help if the flashlight died and if an emergency required us to manage our way through the wet darkness. “It is disgusting in here?” you say, irritated that you cannot plug in the vacuum cleaner. “Where’s the dog?” I ask. “Right there, next to your feet.” “Speak,” I tell the dog, to make sure it can hear me. The dog speaks. You sit down, push the wrappers away with your sock, and sigh. From the living room, we can hear trees shaking in the wind outside, can hear the bowling-alley crackling of thunder, the heavy smacks of rainfall against the rooftiles and windows. We boarded up as much as we could and decided to avoid the places in the house where we could not. The news said the flooding would be the most dangerous part of the night, but our area was managing okay. I only realized the presence of the hurricane when we lost power and everything shut off—the TV dangling over a never-used fireplace, then the lights, the air conditioning suddenly holding its breath, and finally the invisible humming drawl of electricity clicking out. But we had stored away some water, some candles, some snacks, and food—everything but the extra batteries that I forgot. Maybe there were more in one of the kitchen drawers. I could check, once you finish with the flashlight. Periodically, we take turns letting the dog outside to pee, and the weather seems fine under the awning. The wind almost feels good, a refreshing break from the stuffy living room. The dog does not go far, just a few feet into the nearest patch of mud, then stumbles back inside to let one of us rub her paws dry before curling into a ball next to the coffee table. “Do you think they’ll have to postpone?” you ask. “Who, the hospital?” “Yeah.” “No, why?” You adjust your cushions again as though searching for more condom wrappers. “The hurricane. If the hospital gets damaged or if people get hurt, it’ll get too busy for that kind of treatment.” “The infusion center’s separate from the ER.” “I know. Unless it floods. I hope it floods.” “That’s a little harsh.” “I don’t care. I hope it floods,” you say. “All of it—the hallways and linoleum and dirty bathrooms, too, and the overpriced parking lot and supply closets and security guard stations and elevators and pharmacy shelves and pill bottles and coffee dispensers and waiting rooms and x-rays and blanket ovens and infusion rooms and phlebotomists. I hope it all floods.” “Maybe we can play a game or something.” You stop digging through the couch. A scratching noise starts in the corner of the room. I immediately think of ghosts. Ghosts scratching, ghosts whispering, ghosts moving across and between the walls. We had mice at one point, and they also sounded like ghosts. Mouse ghosts, eating crumbs in the carpet, leaving ghost droppings in the pantry. “Is that a ghost?” I ask for no reason. “It’s the dog,” you say, “wanting to go outside again.” “Oh.” I only then notice that the dog had moved positions in the room, left her spot beneath the coffee table by my foot. It is my turn, so I let her outside. Then, “Is there anything left in that bottle?” you ask. “Yeah, another glass worth at least.” You grab it, pour one, and kick out the legs of the couch end. The world outside begins to grumble, and then it splits. The sound of rain used to calm me, as did the gentleness of thunder in the distance or up the freeway. Now, it irks me, like an engine rattling or a dripping faucet. A nagging feeling that something is going wrong, and you have no way to figure out what in time. “Are you sure it’s still out there?” I ask when I return to my seat. “No, she just sat down by your feet again.” “Not the dog, the world I mean.” “You’re tipsy,” you say. “Are you sure?” “The world, still outside? Yes,” you say, but then you think for a second and go to check, but we had already boarded up the windows, so when you pull the curtain, nothing is there. You find this extremely funny. “What?” I say. “You’re right, look.” I look. Nothing. You laugh. So I laugh. We sip at the wine, and then fall asleep on the mattress that we’d pulled into the living room, which felt like the safest, least vulnerable place in the house. The next morning, we throw out the condom wrappers that we forgot about the night before. The sun rises, like always, and the wind dies down, and only a few trees fell over on our street. It feels like a victory. One victory before the next. Joey Hedger is author of the novel Deliver Thy Pigs (Malarkey Books). He lives in Alexandria, Virginia, and his writing can be found at www.joeyhedger.com.

When Christine woke on the morning of her fifteenth birthday, something felt different. It wasn’t that ethereal notion of being older and wiser; she didn’t suddenly possess some heretofore-unknown insight that had been absent the day before. The world simply seemed to have shifted slightly, and now everything was a bit askew in a way that was difficult to quantify. Two weeks prior she had been battling a nasty cold and wondered if this might be some lingering aftereffect, but her head and stomach felt fine and there was no trace of the chills or achiness that had plagued her. This last symptom had taken the longest to abate, rendering her limbs sore and useless as she stared miserably at the purple-atmosphere-fade finish on her Tama Starclassic kit. The Tama wasn’t her first set. There had been the neon-green, plastic drums when she was four and then the children’s starter kit when she was eight. She’d worn through the heads on that second set more times than she could count. That’s when her parents realized she was serious. The Starclassic and accompanying Zildjian A-Custom cymbal pack had been a combined birthday/Christmas/junior high graduation gift in addition to Christine contributing all the money she’d saved babysitting the previous two summers. Playing on the kit felt like going from a Schwinn to a Ferrari, or what she imagined driving a Ferrari must be like. Even just looking at it made her happy, and it was without a doubt her favorite thing in the entire world. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, waiting to see if the sensation would leave, but it hovered in the center of her chest like a stifled sneeze. Christine glanced at the clock on her nightstand. Her parents would have both left for work by now and she had forty minutes before she needed to catch the bus. If she got ready quickly, she could squeeze in a run through of “Janie Jones” before she had to go. ****** Heading into sophomore year should’ve been familiar and comfortable compared to the social whiplash of entering high school, but in some ways Christine felt more adrift than ever. She’d been separated from her two best friends during middle school because of where they lived and when they all came back together as freshmen, she suddenly felt like a third wheel. They’d still hung out mostly on weekends, but it wasn’t the same. There was no more swapping stories about which teachers assigned the worst homework or in-depth discussions over the cryptic graffiti in the bathroom the way they’d done in grammar school. It was like they’d spent two years watching a television show with the same general setting and plotlines, but the characters in Christine’s version were all completely different. Back when the three of them were besties, they’d shared similar taste in books, movies, and most importantly, music. Now Karen was pretty much only listening to mainstream radio singles and Beth didn’t care about any of it unless some pop celebrity with a fashion brand or a makeup line was involved. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, and maybe it would’ve eventually happened anyway, but Christine couldn’t help feeling like she’d been exiled. Roving the hallways between classes, she often found herself counting down the hours until school ended so she could be back at home sitting behind her kit with her headphones on. Mostly it seemed like she was simply treading water until college with the hope that things would turn around or start over as something new. ****** By the time she boarded the bus that out-of-body sensation had begun to fade. She was thumping the ball of her left foot on the scuffed rubber surface covering the floor and slapping the tops of her legs with her hands trying to figure out the pattern Terry Chimes played in the intro. It sounded deceptively simple, but the way that Chimes traded off single and double strokes between the snare and bass drum, keeping the rhythm the same, but switching back and forth between the two, made the whole thing more interesting and a bit tricky to pin down. “We’re here.” Christine looked up and saw that the bus was empty except for a girl two seats ahead with short, spiky black hair wearing a Dead Kennedys t-shirt. “Oh, uh, thanks.” Christine said, grabbing her backpack up off the bench. “No problem.” the girl said, making her way toward the front of the bus. She was halfway out the door when she turned back to Christine. “What were you playing?” “Huh?” “The song you were tapping, what was it?” “Oh, it was supposed to be “Janie Jones” by The Clash.” “Cool.” the girl said and exited the bus. Christine stepped onto the concrete of the school’s rear concourse and started toward the entrance, smiling to herself as she walked. ‘Cool.’ ****** “For your semester project, I want you to document the history of something you consider a central part of your personal identity. This can be a family tradition, a religious practice, a hobby or pursuit, or any other aspect of your life that you deem significant enough to research and write about.” There was a low but audible groan that rippled through Mr. Pearson’s classroom at this announcement. The dreaded projects counted for twenty percent of their overall grade and were reviled even more than final exams. At least with a test you could study like crazy and usually be okay, but with these assignments you didn’t always know exactly what the teacher was after, especially when they asked you to incorporate yourself into the thing. Christine did have an idea for the topic that she thought might work. Percussion had history going back centuries; there were people all across the globe who had incorporated drumming into cultural events and spiritual ceremonies long before its modern incarnation in music. She had a book her parents got her for her birthday a couple of years back that had some basic information, but she’d need to find specific details on the different cultures and places. It’s something she’d been curious about and was actually glad for the excuse to dig deeper into the subject. The bell rang and there was a chorus of metal chair legs scraping back against the floor as everyone made their way out into the hall to their next class. Christine couldn’t help but chuckle as she heard a few of her classmates comment on the project as they left. “What the hell am I supposed to do, write about my mother’s seven-layer dip and the lucky sweatpants my dad always wears to our family’s annual Superbowl party?” “Does my uncle falling asleep and drooling on himself at midnight mass every Christmas count as a religious tradition?” “Ya think they’d let me do a paper about weed now that it’s legal here?” “It’s still illegal for us, dumbass.” “Even if my older brother buys it for me?” ****** Evidence of primitive percussion instruments has been found in civilizations going as far back as 6000 B.C. Some of these examples include hollowed-out gourds, tree stumps and logs, porous stones, and many other common objects that could be struck to produce a sound. Christine giggled, remembering a scene from an episode of The Muppet Show where a character named Marvin stood in front of a row of fuzzy, spherical creatures that he proceeded to hit with a mallet using the different pitches of the creatures’ cries to play “Lady of Spain”. “What are you laughing at Janie Jones?” Christine peered over the top of her book and saw the girl from the bus staring at her from the end of one of the library stacks. “Just an old Muppet Show skit. My parents pretty much banned all children’s programming created after I was born.” “Dude, I love the Muppets! I still say it’s one of the most progressive things to ever air on tv. I mean think about how groundbreaking Gonzo and Camilla’s relationship was.” “Yeah, and nobody body-shamed Cookie Monster on Sesame Street.” “Seriously, any show with a Muppet on it was way ahead of its time.” “My name’s Christine by the way.” “Would’ve been pretty funny if it’d been Janie. I’m Nicki. So, you have a drum set or is it just a leg thing?” “No, I have a kit at home, though the legs are a convenient substitute when I’m trying to figure stuff out.” “You any good?” “I’m alright.” “Ha, that was a test. The people who can actually play never brag about it. My guitar is in the shop right now, but we should hang out and jam once it’s fixed.” “Yeah, sure, that’d be cool. Who do you like, besides the Dead Kennedys I mean?” “The Clash, of course.” Nicki said, gesturing in recognition. “The Ramones, The Buzzcocks, Runaways, Nirvana, Belly, Mud Honey, Bikini Kill, The Slits, and more current stuff like Skating Polly, Bully, Torres, Slothrust, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Screaming Females, pretty much anything with an interesting guitar riff. How about you?” “A lot of the same bands along with my requisite list of drum-god groups, Led Zeppelin, The Police, Sleater-Kinney, Soundgarden, Smashing Pumpkins, Tool.” “What, no Rush?” “I mean I like them, but it’s not really the sort of thing I play along with, mostly cause I can’t fit fourteen toms in my bedroom.” “Shit, I thought they revoked your drummer card if you didn’t worship Neil Peart.” “You just have to tell them that Moving Pictures is a masterpiece and they leave you alone.” Nicki laughed. “You’re funny. Hey, I gotta get going, but give me your number so I can text you when I get my axe back.” “Cool.” ****** Christine sat in her bedroom flipping between browser tabs on different tribes and sects that used drumming in their celebrations and rituals. The sheer number of examples was staggering and trying to include even a brief description of each one would easily fill up half her paper. Ashanti rhythmical healing ceremonies, Burundi tribes that incorporated percussion into their native dances, circular frame drums used by both Celtic pagans and American Indian shaman, and Middle Eastern tablas that appeared in everything from religious services and weddings to informal social gatherings. There were mentions of other more obscure examples; descriptions of songs from extinct peoples like the Picts and the Goitac. She found some videos online that claimed to be authentically Pictish, but it all turned out to be some slight variation on traditional drum and bagpipe music. Then there were the Zartuomes, who were believed to have lived in the Sierra Madre mountains in the fourteen and fifteen hundreds, where they bordered on another vanished tribe, the Xiximes. Percussion was a major part of the Zartuome culture, though there was almost no documentation of exactly what it sounded like or descriptions of the instruments that they employed. The closest Christine could find was an article from a defunct newspaper that had been archived online. In it the journalist said that Zartuome rituals would begin as gentle rhythms that were almost inaudible, then slowly build to a cacophonous din with the participants playing so aggressively that they often collapsed in exhaustion during the ceremonies. An image of a ring of men and women dressed in the kind of animal skins that cartoon Neanderthals were typically depicted in filled her head. She could see them seated around a fire, the skulls of their slain enemies as their drums, savagely beaten upon with splintered lengths of bone. There’s a hollow thok as one of them begins to play, a sound that echoes like footsteps in an empty hall. This is followed by the player to their left striking the same solitary note, which is then repeated in turn by each member until it reaches the originator who plays a double stroke that is again mimicked by the others. The double becomes a triplet and then something that sounds to Christine like a herta, and on and on adding notes and increasing the tempo and volume until it’s the sonic equivalent of a swarm of bees. She shook herself from this vision with her heart racing and her palms damp with sweat, quickly crossing the hall to the bathroom where she cupped her hands under the faucet and splashed cold water on the sides of her flushed face. Christine looked at herself in the mirror. “Easy there, kiddo.” It’s what her dad said to her whenever her playing got to be a little too much. It never bothered her because she knew she had completely lucked out in the parent department, with a mom and dad who not only tolerated her playing but actually encouraged it. In most universes Christine would’ve been stuck with a clarinet or a cello, but when her folks found themselves with a tiny Stewart Copeland, they gave her the thumbs-up instead. She smiled and dried her face off with a towel next to the sink. It seemed like a good time to pause on research for the night, but tomorrow she wanted to hit the library again to see if they had anything more on the Zartuomes. ****** There wasn’t anything on the Zartuome civilization at school, though she did run across a chapter in a book that detailed a Mayan subsect called the Zinacantán. “Damn, so close.” Christine muttered. “Is talking to yourself a regular thing with you?” Christine flinched as Nicki stood up from the study-carrel behind her. “Shit, sorry.” Nicki said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” “Are you stalking me or something?” “I could tell you ‘No’, but that’s probably what a stalker would say.” Christine laughed. “It’s just that I don’t typically see many people hanging out at the library after school. Are you doing research for a paper too?” “Nah, just killing time before I head home. My mom and her boyfriend are making my place a bit of a nightmare right now.” “Oh, sorry to hear that.” “It’s okay; dude’s a bit of a dick but he’s never been violent or anything; mostly it’s just the two of them picking at each other until one of them gets sick of it and leaves. At least I don’t have to worry about this one becoming my next stepdad.” “Yeah.” Christine said, unsure of what else to say. “What are you working on?” “Semester project for History. Trying to do something on the origin of drumming, but there’s so much material I’m having trouble whittling it all down.” “I usually have the opposite problem; taking some half-baked idea and stretching it out so it meets the bare minimum. Last year I did a paper about how Black Sabbath and women accused of participating in witch’s sabbaths were both holding up a mirror to society and reflecting its hypocrisy.” “You seriously wrote a paper on that?” “Yep.” “That’s awesome.” “Sadly, my English teacher Ms. Iverson was not as enthusiastic. She didn’t see the connection of comparing Ozzy Osbourne to Sarah Osbourne from the Salem trials.” Christine laughed again and this time caught a sideways glance from a passing librarian. “I’m trying to dig up info on some of the more obscure percussion practices; there’s a tribe called the Zartuomes that have this interesting drum ritual, but I haven’t been able to find much.” “Did you check to see if there are any primary source documents like journals from explorers who might’ve been around during the time?” “They have that stuff here?” “A few things, and the main library downtown has even more. Let me show you where they keep the collection.” ****** Christine didn’t have any luck in the specialty section of the school library, but she spent the time talking with Nicki about other bands they liked and before leaving she wrote down albums from Mitski and The Beths that Nicki suggested. Back at home she spent another couple of hours sifting through various historical and percussion-related pages without much to show for it except a single mention of the word Zartomb. The spelling was different, and Christine assumed it was just a typo, but when she searched on the name it came back with the webpage for a band. The last update on the site was from nearly six years ago and the only other mention of the group was a small writeup in an online fanzine about a show they’d played in Dayton. At the bottom of the article was a link that led to a video hosted on a site she’d never heard of, and Christine almost closed it afraid of infecting her laptop with something nasty, but curiosity got the better of her. The video was grainy, but the audio was surprisingly clean as she listened to the band perform on a stage that was barely big enough to hold the three of them. Their sound was a cross between black and sludge metal, though not as extreme as either style, and absent the theatrics some of those groups favored like a penchant for corpse paint. It wasn’t a sound she was usually into, most of her metal records consisted of eighties thrash bands and their descendants. Still, the group had something unique about them, particularly at the end of the set when the singer started droning something that sounded like Latin just as the song reached its apex. He was still repeating the phrase when the other two band members finished playing and joined him at the front of the stage. The three of them got down on their hands and knees, pounding on the plywood riser with their fists and creating a rhythm that was picked up by the audience who stomped along in unison until it seemed like the whole place might vibrate apart from the ruckus. Christine backed up the video and played the ending again, grabbing a pen and a piece of notebook paper to transcribe what she was hearing. 1+ 2e+ 3+a 4+ It was a simple pattern that started soft and slow, becoming steadily faster and louder with each subsequent repetition. She played along with it on the edge of her desk until her fingers were warm from the friction. “Ya know we bought you that drum set so you’d stop abusing your poor desk.” Christine jumped in her chair and then wheeled it around to face her mother. “Sorry Mom, just looking up stuff for my project.” “And I’m glad to see you getting an early jump on it, but I don’t think the designers at Ikea built that thing to withstand your assaults.” Christine put her hands up in mock surrender. “I thank you and your father thanks you. Also, it’s nearly ten o’clock, so maybe call it quits for tonight.” “Didn’t realize it was so late.” “You get that from your dad. The man could ignore a nuclear blast down the block if he was in the middle of something.” “I’m not that bad.” “Agree to disagree. Now get some sleep.” “Night Mom.” “Goodnight my little furniture demolitionist.” ****** Christine was standing in a hallway, lockers lining both sides and speckled beige linoleum on the floor. It could’ve been her own high school were it not for the fact that the lockers here were black instead of green, and that they seemed to stretch on forever. She stepped forward, the rubber soles of her boots squeaking against the freshly waxed surface of the tiles. There were no classroom doors or other corridors branching off from this one, just endless metal rectangles reflecting a distorted image of her profile in their glossy obsidian facades. “Hello? Is anyone here?” Christine waited for a reply, and when none came, she began moving faster along the hall. In the distance she thought she saw a dim red light that she hoped was an Exit sign, but no matter how far she traveled the image never came any closer. She stopped and looked back in the other direction, thinking maybe she’d gone the wrong way, and that’s when she heard it. …a loud banging from inside one of the lockers…. She closed her eyes, listening carefully to determine where the sound was coming from, when there was suddenly more banging behind her. Door after door joined the chorus until soon the corridor was filled with a metallic cacophony. Christine covered her ears as legions of phantom fists pounded out the rhythm from the video. She winced in pain as the intensity grew and screamed, “Stop! Stop it!” When she opened her eyes again, she was staring up at her ceiling fan. She glanced around, still expecting to see locker doors and speckled tile, but it was only the interior of her bedroom. The clock on her nightstand read 2:39 a.m. ****** “You gonna eat that?” Christine blinked and looked over at Nicki. “Huh?” “You’ve been gazing at your cheeseburger like it’s about to impart some ancient wisdom.” “Sorry, I’m kinda out of it. Didn’t sleep well last night.” “Up late working on the project?” Christine nodded. “The end of the semester is still three months away. Maybe pace yourself a bit.” “It wasn’t that. I had a nightmare.” “About the term-paper?” “Sort of; it started out like a typical school-anxiety dream, can’t find your class, forgot about a test, but then mixed together with some of the stuff I’ve been researching.” “Were you forced to write, ‘I will not play the drum solo from Moby Dick in Study Hall’ on the chalkboard a hundred times?” Christine laughed and shook her head. “I found a band online with a similar name to that strange tribe, and I ran across a video of an old show of theirs.” “Any good?” “Not really my cup of tea, but they were decent at what they were going for. And there was this part at the end, a kind of weird drum circle where the whole band pounded on the stage floor and the audience stomped along with them.” Christine pulled up the video on her phone, scrolled over to the last few minutes, and handed it to Nicki who watched with a bemused look on her face. “Kinda reminds me of these parties my mom told me about. She went through a hippie phase before she had me.” “Yeah, it starts out all kumbaya, but it ends up more like an earthquake.” “Best part about small venues; you never know what you’re gonna get on any given night.” “Have you been to many shows?” “A bunch of all-ages places and a few bands at bars with relaxed ID policies so long as you don’t try and scam the bartender after you get in. You?” “My parents just started letting me go to arena and theater concerts, but they’re still wary about clubs even if they don’t serve alcohol.” “I get it, but it always makes me a little sad when some indie band I love starts playing bigger spots. Between the ticket price and the fees, it’s pretty hard to swing most of the time.” Christine nodded, suddenly feeling awkward for bringing it up. “My guitar is out of the hospital; you free this weekend to jam?” “Absolutely.” “Awesome. I work Saturday until 3:00, but I’m good after that.” “Where do you work?” “Movie theater downtown a couple nights a week and matinee shifts on the weekend.” “Sounds cool.” “It’s alright. Pays better than most places willing to hire teenagers and the times I’m scheduled usually aren’t that busy, so I can read during the downtime. That reminds me, I wanted to give you this.” Nicki unzipped her backpack and pulled out a yellow-edged paperback that she handed to Christine. “It’s about a guy playing in a wedding band and his existential crisis over the fact that he’s probably never gonna make it big. The whole thing is hilarious and comes across way more realistically than most fictional stories about musicians.” Christine looked at the title, The Wishbones. “Are you giving this to me so I don’t get my hopes up about us becoming famous?” Nicki laughed. “Dude, we haven’t even played a note together. Superstardom is a long way off.” “Well, it is with that attitude.” “Just saying, you may want to slow your roll a little.” “Fine.” Christine said and sighed dramatically. The bell signaling the end of the period rang and kids began reluctantly rising from lunch tables and shuffling off toward their next class. “I’ve got a quiz in chemistry, so I should probably motor.” “Good luck.” “Thanks. Looking forward to this weekend.” “Me too.” Christine said and watched Nicki as she headed down the hall, wondering what songs she should suggest for Saturday. ****** Christine looked over the songs in her ‘Drumming Playlist’ and grimaced. A lot of the tracks were from bands she didn’t normally listen to but had put on there because the beats were challenging or just fun to play. Nicki had said something similar about her own music, but Christine doubted that her guitar list had Taylor Swift and Katy Perry on them. She tore off a piece of notebook paper and started writing down possibilities: The Clash – Janie Jones Mitski – Townie Wolf Alice – She The Knife – Heartbeats Fazer Daze – Lucky Girl The Ramones – We’re A Happy Family Grimes – Pin The Police – Next To You Girl K – For Now Neon Trees – Animal The Go-Go’s – Can’t Stop The World Missing Persons – Mental Hopscotch The Buzzcocks – Everybody’s Happy Nowadays The Beths – Little Death Christine scrutinized the list again looking for anything else that needed to be eliminated. She’d never liked the idea of guilty pleasures, but it’d also been a while since she’d opened her personal tastes up for inspection. The last time she’d tried to have a conversation with Beth and Karen about a new band she’d discovered, they’d both smiled and nodded before quickly changing the subject. ‘You’re being stupid; you’ve already talked about tons of bands. She isn’t going to suddenly think you’re a tool just because you disagree on some group.’ She knew this was true and was excited to have finally met someone who not only shared similar tastes, but who also played music. It was part of what made her nervous, that she might lose this opportunity by saying or doing the wrong thing. There were times she felt like a poser to the person she’d been before; that deep down nothing about her had changed at all. This lingering dread of living as an imposter was still echoing in her head as Christine closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. ****** The circle of cave drummers returned in her dreams. Their faces were distorted into grotesque caricatures that only vaguely resembled human visages and the skulls they played upon had become equally monstrous. The rhythm this time wasn’t the round robin she’d previously envisioned but the pattern from the video and her nightmare. And there was something else buried in the background; a thrum so soft and low that at first she wasn’t sure it was actually there. As the drumming increased in velocity and volume so too did the intensity of the reverberation, its former earthworm now a massive burrowing beast tunneling deep below the earth and steadily making its way toward the surface. Both sounds slowly melded together becoming impossible to distinguish one from the other, but just before the dream ended Christine heard the percussive thrum transform into a silky baritone asking her a singular question. “Can I help you with something?” ****** “You sure your parents are okay with this?” Nicki said as she plugged her amp into the outlet next to Christine’s desk. She was still wearing her maroon vest with Starlight Cinema stitched in silver on the left side and a black plastic name tag on the right with Nicole Francellno in white block lettering. Underneath it was an X-Ray Spex t-shirt that had faded to gray from repeated washings. Christine was wearing a shirt her mom had found at a thrift store that featured a photo of Keith Moon sporting a mischievous grin that reminded her of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. “They’re pretty used to it.” “Alright then, ready when you are.” Christine adjusted the height on her drum throne slightly and made sure her hi-hat clutch was tightened down. She gave Nicki a single nod and then launched into the opening snare fill of “Shiftless When Idle” by The Replacements. ****** “So what made you gravitate toward the drums?” Nicki said between bites of pizza. “A harpsichord wouldn’t fit up the staircase.” Christine said and quickly hid her grin behind her soda can. “You’re hysterical. Seriously though, it’s hard enough finding people to play with, and most of the ones I ran across were other guitarists. There were a couple of guys at school who were drummers, but one of them was a know-it-all dickhead, and the other was more interested in trying to feel me up than he was in practicing.” “I’m sorry.” “It’s fine; I can handle myself.” “Doesn’t make it okay.” “Pretty much nothing about that dude was okay. Should’ve never gone over there in the first place, but I was tired of playing along with my albums.” “When I was little my dad used to worry whenever he put me up on his shoulders to see better at a parade or an outdoor concert.” “Why?” “Because instead of holding on like I was supposed to, I’d pound my pudgy little fists on his shoulders along with whatever was playing over the speakers. No matter how many times he told me to stop, I just couldn’t help myself.” “That’s sweet.” “Not sure he thought so at the time.” Nicki laughed. “Maybe he got the drums to distract you.” “It’s a distinct possibility. Alright, your turn. Why guitar? Why not violin, or oboe, or running track, or playing tennis?” “You mean aside from the fact that guitar is much cooler than any of those other things?” “Obviously.” “My older brother Mitch took off when he was seventeen. He was fighting with my mom’s boyfriend at the time, who was way worse than the current guy, and he left a note on my bed saying he was going to look for our dad.” “Did he find him?” “…yeah, moved in with him for a while in Houston, but it didn’t last long. Mitch is in Seattle now; sends a letter every so often. About a week after he first left, he wrote me saying that I could have his guitar. I almost threw the thing in the trash I was so mad at him, but it also reminded me of him, so I kept it. Sometimes he’d mail me tapes with songs he said I needed to learn if I wanted to be great.” “You must’ve listened, cause you sound pretty great to me.” “Not so bad yourself there.” “I’m gonna grab another coke, you want one?” “It’s okay…I know my family’s messed up….” Christine stood there in the bedroom doorway unsure of what to say. “I’m used to people being weirded out, so seriously, don’t worry about it.” “People think it’s weird that I get along with my folks.” Christine said. “I mean, most of the time anyway.” “Honestly, it is a little freaky.” Nicki said. “It’s cool though, especially the part about letting us play here and buying us pizza. You’ve got pretty rad parents.” “Yeah.” Christine said and disappeared down the stairs to retrieve more soda. ****** She heard the rhythm in the back of her head like an ear-worm pop song that buries itself in your subconscious. Christine found herself tapping the pattern with her hands whenever her mind wandered; on the bus ride home she’d been so absorbed that she’d missed her stop and didn’t notice until she was almost six blocks away. At night she’d sometimes hear the voice as she slipped into sleep, always with the same question. She hadn’t told Nicki about that part of the dream, or the fact that she’d continued to have them. It was all a bit much, and she didn’t want Nicki thinking she was some kind of headcase. Christine stared at her notes for the paper and wondered if she shouldn’t just scrap the whole thing and start over with something else. The lamp on her desk was a retro design, two metal gooseneck arms with violet colored glass shades that curved to a point like a pair of tropical bird beaks. She squinted, letting the shape distort as she imagined the strange animal springing to life next to her laptop. “You still haven’t responded to my query.” Christine’s eyes shot open and she darted them around the room looking for the source of the sound. “I mean honestly, you go about repeatedly summoning me and then can’t be bothered to answer one simple question?” She rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands. “You’re just tired.” Christine whispered to herself. “Know what makes me tired? People who continually invoke my presence, but then refuse to say what they want. It’s like someone ringing your doorbell and running away over and over again.” Christine stood up and crossed the room; she had her hand on the doorknob but stopped short of pulling it open. If she told her parents, there would be no going back. And what would she even say to them? “Leave me alone.” “Afraid I can’t do that. Upper management gets testy if we worker bees shirk our responsibilities.” “But I don’t want anything.” “Oh come now, everyone wants something.” “You’re just a figment of my sleep-deprived brain brought on by too many hours spent obsessing over this stupid project. I just wish the damn thing was done so I didn’t have to think about it anymore.” “See how easy that was.” “What are you talking about?” “Hello?” Christine said and was relieved when there was no reply. She shut down her computer and crawled into bed, though the idea of sleep with its unwanted dreams certainly didn’t appeal to her at that moment. Christine lay there covered head-to-toe under a combination of comforter, blanket, and sheet, trying to pretend that the outside world didn’t exist. ****** The next morning Christine tried again to convince herself that it had simply been some stress-induced hallucination that hadn’t actually happened. She got ready for school and was about to head downstairs for breakfast when she remembered that she needed to email herself the outline she’d written last night so she could start organizing the material she’d collected. When Christine booted up her computer, she saw the outline on her desktop and another file beside it that she didn’t recognize named Deonaithe. She double-clicked the icon and Word launched on her screen, opening a document that had her name in the upper-left corner with the course code and teacher of her History class under it and the current date beneath that. Centered on the page was a title, Mystic Rhythms – The Influence of Percussion in Global Culture. Christine glanced at the bottom of the screen and saw that it was ten pages long; she started scanning over the text and felt her stomach knot. The writing style was identical to her own and was filled with references from her research along with other sources that she hadn’t read. A wave of vertigo swept over her as she clutched at the edge of her desk. “This isn’t possible.” After a few minutes the sensation began to fade and she redirected her hands to the trackpad. She quit Word, dragged the Deonaithe file to the garbage can, then right-clicked and selected Empty Trash. Her head still felt a bit swimmy but calling out sick would mean lying to her parents since she still couldn’t face telling them the truth. Christine took a few tentative steps to make sure she wasn’t going to fall over, grabbed her backpack up off the floor, and made a beeline for the front door before her mom and dad could ask any questions. ****** During the ride to school Christine kept glancing over to see if anyone was staring at her. She was certain that they knew; that her classmates somehow sensed what’d happened despite the fact that she wasn’t sure herself. The voice was worrisome enough, but at least it seemed to be confined to the inside of her head with its questionable dependability. There was no convenient excuse to explain the existence of the file. She’d heard of sleepwalkers doing all sorts of crazy things while in a somnambulant state, but never writing an entire term-paper. And the words had definitely been hers. That was the most disturbing part. It felt like the contents of her skull had been pillaged and put out on display. Thinking about it made her squirm. The bus came to a stop and kids started trudging toward the front. As Christine stepped off onto the sidewalk, she saw Beth and Karen leaning against one of the cylindrical support posts that held up the enormous awning above the concourse. “Hey.” Beth said as Christine approached them. “Hi.” Christine said. “Was just thinking about you.” Beth said. “Yeah?” “You remember Sarah Gannon?” “Didn’t we have a sleepover with her in like fifth grade?” “And we put Karen’s hand in a glass of water after she fell asleep to see if she’d pee herself.” “I did not piss myself.” Karen said. “No one said you did, dear.” Beth said. “Do you guys still see her?” Christine said. “Hell, we barely see you anymore.” Karen said. Beth shot Karen a look. “Which brings me to my point.” Beth said. “Turns out our old sleepover buddy is going to be sans parents for the weekend and she’s throwing a little shindig on Saturday to celebrate.” “Hasn’t she seen any of the movies where a kid throws a rager while their folks are gone and it always ends in a total disaster?” Christine said. “That’s why Karen and I are helping curate Sarah’s guest list to keep it free of less refined individuals.” “Are you planning on inviting nursing home residents instead of teenagers?” “I’d like to think that some of us are capable of not acting like assholes at every social gathering. Have you become an insane party animal in our absence?” “Oh totally; I was actually headed to the bathroom to shoot heroin when I ran into you.” Karen cracked a smile at this, and that made Christine grin. “Can I talk to you about something?” ****** Christine recounted everything during their seventh period P.E. class. “Wait, back up.” Beth said. “You listened to satanic music and then summoned up the devil?” “No, it wasn’t satanic. Just a drum rhythm from an extinct tribe.” Christine said. “But you’re saying that playing it did something to you?” Karen said. “Yeah, I mean, I’m hearing things, noises and voices, and other stuff has been happening.” “What stuff?” Beth said. “There was a file on my computer this morning that I didn’t create. It was my semester history project, written like I would and using my research, but I hadn’t even started on the paper.” “You’re fucking with us, right? Please tell me you’re fucking with us.” Karen said. Christine shook her head. “I know it sounds nuts.” “Well, I wouldn’t say—” Beth said. “Yeah, it’s absolutely batshit crazy.” Karen said. “Though I wouldn’t mind El Diablo finishing my projects for me. Think he helps out with exams?” Christine snorted out a laugh and instantly felt a little lighter. “Why don’t you come to the party around 7:00 and we’ll sort this out.” Beth said. “Yeah, okay…cool….” “In the meantime, maybe get some noise-canceling headphones to drown out the demon voices.” Karen said and winked at Christine as she and Beth headed to their next class. ****** When Christine got home she turned on her computer and saw another new document sitting on her desktop. This one wasn’t called Deonaithe. Printed beneath the tiny rectangular icon were the words, NO TAKE BACKS. She didn’t bother to open it and instead deleted the file and shut down her machine. ****** “I thought maybe we could try learning something by The Blood Red Shoes. They’re a guitar and drum duo like us so we wouldn’t have to worry about missing parts.” Nicki said. “Don’t they both sing?” Christine said. “Yeah, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s not like I’m Freddie Mercury or anything. Mostly I just cover the vocals so I don’t lose my place in the song.” “I think you sound good.” “Thanks.” Nicki said and smiled. “Hope your opinion doesn’t change if we ever get a P.A. system instead of me just shouting the lyrics.” “My voice doesn’t sound anything like what I hear when I speak to the point that if I didn’t know better, I’d swear it was a completely different person. I honestly hate hearing it amplified or played back.” “I think that’s common for a lot of people.” “Suppose so. Any advice on getting over it?” “My personal remedy is a daily dose of not giving a fuck.” Christine laughed. “Why don’t you try just doing the choruses with me next practice and see how it feels?” Nicki said. “Hey, there’s this party after our jam on Saturday and I was wondering if you wanted to go?” “Who’s throwing it?” “This girl Sarah Gannon.” “Don’t think we’ve met.” “I don’t really know her that well myself. A couple of old friends told me about it when I ran into them the other day. Seriously though, no pressure or anything. If you had something else planned.” “It’s true that my calendar is usually brimming with soirees and charity functions, but I’ll see if I can squeeze you in.” Christine laughed again. “Awesome, I think it’ll be fun.” ****** The bell rang signaling the end of fourth period and Christine was headed toward the door when Mr. Melnick called after her. “I wanted to commend you on your project. When a student turns in something early it’s often a cry for help, but certainly not in your case. I can’t give you your official grade until after the assignment deadline, but I can say that I found the work very impressive.” Christine felt short of breath. The classroom suddenly seemed to be closing in on her. “Are you alright?” Mr. Melnick said. “Just a little dizzy.” Mr. Melnick stood up from his desk and quickly repositioned his chair beside Christine. “Please sit.” She did as instructed, resting her forehead against her knees until the sensation faded. “I’m going to call the nurse’s office and have them send someone up.” “No, really, I’m okay. I’m hypoglycemic and this happens sometimes if I forget to eat.” Christine said, hoping the lie sounded convincing. “I’ll be alright.” “You’re sure?” Christine nodded. Mr. Melnick glanced over at the phone on his desk as if considering making the call anyway, but then turned back to Christine. “Your work in this class has always been good, and your semester project is exemplary, but never let academic pursuit cause you to neglect your health. No grade is worth that.” “I won’t.” Christine said, trying to look both grave and thoughtful. It was a nice thing to say, even if it made him sound like an after-school special. “You take care now Christine.” “Thanks Mr. Melnick, I will.” The rest of the day passed in a blur. She was vaguely aware of saying hello to her parents when she got home and participating in some perfunctory dinner conversation. After that she excused herself and headed up to her room. She sat down at her desk and automatically reached over to turn on her laptop but then hesitated, afraid of what might be waiting for her. “Why is this happening?” The question came out as a whisper, but the reply was full voiced and so close that it seemed to be coming from an invisible face only inches from her own. “Because you called to me.” “I didn’t ask for you. I didn’t ask for any of this.” “Of course you did. And I delivered.” “But I didn’t need you to do my project.” “Most people don’t actually need the things they ask for, but they’re still appreciative to receive them.” “Fine, you’ve officially fulfilled my request; can you please stop pestering me now?” “That doesn’t sound much like gratitude.” “I’m grateful, really, don’t even want my other two wishes.” “Ah yes, I was wondering when the genie joke was coming. You should count yourself fortunate that I’m not a djinn; those duplicitous rascals are always trying to trick you into something. I, on the other hand, play straight. You conjured me, requested something, and I provided that request. No hidden clauses or willful misinterpretations.” “All I did was repeat a rhythm I found in a video. I wasn’t trying to conjure jack shit.” “Oh come now, don’t be daft. You think just anyone could’ve tapped their fingers on a tabletop and *poof* there I’d be? If that were true, every fidgety nimrod with an internet connection would be a percussive summoner.” “A what?” “Percussive summoner, like those folks you were reading about for your paper, or should I say ‘our’ paper.” “Chris honey, who are you talking to?” Christine froze at the sound of her mother calling from the base of the stairs. She hadn’t realized until now that she’d left the door open. “Just video chatting with Nicki.” “Well can you keep it down a bit?” “Yeah, sorry about that.” Christine waited until she heard her mom walk away and then shut the door. “Think she bought it?” Christine didn’t know. She wasn’t even sure if the voice could be heard by anyone else. “Listen, I guarantee you that I’m not a summoner. There’s no shamans or voodoo priests in our family and we don’t attend mass, or temple, or mosque, or anything.” “Historically speaking, religion is really nothing more than individualized varieties of charlatanism. The people with real ability generally aren’t even aware of it until something like this happens.” “Well I don’t want to be whatever the hell this is.” “Unfortunately, that decision isn’t up to you. But look on the bright side. I’m confident that we aced that paper. Only thing left to do is discuss my fee.” ****** “There’s a break there.” Christine stopped playing and muted her still-ringing crash cymbal with her fingers. “What did you say?” “After the bridge we both drop out, and then you come back in and I follow you.” “Right, sorry. Can we start from the beginning?” “You okay?” Christine placed her sticks on top of her snare drum and took her hearing protection out of her ears. “Remember those dreams I was having?” Nicki nodded. “Well I started hearing a voice at the end of it.” “What did it say?” “Can I help you with something?” Christine stared down at her boot resting on the bass drum pedal. “I didn’t understand what the question meant, not at first…then I started hearing the voice when I was awake. It kept asking why I’d summoned it, what I wanted from it. I said that I didn’t do or want anything and had just been researching an assignment for school, but it wouldn’t let up, and that’s when it happened.” “What happened?” “A document appeared on my computer with my finished paper on it. I deleted the file when I realized what it was, but it came back later that day. I trashed it again and thought it had worked that time, but then yesterday….” Nicki switched off her amp and laid her guitar down next to it. “It’s okay, you can tell me.” “…I was leaving history class and Mr. Melnick calls me over. He starts telling me how impressed he was with my semester project, and I nearly passed out next to him. I’d been trying so hard to pretend this was all in my head, but now it’s out in the world and….” Christine suddenly burst into racking sobs. Nicki quickly navigated between the cymbal stands and helped Christine off her drum stool, guiding them both down onto the carpet in front of the kit. “It’s gonna be alright.” Nicki repeated over and over as she held Christine. After a while Christine’s shoulders stopped hitching and her sobs transitioned into sniffles. “…sorry about that….” Christine said in a congested croak. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.” “Really won the lottery, huh? Starting a band with a certified psychopath.” “My mom once dated a guy who believed Jesus was sending him messages in his cereal, so this is honestly nothing new.” Christine let out a phlegmy chuckle. “That mean you believe me?” “Yeah, I believe you.” Nicki said. “Maybe we should skip this party and just stay in and watch movies or something?” “I promised Beth that I’d go. She and my other friend Karen are the ones who told me about it. I mentioned some of what’s been going on and they want to help.” “That’s great, but are you sure you’re really up for this?” Christine nodded. “It’ll be a good distraction.” “Okay, but if you change your mind just give me a signal and we’ll bail.” “What should the signal be?” “How about this?” Nicki said and wiggled her eyebrows up and down three times. “Seriously?” Christine croaked, a small grin curling the corners of her mouth. “Everyone’s a fuckin’ critic.” ****** Sarah’s house was different than Christine remembered. In her head it had practically been a mansion, the kind of place where everything seemed too pretty and fragile to touch. That was back when things were financially tight for Christine’s family, far more than she knew at the time, though it was evident her folks were stressed. But then her dad had gotten a promotion and her mom accepted a position at a better school district. When they eventually moved it hadn’t seemed that different from their old house aside from being a bit bigger and in a slightly nicer neighborhood. Walking around now though, Sarah’s place wasn’t that different from her own just with wallpaper instead of paint and fancier furniture. “You okay?” Nicki said over the thump and rattle of some wordless dance track. “Having a weird reverse-déjà-vu moment.” “Not sure I follow you.” “It’s nothing, just—” “About time you got here. Going for fashionably late, are we?” Beth said. She was wearing a light gray pencil skirt and black leather boots that went up to just below her knees. Her top was silk and sleeveless with a bowed neckline, a pale beige the color of beach sand, and it fit her better than anything Christine had ever owned. “Hey.” Karen said. She was seated sideways in an enormous leather armchair wearing a cranberry-colored cotton blouse, blue jeans, and white, low-top sneakers. It was the kind of thing Christine had worn before switching to t-shirts and Doc Martens. She and Karen had spent countless hours in department stores at the mall while Beth was off shopping at the designer boutiques. “I see you’ve brought a guest.” Beth said. “Beth, Karen, this is Nicki.” “Nice to meet you, Nicki.” Beth said. “Yeah, you too.” Nicki said. Karen held up a hand in greeting that only lingered in the air a moment before returning to her lap. “Can I have a word?” Beth said and motioned for Christine to follow her. “Um, sure.” Christine said. Nicki and Karen both watched as Beth and Christine dodged around knots of dancing and drinking kids before disappearing down the hall. Beth opened a pair of glass paneled doors that led into the dining room at the rear of the house. The table in the center was a massive oval of polished dark wood adorned with a white lace tablecloth that perfectly aligned with Christine’s previous recollection of the place. “You didn’t mention before that you were bringing someone.” Beth said. “I hadn’t asked her yet. Why, what’s the problem?” “The whole point of us helping Sarah is to make sure tonight doesn’t get out of control.” “What does that have to do with me bringing Nicki?” Beth paused for a moment to clear her throat. “This doesn’t really seem like her scene. Looks more like she’s headed to a punk show than a party.” Christine glanced down at her own clothes, which featured black jeans and a red t-shirt with Jack and Meg White in reverse silhouette pointing at one another, and looked back up at Beth. “I mistakenly assumed that you’d alter your attire for the occasion, but that isn’t the issue.” Beth said. “You were specifically invited. We know you.” “And I know Nicki.” “For how long? I mean I’ve never even seen you hanging out.” “Right, cause you and I spend so much time together.” Christine said, more sharply than she’d intended. “I’m not the one who decided to go all tomboy band geek and ditch us.” “I didn’t ditch you.” “What do you call blowing off plans and constantly claiming you’re busy?” “I just got into other stuff; stuff that wasn’t makeup, or clothes, or guys.” “And what, I’m suddenly just some vapid bimbo you can’t be bothered to call back? You pick up a new hobby and then act like I don’t exist?” “That isn’t fair.” “Fair? You think I’m the one not being fair? Who came crawling back looking for comfort with a story about disembodied voices and phantom papers?” “Fuck you.” “Oh, did the demon tell you to say that? A lot more spine than I seem to remember you having.” Christine wheeled around and flung open the doors. She stormed out of the room and into the hallway, nearly colliding with a trio of guys drinking shots as she rounded the corner. “…all I’m saying is that the Ripley in Aliens would’ve kicked the ass of the Ripley in the first movie.” Nicki said. “Yeah, but Vasquez could’ve easily kicked both their asses.” Karen said. “We need to go.” Christine said to Nicki. “Okay.” Nicki said and turned to follow Christine who was already heading for the front door. From behind Christine heard Beth bellow after her as she exited. “Lovely to see you again darling. So sorry you couldn’t stay.” ****** Nicki wasn’t sure how much of her attempted consolation Christine had actually heard. The moment they got into the car she’d gone silent and remained that way until Nicki dropped her off. She’d wanted to stay and make sure Christine was okay, but if she didn’t get her mom’s Corolla back in front of the apartment before her and the boyfriend returned from the bar there’d be hell to pay. It wasn’t until she was pulling into the parking lot that she realized it was only just past nine o’clock. Part of her was relieved that she wasn’t stuck making small talk with strangers all night, though after some initial awkwardness Karen had seemed alright to her. Beth on the other hand reminded Nicki of every girl that had given her shit since grade school. Granted, she didn’t really know her, but whatever happened between her and Christine hadn’t exactly swayed Nicki’s preconception. She was flipping through her keys, looking for the brass one that unlocked the front door, when she felt her phone buzz in her pocket. “I’m really sorry about tonight. Should’ve taken your advice.” Nicki opened the door and stepped into the small foyer, which also doubled as the building’s mailroom. There were only six units including theirs and the other tenants tended to turn in pretty early even on weekends. She leaned back against the wall containing the half dozen narrow, metal mailboxes and slid down into a sitting position beside a plastic recycling bin. “Wasn’t your fault. Have you told your parents anything?” Three tiny dots sprung up in a speech bubble and then vanished for several moments before reappearing. “Afraid to.” Nicki couldn’t say she blamed her. Over the years she’d given her mom more than her fair share of grief, especially regarding her mother’s less than stellar romantic partners, but there hadn’t been any devils or demons apart from the ones on the album covers in her room. It was funny because Christine was the kind of person Nicki’s mom had always encouraged her to seek out rather than the cavalcade of tattooed, pierced, and mohawked friends she’d brought home in the past. Her mom would probably pull Christine aside and ask her where they’d met and what she was doing hanging out with someone like her daughter. Nicki chuckled at this, knowing it was more than likely the truth. “We’re gonna figure this out. Just try to relax and get some sleep.” Nicki winced after hitting send. She hated whenever people told her to relax. “Just hope I don’t have another nightmare.” “If you do, kick that bastard in its demonic junk and tell it to fuck off!” A face appeared with its eyes pinched shut and mouth spread wide in a laughing grin. Nicki waited a moment to see if anything followed before going upstairs to her apartment. She was only half asleep when her phone chimed at 12:37 a.m. The text was from an unknown number, but Nicki tapped on it after seeing the message preview. “Stop meddling in my affairs, or I’ll start acquainting myself with yours.” ****** Beth stared into the bathroom mirror with bloodshot eyes feeling absolutely awful. Most of it was due to the rum and cokes she’d drank, which as best she could remember had ended at four. Ordinarily she wasn’t much of a drinker, especially at events where she was helping play hostess. An image of Sarah Gannon hanging off her shoulder with a beer and a beaming smile drifted across her memory. ‘At least that’s something.’ Beth thought. The party had apparently still come off despite her downward spiral after the incident with Christine. Another memory entered her mind unbidden. The two of them in the dining room, sneering and sniping and then Christine leaving. Beth couldn’t recall what she’d said but remembered being filled with this overwhelming sensation of betrayal and rage and wanting to give that back. “Felt good, didn’t it?” Beth wheeled around expecting to find her little brother being his usual obnoxious self, but she was alone with the door closed. “She had it coming. People who don’t keep their promises need to pay.” Beth rubbed at her forehead with the heel of her hand. ‘Was she still drunk?’ “You and I have a mutual grievance that I believe we can assist each other with. Be back in a bit.” ****** The basement was Christine’s second favorite spot after her own room. It was a time-capsule from when the house was built in ’74 and hadn’t been redecorated with the rest because her parents didn’t want to spend money on a room that might get ruined if the sump pump failed, which was also the reason she got to keep her drums upstairs. She sat on the floor with her back against the bottom of the old sofa, faded by sunlight and time from its original navy blue to something closer to cerulean. The shag carpet was made from a petroleum derivative and had kept its vibrant colors, a mottled mix of chocolate brown, lemon yellow, and burnt orange. Her parents laughed when they first saw it and her dad made a gesture that Christine didn’t fully understand, though she was fairly certain it had something to do with having sex or getting high, possibly both. The walls were covered in dark wood paneling and the drop ceiling was white acoustic tile that her parents had to get tested to make sure it didn’t contain asbestos. She and Nicki sometimes had their after-practice pizza downstairs and Beth and Karen had practically lived down there when her family first moved. Christine thought about everything Beth had said at the party, and as much as it stung, some of it was true. After she dove headlong into drumming and all the new influences and distractions that came with it, Beth had still attempted to include Christine. Granted, going to fashion store openings or trying out new perfume samples wasn’t really her idea of fun anymore, but she could’ve tagged along just to hang with them. “Goddamn it.” She needed to swallow her pride and call Beth to apologize before things lingered too long. Christine stroked a patch of the fuzzy multicolored carpeting, pretending it was some strange extraterrestrial creature from a distant planet as she stared at the black screen of her phone. ****** Flowing in with the stream of kids exiting the bus, Christine had almost reached the rear entrance when a voice spoke behind her. “There you are.” She shuddered and turned to see Nicki who was wearing her own startled expression. “I swear it was totally unintentional that time.” “It’s not you; I’m just on edge right now.” “Understandable, given the whole demon thing.” “That and what happened at the party.” Nicki nodded. “You want to talk about it?” “Not much to say other than it wasn’t one of my finer moments. I have to find Beth so I can—” “So you can what?” Beth said. She was wearing torn-up jeans with large, metal safety pins spanning the openings, a bright yellow t-shirt with Sex Pistols stenciled in pink across the front, and a black leather belt with chrome studs embedded into it. Christine and Nicki stared at Beth. Beth grinned back at them. “Thought I’d Sandra Dee myself to try and fit in better. Figured then maybe you wouldn’t be such a complete bitch to me.” “Beth, look, I’m sorry for everything I said and for being a shitty friend.” “Gosh, that’s awfully big of you. I had something I wanted to tell you too.” “Okay, sure.” Christine said. “After you decided that Karen and I weren’t cool enough to hang around with anymore, we made a game of cutting you up behind your back.” “What?” “Honestly though, it wasn’t much fun considering how easy you made it. I mean Christ, just look at yourself. Hell, look at me.” Beth said, posing in her ensemble. “Felt like I was putting on a Halloween costume this morning.” “Knock it off.” Nicki said. “Oh, you want in on this?” Beth said. “What I want is for you to stop talking.” Nicki said. “Or what?” Beth said. “I’ll stop it for you.” “Aww, that’s so sweet Christine. Your new bestie sticking up for you.” Beth said before turning back toward Nicki. “She clearly idolizes you. What other explanation is there for her willingly becoming a fashion victim.” Beth tilted her head to the side and smirked at Christine. “C’mon, spill it, Chrissy. How long were you stalking her before you accidentally bumped into each other?” Christine stared down at her boots. “Dearie me, I think maybe she really was spying on you. This whole thing is beginning to seem a bit desperate, isn’t it Chrissy?” When Christine looked up there were tears streaming down both her cheeks. “Been great chatting with you gals; we’ll have to do lunch sometime soon.” Beth said and sauntered past them into school. “Let’s get out of here.” Nicki said. Christine nodded and the two of them navigated around the throngs of students headed in the opposite direction as they quietly slipped off campus. ****** They’d been walking for blocks before Christine really stopped and looked around. “Where are we?” Christine said. “My side of town.” “Guess I haven’t been down this way much.” “There’s not much worth coming here for. It’s mostly industrial warehouses and construction materials places, but there is one thing that’s kinda cool.” Nicki turned into a nearly empty parking lot and led Christine to the back where it was bordered by a line of trees and overgrown brush. She pointed to a gap in the foliage. “There’s a trail that goes up to the railroad trestle.” Nicki said. Christine peered into the shadowy tunnel made by the branches. “The tracks don’t see much traffic anymore, and it’s all slow-moving freights dropping off loads to the construction yards. I promise it’s safe.” Christine nodded and followed along behind Nicki as the path slanted downward for a few feet and then began to rise. Dirt, leaves, and crabgrass gave way to flat-edged stones of varying shapes and sizes with colors that ranged from gray-blue slate to a dusty pink that oxidized over time into a dirty reddish brown. “Be careful with your footing, these things can slide around on you.” Nicki said, walking up the incline as easily as if it were a set of steps. When Nicki reached the top she held out a hand that Christine gratefully grabbed onto and was pulled up the rest of the way. “Watch out for the rail.” Nicki said as Christine carefully stepped over the narrow length of rusted steel. The tracks they were standing between clearly hadn’t been used in years but the other set beside them was still shiny on top and glinted in the sun. Christine gazed out at the expanse of rail, stones, and wooden ties that seemed to stretch on forever in either direction. “Holy shit.” Nicki smiled. “Feels kinda crazy standing in the middle of it.” “Yeah.” “You haven’t even seen the best part.” Christine followed as Nicki crossed over the second set of tracks and headed down the slope on the opposite side, which was considerably less steep than the other had been. At the bottom the path expanded out into a field with a little park at the opposite end that had recently been refurbished with new playground equipment. Christine started off toward the park, but Nicki stopped her. “No, it’s over here.” Nicki said, pointing at the underside of the trestle. They carefully navigated down a winding muddy path and then clambered up onto the concrete embankment at the base of the bridge. Across from them was a mirror image of their side with a slow-moving creek running through the middle of it. Nicki pointed to a pair of large concrete arches off to the left. “When it’s summer sometimes the water gets low enough to explore the storm drains.” “Aren’t there rats in those?” “Biggest ones I’ve ever seen; I’m talking chihuahua sized. But they generally don’t want anything to do with people. The real danger is if they release the water stored up after a heavy rain. Good way to get yourself drowned.” “How do you know so much about this place?” “Been coming here a long time. We changed apartments so often when I was young that I liked having something that didn’t move around. It’s also really fucking cool.” “Yeah.” Christine said, admiring the graffiti that adorned the walls, particularly the unicorn sporting an uzi shooting a rainbow from its barrel. “I wasn’t stalking you.” Christine said after they’d been sitting quietly for a while, feet dangling out over the water. “And for the record, I was also not stalking you, despite your earlier accusation.” “I did notice you; I mean, you’re pretty noticeable.’ “So why didn’t you come talk to me?” “I dunno, guess I didn’t wanna be weird about it.” “Dude, you’re kinda weird, even before the whole demon voices thing. Not many girls go from capris and boy bands to ripped jeans and Megadeth.” Christine looked down at her reflection in the water. “You can’t tell me that you actually miss the mall drones and dealing with dipshit guys who assume you don’t have a brain in your head?” “I mean the mall does have a Cinnabon and a Doc Martens store, so it isn’t all bad.” “They should combine that into one place and call it Boots & Buns.” Christine laughed. “It wasn’t like I woke up one morning completely changed. I’m not even sure I realized at the time when things began to feel different. That’s been the hardest part about Beth and Karen. Maybe I am the one who drifted away, but I didn’t do it to hurt them, it just happened. Not that any of it matters much now.” “Yeah, that was harsh. I’ve never seen someone go all cosplay just to be cruel.” “I know things ended badly at the party, but what happened at school was just…we used to be so close….” “At least you tried to fix it. She’s the one who acted like an asshole.” “Guess so.” Christine said and shrugged. “I hate to add to your already craptastic day, but I have to show you a message.” ****** Christine sat on the edge of her bed trying to wrangle all of the thoughts darting around inside her skull. She’d never ditched school before; never even skipped a class unless she was sick. They came back halfway through the day, drifting in with some seniors returning from off-campus lunch, but the attendance office would still be calling about the periods she missed. Christine had what she thought was a believable story about feeling woozy and going to one of the practice rooms in the band area to sit and rest because she was afraid she might faint before reaching the nurse’s office. It wasn’t a great lie, but she figured her attendance record up to that point and general status as a “good kid” was probably enough to sell it to the school. Deceiving her parents was trickier, but she’d developed a decent poker face since the demon entered her life. “The same demon who’s now harassing my friend.” She still wasn’t sure how much Nicki believed, but Christine was grateful for an ally and conflicted about dragging her into things. “It’s rather unfair to disparage me simply for doing my job.” Christine didn’t startle this time, but the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. “Why are you messing with my friend?” “Seems to me you’ve got things backward. I merely issued a warning about not interfering in my business, which wouldn’t have been necessary if you’d kept your end of our agreement.” “I never asked you to write that paper, much less turn it in to my teacher. Never meant to summon you in the first place.” “But you did summon me, and you also asked for something.” “That’s such bullshit; I was just saying anything to get you to go away.” “You specifically used the words ‘I wish’, not that it’s important since I’ve already explained that I’m not some degenerate djinn.” “You know that wasn’t what I meant.” “I’m not here to argue semantics or intent. All I want is what I’m owed.” “You haven’t even told me what that is?” “I’d assumed it was obvious.” “Lemme guess, my immortal soul?” “Not the whole thing, just a tiny sliver. I could give you ten thousand term papers and you’d still have most of it left. Hell, I once got a guy with a 1.9 GPA all the way through grad school and he’s still got more soul intact than the average CEO.” “Does it hurt…having your soul removed?” “Can’t say that I know, seeing as I’ve never had one, but from what I understand the extraction process is relatively brief and eminently survivable.” “Not sure that’s a ringing endorsement.” “Perhaps not but think of this. You’ve got dreams, the kind big enough to be barely more than fantasies to the average person.” “Do you just hang around all day eavesdropping on my thoughts?” “I can assure you that our interactions are limited solely to matters pertinent to our conducting business; anything more than that would be impractical in my line of work, not to mention hideously boring.” “Then how do you know?” “Because dullards don’t summon demons.” “Even if you’re right, that doesn’t mean it’s worth the price.” “All I’m asking for is a fragment of something most folks don’t even realize they have.” Christine imagined being behind her kit on an arena stage before she had a chance to banish it from her head. “Just think about what I’ve said. You only get one go-around and we could do a lot of interesting things with it. Why spend your days pining over what might’ve been when you could live it instead?” ****** “Are you gonna get those, or….” Beth turned to Karen with a bewildered expression as if she’d just asked her why her feet were on fire. “What?” “The pants you’ve been looking at for the past ten minutes, you buying them?” She was still holding onto the label stitched on the back but wasn’t sure how long she’d been staring at it. “Ew, no, the legs have a weird taper.” Beth had no idea if this was actually true and was relieved when Karen shrugged and headed toward the store entrance. Everything after they’d arrived at the mall was a blur and the harder Beth tried to remember the fuzzier it all became. “You got things off to a good start, but she needs to be more vulnerable and desperate.” Beth closed her eyes and massaged her temples with her fingertips. “Not real…you are not real.” she whispered. “Are you feeling okay?” Karen said. “Yeah, think my brain is just hangry at me.” “Let’s hit the food court then.” Beth nodded and followed along behind Karen, being sure to keep a bit of distance between them. “Seems to me you’ve still got a lot of unresolved anger that could use an outlet. And if you do this for me maybe I can do something to return the favor, but I’m going to require your full cooperation.” “Stay out of my head!” Beth hissed. Karen glanced back over her shoulder at Beth who coughed hoping to cover it up. Beth waited until Karen had taken her food and gone to look for a table, pretending to peruse the menu as if she hadn’t memorized it ages ago. “Could I have a number four with a Dr. Pepper?” The boy behind the counter nodded and smiled at Beth as he punched some keys on the register. “That’ll be ten eighty-five please.” Beth grabbed her wallet out of her purse and pulled out a twenty. She started to hand the bill to the boy when all at once she couldn’t move. He looked at her quizzically as Beth stood there frozen in place, unable to so much as blink. She could feel sweat bead on her forehead and then slowly make its way down into her open eyes, stinging them. “I can make this last for as long as I like, seconds, minutes, hours. My offer still stands, and I’d urge you to take it. Let. Me. In.” ****** “Hey, I just remembered I have to meet my mom for something.” Karen stopped eating her bourbon chicken and looked up at Beth. “Right now?” “Yeah, I’m actually running late, so you’re gonna need to find your own way home.” Beth said and was up and out of her seat before Karen had a chance to reply. By the time she realized Beth wasn’t playing some bizarre prank, Karen was running after her, darting past people to keep sight of Beth who had just turned down a corridor to her left. She broke into an all-out sprint and clasped a hand on Beth’s shoulder just before she’d reached the exit. “What the hell, Beth?!” Karen said between gasping breaths. Beth shrugged off Karen’s hand and then turned to face her. “Was there something unclear about our last conversation?” “You mean apart from all of it? And since when do you do shit with your mom on a Saturday?” “That’s really none of your business. Why don’t you run along now and wait for the bus.” “The next bus that goes anywhere near my house won’t be here for at least two hours, not that you’d know.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Oh please, like you’ve ever taken public transportation anywhere.” “You should watch your tone.” “My tone?” “Yes, or I might have to do something about that attitude.” “Beth, the only thing I’m more certain about than you never having been on a bus, is that you’ve never been in a fight, which makes one of us.” Karen wasn’t certain when her fingers had curled into fists, but she could feel her nails digging into the palms of her hands. Beth approached her slowly, almost timidly, and then in one swift motion backhanded Karen across the right side of her face. Karen stumbled to the side a few steps and held her hand up to her stinging cheek. “Should’ve minded your manners.” Beth said with a smirk before turning and heading off toward the parking lot. ****** Karen leaned her back against the brick wall that served as a transition between the bookstore and a shop that was currently vacant but had been a hair salon, or maybe it was a nail place, she couldn’t quite remember. She was staring at the glass doors of entrance seven and the rows of cars beyond it, her gaze focused on the spot where Beth had vanished from view. They’d had fights before, but it was always just the usual bickering and petty bullshit. If anything, she and Beth had grown closer after Christine was gone. The dynamic shifted and suddenly Karen didn’t feel like a third wheel anymore. Even in their worst arguments there had never been a moment where they’d ever come close to anything physical. Karen recalled a conversation where she’d joked about smacking the crap out of her and Beth had feigned shock and pretended to swoon calling Karen a beast in her best southern damsel drawl. She remembered how they’d both fallen into a laughing fit after that and smiled, which made her wince in pain. The entire event felt surreal, like some kind of waking nightmare. Karen reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. She thought about using one of the rideshare apps but wasn’t sure she had enough to get home. Instead, she tapped on her contacts and scrolled until she found Christine in the list. “Hey Karen.” “I’m stranded at Stratford Mall. Can you come and get me?” ****** Christine managed to convince her mom that she needed a book for an assignment due on Monday because she’d accidentally lost her copy. It was the second time she’d lied to her mother that week, and the compounded deceptions were turning her stomach into a knotted mess. After they’d purchased the paperback, Karen pretended to coincidentally run into them as they were leaving the store; all she had to do was casually mention that she was waiting for the bus and Christine’s mom insisted they drive her home. Karen hadn’t told Christine anything about how she’d gotten marooned at the mall, thinking it best not to complicate an already strange situation, but when they stopped to drop her off, she turned to Christine. “Call me as soon as you get home.” ****** “She hit you? Beth?” “Why do you think I had my hood up on my sweatshirt?” “Yeah, my mom was asking about that after you left, wondering if you’d developed some kind of medical condition. I told her she was being paranoid.” “Thank Christ for that; the last thing I need is our moms talking to each other about this. It’s gonna be hard enough explaining my face to my folks as it is.” “I’ve never even seen Beth swat a mosquito.” “Didn’t stop her from going all Iceberg Slim on me.” “Surprised it wasn’t me.” “Yeah, seriously.” “Great, something to look forward to.” “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just heard about what happened at school.” “I was trying to apologize, but nothing I said made any difference. And it wasn’t the same as our argument at the party. She didn’t seem upset or even angry, just mean.” “The Beth who bailed and then bitch slapped me sounded like a headmaster in one of those evil boarding school movies.” Christine paused at this. “Kinda like Oscar Wilde giving you a lecture?” Karen laughed. “Yeah, sort of.” “Oh god.” “What?” “I think it went after Beth.” ****** Christine sat behind her drum kit and stared at the tom to her left, admiring the whorl of the grain that gradually became more visible as the color transitioned from purple to the natural hue of the wood. This was the place she felt most at peace. No matter what was going on in her life or the world around her, this configuration of circles always made sense. She wanted to play something, play anything that would bring that happy mix of endorphins and dopamine to wash away the torrent storming inside her head, if only for a little while. Every time she scrolled through the songs in her playlist trying to pick one, or attempted some unaccompanied beats and fills by herself, it all felt wrong. She unplugged the cord of the bulky hearing-protection headphones from the jack in her phone and started to pull them off but then stopped. Christine grabbed the sticks resting on her snare and started playing, slowly and softly at first, but increasing the tempo and force with each repetition of the pattern. She kept going until the muscles in her forearms ached and sweat saturated the back of her shirt. “And here I thought you’d forgotten about me.” This time the words seemed to be coming from the speakers in her headphones and the amplified effect on the voice was almost comical, like having a gameshow host living inside her skull. “Does this unexpected invitation mean you have an answer about my offer?” “What did you do to my friend?” “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that it’s improper to answer a question with a question?” “That’s cute, but how about you cut the shit and tell me what you did to Beth.” “We’ve had a few interactions after you were kind enough to introduce us. She’s got some rather strong feelings about you; makes my job easy.” “Why not just come after me directly; why drag Beth into this?” “There’s a transactional relationship between the summoner and the summoned. You currently owe me for services rendered, which allows me a certain amount of leeway when it comes to collection, but I can’t simply extract the payment from you by force.” “So instead you possess one of my friends and use her to torment me.” “I’m not the one who welched on my end of the bargain.” “You tricked me and twisted my words around.” “Let’s not do this again, it’s all so dreadfully tiresome and tedious.” “Fuck off, you foppish asshole.” “Not exactly a genteel retort, but I admire the spirit.” “Leave my friend alone!” “Pay up and you won’t hear another peep from me. At least until you want something else that is.” There was a mechanical rumbling below her and Christine looked out her bedroom window to see her parents pulling into the garage. “Shit.” “We can continue this when you’ve come to a decision.” “Stay the hell away from Beth.” “That’s entirely up to you.” ****** School had only let out twenty minutes ago, but most of the kids were already gone with a few stragglers wandering by every so often as Christine waited on a bench outside the rear doors thinking about what to say. She saw Nicki wave in acknowledgement as she approached from one of the side entrances along the building. “Surprised you didn’t want to meet in the library.” Nicki said. “Already looked up pretty much everything they had when I was working on my paper. Same with the library downtown.” “The one in Meadowbrook is twice the size of ours.” “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.” “How are you holding up?” Christine shrugged. “Who’s ready to wage battle with a demon?” Karen bellowed as she exited and walked toward them. Christine glanced around for anyone nearby who might have overheard and then laughed despite herself. “Guess I can scrap the speech about why I asked you here.” “I’ve seen some pretty outrageous shit.” Nicki said. “But summoning a demon with a drum solo has got to be the most punk/metal thing I’ve ever encountered.” “Yeah, apparently I’m a literal hellraiser. Not sure where in the family tree that came from.” Christine said. “And to think I knew her when the most hardcore thing she’d ever done was sneak out to the park after dark to smoke.” Karen said. “That was totally your idea.” Christine said. “Not to mention my dad’s Marlboros.” “Aw man, you’ve been holding out on me; pretending not to be a delinquent this whole time.” Nicki said and the three of them burst out laughing. Christine’s laughter trailed off and she cleared her throat. “…I’m sorry for getting you both mixed up in this…and for what happened to Beth.” “I can’t pretend like I understand what’s happening.” Karen said. “But this isn’t your fault.” “It only went after Beth because of me. It’s using her to get what it wants.” “Which is what?” Nicki said. “…a piece of my soul….” “Fuck that.” Karen said. “You’re not giving that asshole a goddamn thing.” “Damn straight.” Nicki said and put a hand on Christine’s shoulder. “No way I’m losing the only decent drummer in this town to a demon.” Christine gave Nicki a crooked smirk. “Decent?” “Just seeing if I could still startle you.” Nicki said, grinning back. “Now let’s figure out how to kick this thing’s ass.” ****** Christine, Nicki, and Karen boarded a bus headed for Meadowbrook strategizing along the way how to best split up the research. “I know you’ve already looked online, but I’d like to dig through things and see what else I can come up with.” Karen said. Christine nodded and turned to Nicki. “I thought I could check for any additional percussion history and ritual info while you go through their demon and possession stuff.” “You’re on drums, I’m on diablo, got it.” “Alright then.” Christine said as the bus pulled in front of the library and the three of them headed up the wide rows of cement steps. ****** Two hours into searching Christine had found a few books detailing alternative medicine and healing practices that employed music as part of the process as well as one volume that discussed ceremonial drumming and its use alongside psychoactive plants to induce trance states, but mostly it was the same information she’d found before. None of it mentioned any kind of summoning and Christine wondered if mainstream religions like Catholicism that acknowledged the existence of possession and exorcism, didn’t want to be associated with what they considered aberrant spirituality. There was a book that discussed a practice in Haiti where a dancer in the center of a circle would be “consumed by the spirit” during the apex of the music, similar to Baptist revivals where parishioners were sometimes struck by God’s touch and went into convulsions or started speaking in tongues. Christine sighed and rubbed her eyes. She felt her phone buzz and saw a reply from Karen on their group text. “Think I got something. Meet me in the computer lab on floor three.” When Christine got there Nicki was already standing next to Karen staring at the screen. Karen clicked the play button on a video. “This is that band where you first heard the rhythm, right?” “Yeah, that’s them.” Christine said. “Turns out they broke up a few days later and this was their last performance.” Karen said. “A couple months after that the drummer posted a video on his personal site apologizing.” “Apologizing for what?” Christine said. “Watch.” Karen said and clicked on a video in another browser tab. On screen was a twenty-something guy whose face appeared much older due to the dark circles under his eyes and waxy, sallow skin. His hair was blonde at the ends, the dark brown of his natural color having crept steadily back since the last dye job. ‘Dennis and Mikey are dead and it’s because of me. I can only beg forgiveness from their loved ones, both for what I did, and for not coming forward sooner. You have to believe that I never intended any of this to happen. That probably doesn’t mean much now, but I wanted you to know. I promise that no one else will be hurt by my actions. I’ll make sure of it.’ A third tab contained a brief news report about the apparent suicide of the drummer, whose name was Paul Gibbard. His body was discovered by his brother on the same day the video was posted. Christine slowly backed away from the computer. “That’s just great.” Christine said in a choked whisper. “First you all die and then I kill myself.” “I know it’s awful, but there might be something in his posts we can use.” Karen said. “And if there isn’t?” “Why don’t you guys go and get some air.” Karen said. “I’m gonna see what else I can find.” Nicki nodded and slowly guided Christine toward the lab’s entrance. As they left, Nicki glanced back at Karen and exchanged a concerned look that she hoped Christine didn’t notice. ****** Nicki sat with Christine in a small brick alcove that housed bike racks and a pair of busted drinking fountains. “How the hell did my life turn into this?” Christine said with an exasperated chuckle at the unintentional pun. “Wish I could tell you, or at least had something better to say about it.” “Maybe I should just take myself out. Put an end to this before Beth gets hurt or it goes after you and Karen.” Christine said, kicking at a stone and watching it skitter across the concrete. “Don’t you ever say anything like that again.” “I’m sorry, I just—” Christine glanced over and saw tears welling up in Nicki’s eyes. Nicki shifted onto her side so that her back was to Christine. “Remember when I told you my brother lived in Seattle?” “…yeah….” “Well I hadn’t gotten anything from him in a while, so about eight months back I had my mom call the police down there and they did a wellness check at his last known address. …they found him in an abandoned house. Cops said it was likely an overdose because the place was a squat for junkies, but Mitch didn’t do that shit. His last letter to me he talked about being tired of gray skies and maybe moving somewhere sunny.” “…god…Nicki…I’m…I’m so sorry.” “Mitch always got me. Even after he left, it was still nice knowing there was someone out there who understood.” Nicki said and turned to face Christine. “I don’t have a lot of people like that in my life, ya know?” Christine nodded. “We’ll figure a way out of this. I don’t know how, but we will. Just promise me you won’t talk or think like that anymore.” “…I promise….” Nicki let out a long shuddering breath and wiped at the corners of her eyes. “Christ, I really wish I smoked right now.” ****** “I’ve been looking through Paul’s old blog entries and there’s one from a few weeks before his final post that has another video.” Karen said. Above the video window was a single sentence. “I’ve finally figured out a way in.” Karen pressed the play button and an image of Paul filled the screen. The boy’s face was still haggard, but there was a light in his eyes that hadn’t been present before as he sat on the edge of his bed with a practice pad resting on his lap. He grabbed a pair of drumsticks from somewhere offscreen and began playing a rhythm on the rubber-matted surface of the circle. At first Christine thought it was the same pattern as before, but something seemed off about it, and that’s when she realized it was actually the inverse of the other rhythm. She reached over Karen’s shoulder and closed the browser window. “Do you know what that was?” Karen said. “Pretty sure, and if he’s right, then I didn’t want a portal to hell opening in the middle of the library.” Christine said. “Assuming Paul was able to open this portal, whatever he did after must not have worked.” Karen said. “Is there anywhere else he mentions it?” Nicki said. “There are a few more posts between this and the last, but it’s all ordinary stuff like talking about the band potentially getting back together.” “…it tricked him….” Christine said. “What?” Nicki said. “This creature, the way that it talks, always saying things in a certain way that distorts the actual meaning. It must’ve somehow convinced Paul that he’d beaten it.” “So then what do we do after we find this thing?” Karen said. Christine thought about it for a moment. “Figure out a way to fool it back.” ****** The phone call had been brief, and Christine wasn’t entirely sure she was actually speaking to Beth, but the voice on the other end agreed to come to her house. Her parents were gone all day at an outdoor music festival, “recapturing their misspent youth”, and Christine had spent the afternoon with Nicki and Karen formulating a plan and preparing as best they could. “As soon as Beth steps into the bedroom we’ll grab her and you start playing.” Nicki said. “What if it’s just Beth? What if the demon isn’t with her?” Christine said. “That thing at the mall didn’t seem like it had any intention of leaving.” Karen said. “Besides.” Nicki said, “even if it isn’t actively possessing her when she gets here, it’ll come running once it realizes what we’re up to.” “Assuming it works.” Christine said. “Only one way to find out.” Karen said. Christine nodded and wiped the sweat from her palms onto the front of her jeans. She’d moved the snare drum and stand from behind her kit and had it sitting off to the side next to her desk. The doorbell rang. All three of them flinched in unison. “Showtime.” Christine said and headed downstairs. When she opened the front door, Beth was leaning against one of the awning posts in the kind of effortlessly casual pose that Christine associated with magazine ads. “Hey girl, what’s shakin’?” Beth said. “Not much, just hanging out.” “You gonna invite me in?” “Yeah, of course, come in.” Beth stood up and crossed through the entrance in long, graceful strides that almost resembled a dance move. Christine smiled at this as she closed the door. Beth had always displayed a flair for the theatrical and relished any chance she got to add a little pizzazz to an otherwise mundane moment. “You okay there?” Beth said. “Look a little lost.” “Sorry, spaced out for a second.” “So what’s this little impromptu get together all about?” “I wanted another chance to talk things over.” “You invite your new best buddy to mediate?” “Figured it’d be better if it was just us this time.” “Talked to Karen recently?” “Not since the party except to say hi in the hallway. I’ve got some manicure stuff in my room. Thought we could do our nails and then veg out in front of the TV downstairs. My parents left money for pizza.” “Lead the way.” Beth said and followed as Christine ascended the stairs. The door was open as Christine crossed from the hall into her room, making sure not to hesitate or glance back as she stepped inside. Beth was standing in the doorway, her head cocked slightly. “Your room looks different. Did you paint it since last time—” Before she had a chance to finish, Nicki and Karen sprung from behind the door, each of them grabbing Beth by an arm and forcing her onto the bed. Beth thrashed as they fought to control her while Christine took the rope her father used for tying down the camping tent and bound Beth’s legs together. Karen and Nicki sat Beth up and pinned her arms at her side while Christine looped another length of rope around her wrists. Once the knots were tight, the three of them stood back from the bed and stared at Beth. “This is a truly pathetic display.” Beth said in a voice that didn’t sound like Beth at all. Whatever mimicry the demon had been using was gone now, but it wasn’t the deep, erudite voice Christine had expected either. What came out was a harsh burbling rasp that sounded as if Beth had been swallowing brillo pads. Christine walked over to the snare drum and swung it around in front of her. “How marvelous, abduction and a show!” Beth croaked. “Shut up.” Karen said. “Still haven’t learned any manners I see.” “If you weren’t in the body of my best friend, I’d beat the living shit out of you.” Karen said. “Don’t remember you faring so well the last time.” Karen started toward Beth, but Nicki grabbed her arm and glanced over at Christine who nodded and began to play. 1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a— “Seems someone’s learned a new trick. Alright then, let’s you and I finally have us a proper introduction.” Christine suddenly stopped playing and her sticks fell to the floor. She began to sway on her feet and Karen and Nicki got there just in time to help her down into the desk chair. “Christine? Christine, can you hear me?” Nicki said. Christine’s eyes had rolled back exposing the whites as she lolled in the chair like a rag doll. Beth slumped onto her side, her long, blonde hair covering most of her face except for the left corner of her mouth, which was curled up in a smile. ****** She had the physical sensation of standing on something solid, but when Christine looked down, there wasn’t anything beneath her. In fact, there wasn’t anything anywhere. Not like closing your eyes or being blindfolded where there’s an awareness of your vision being restricted, but as if the world had simply been erased from existence. Christine watched as Beth emerged from the nothing. Standing across from her it was difficult to tell how far away she was without any other reference point. “Not what you expected?” The demon’s voice had reverted back to its former euphonious tone. “The frog in your throat seems to have cleared up.” “I apologize for that bit of vulgarity, but I must admit that you caught me off guard.” “Is that what you actually sound like?” “You mean as opposed to this, or ‘this’.” The demon said the last word in Beth’s voice. “You don’t need her anymore. I’m here, whatever the hell this place is.” “It isn’t actually Hell, and it isn’t Purgatory either. I suppose the closest thing would be your concept of Limbo, though even that isn’t accurate seeing as how you aren’t dead.” “You didn’t answer my question.” “You’re presuming she doesn’t want to be here.” “I think that’s a pretty safe bet.” “Is it? Don’t you think it’s odd that I didn’t select someone closer to you? A person with more ready access like one of your parents or that irksomely interfering playmate?” “You already bragged about this bullshit. Beth and I got in a fight and that’s why you possessed her.” “Again with that garish term. What I do is not akin to some puppeteer yanking around a mindless toy. It’s symbiosis. The individuals I interact with have to be receptive vessels.” “You’re lying; Beth would never willingly let you do that to her.” “Admittedly our arrangement has become a bit contentious as of late, but before that the door was wide open. Why do think I’ve been able to stay for so long?” “I don’t believe you.” “The sheer depth of sorrow and betrayal that you brought out in that girl was breathtaking. I have to say that I’m really quite impressed with your ability to inflict misery.” “…I’ll give you what you want…just let her go.” “Afraid we can’t just rely on a verbal agreement. It’s going to require something a bit more substantive.” “Release Beth and swear to leave her and the others alone, and I’ll do whatever’s necessary.” “Very well.” The reverberating thrumming from her dream filled Christine’s head and she grimaced in pain and dropped to her knees. Eventually the sound subsided and when she glanced up Beth was blinking and looking around. “Christine?” Beth said and started walking toward her. By the time Christine managed to stand up Beth had closed the gap between them. “I don’t understand?” Beth said. “How are you in my nightmare?” “It isn’t just yours.” Christine said, still feeling the creature’s lingering presence. “Well I hope we wake up soon.” Beth said, blinking again as if trying to clear an afterimage from her eyes. “I don’t like this place.” “Me neither.” Christine put her hand on Beth’s shoulder. “I’m really sorry that I messed things up between us. I never meant to neglect you or abandon our friendship, and I should’ve been honest and talked things out instead of running away. You and Karen are my oldest friends and I love you; nothing will ever change that. Tell Karen for me when you see her.” Beth looked at Christine bewildered. “Why don’t you tell her after you wake up?” “…just in case….” Christine said as a tear traced down her cheek and vanished into the void below. Beth grabbed onto Christine’s free hand and gave it a squeeze. Christine squeezed back and managed a small smile. “You should go.” Christine said. “What about you?” “Not my time to stop dreaming just yet.” Beth looked bemused but nodded and turned, walking back in the direction she’d appeared from. Christine watched as her form slowly receded, becoming smaller and smaller until it completely slipped away from view. “So what happens now? Do I prick my finger and sign in my own blood?” “Oh no, it’s far more unpleasant than that.” ****** It wasn’t falling, but the feeling of being on the precipice, that moment when your whole body becomes aware of the imminent plummet and the certainty that nothing can be done to prevent it. Adrenaline coursed through Christine, her muscles reflexively tensing over and over as she relived the terrifying sensation in an endless loop. Worse still were the scenes being injected into her head. Her mother lying battered and broken on the living room carpet while Christine’s father crouched next to her holding a sledgehammer. Her father strapped down to their kitchen table while Christine’s mother took a pot of boiling water from the stove and slowly poured it over him. Nicki cradling her guitar as blood spilled down the fretboard and strings from the stumps of her severed fingers strewn about on the ground beside her. Karen with her arms and legs bound trapped in the back of a garbage truck as the compactor crushed her body into a formless pulp. Beth sitting in a bathtub, both wrists slashed with a razor resting in the soap dish; spelled out on the white tile wall behind her in crimson lettering the words, “Why Christine?” “…stop….” Christine gasped. “…please…stop….” But it didn’t. The barrage of visual horrors and physical ills continued until Christine prayed that she would pass out, longing for the sweet relief of unconsciousness. Time lost all conception as centuries seemed to slip past in her ceaseless suffering. “This can all end.” the familiar voice whispered from somewhere out in the nothing. “I just need you to respond with your entire being that you pledge your soul in service to our dark lord.” Christine tried to speak but what came out was a series of retching coughs. “Why must I constantly repeat myself. You can’t simply say some words or sign a contract. It needs to be an act of sacrificial will.” “…pa…please….” “Sweet Lucifer’s carbuncles, fine!” That feeling of teetering on the edge of oblivion abated and the awful images faded away as Christine took a moment to recover herself. “Did you really release Beth?” “Despite your numerous aspersions about my character, I’m a creature of my word.” “You think Paul Gibbard would agree with that?” “He had the same opportunity to choose his fate that you do.” “I couldn’t figure it out at first; why he needed the second rhythm to reach you. Why not just use the original pattern? But then it occurred to me. I might have been the one to summon you, but it was still your door that I opened. This one though; this doorway is mine.” “Yes, yes, you’re very clever, but it doesn’t change a thing.” “Paul figured it out too.” “That he did, but what poor Mister Gibbard failed to realize, and yourself as well I’m afraid, is that once you’re here, there’s no way back except through me.” “Well now, that isn’t entirely true.” “Oh really? Pray tell, how do you propose to leave?” “Just press play.” ****** Christine was staring up at her bedroom ceiling with three faces gazing back down at her. “Did it work?” Christine said in a muzzy voice. “You tell us?” Nicki said. “How do you feel?” She straightened up in her desk chair and closed her eyes in concentration. There was a mild throb at the back of her head like someone gently pressing on the base of her skull. Christine focused on that area, visualizing a gray matter landscape with a tiny figure banging its miniature fists on the spot just above her cerebellum. As if aware of her probing, the figure suddenly stopped its pounding and she heard it shout something, but the voice was too faint and far away to hear. “I think we’ve got it trapped.” Christine said, expecting a collective sigh of relief, but instead seeing looks of concern. “How long was I out?” “Only a few minutes. We played the recording as soon as Beth came to.” Nicki said. “Shit, seriously? Felt like an eternity.” “This is just a temporary solution, right?” Beth said. “Trust me when I say you don’t want that thing taking up permanent residence in your head.” “It was the only way to make sure it couldn’t come back after you.” Christine said. “Sooner or later it’s gonna get sick of being stuck in there and then I’ll force it to negate our agreement.” “You can’t bargain with it.” Beth said. “It’s a goddamn demon.” “She’s right.” Karen said. “Okay, everyone take a breath.” Nicki said. “Playing Christine’s rhythm and closing the door was the first step. Next thing we need is a contingency plan if the little fucker won’t play ball.” Christine stood on shaky legs and turned to Beth. “I know you’re scared; I am too, but we’ll figure this out.” “I’m just sorry you had to do it.” “Pretty sure I’m the one who owes you the apology for getting you possessed in the first place.” “Yeah, well, what are friends for?” “This has to be the most fucked up reunion of all time.” Karen said. “Agreed.” Christine said and tried to laugh but it came out as a mirthless chuckle. “You sure you’re feeling alright?” Nicki said. Christine nodded, but somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind she could hear that distant voice growing louder. It was still impossible to make out the words, but the tone of the message was clear. The creature inside of her was furious. ****** “Can you see if they’ve got gaffer tape? The cable for the bass drum mic is all over the place.” Karen gave Christine a thumbs up and stepped off stage, heading for one of the club’s black-shirted employees. “Everything good?” Nicki said as she tuned the low E string on her guitar. “Just need to secure this so you don’t trip over it during the show.” “Good plan, what with my legendary stage presence and all.” “Hey, I’m just trying to make sure they invite us back instead of worrying about a lawsuit, since this is one of the few places we can legally play that isn’t a gymnasium or a bingo parlor.” “And that’s why you’re in charge of booking gigs. Always thinking of the big picture.” “Damn straight, I—” Christine suddenly squeezed her eyes shut and grabbed the sides of her head. “Chris?” “…I’m okay…little bastard just did that vibration thing again.” “We should cancel.” Christine shook her head. “No, it’s passing.” “You sure?” “Yeah, just caught me by surprise.” “What’s fuck-face’s latest diatribe?” “Last night as I was falling asleep, he called me “A bag of rancid decaying flesh’ or something like that.” “Stupid prick.” “It didn’t last long. Those white noise headphones you got me really help.” “Good. Oh hey, Karen said that Beth ran across something promising; a Tibetan cleansing ritual.” Christine gave a little half smile. Nicki put a hand on her shoulder. “We’re gonna beat this thing.” “…I know….” “You’re positive you still want to go on?” “I always feel better after the pattern.” “Alright, but if you need to bail, just give me the signal.” Christine wiggled her eyebrows up and down three times. Nicki smiled and went over to check her pedals just as Karen came back with the tape. “I can take care of it.” Karen said, extending a hand to help Christine up. “Thanks Kar.” Christine said and carefully navigated her way back behind the house drums. She’d brought her throne and bass drum pedal from home, but still wished the rest of her kit was there. “All set.” Karen said before hopping off the front of the stage to join Beth who was standing with the rest of the small crowd that had gathered. Nicki checked to make sure Christine was ready and then headed over to the mic stand at the center of the stage. “Thank you all for coming out to see us!” Nicki said to a smattering of applause and boisterous shouts from Beth and Karen. “We are Hex Beat!” A few more claps came from the assembled. “Those of you who’ve seen us before know that we like to do a little instrumental invocation to kick things off, courtesy of our own Christine.” Nicki said and turned with a flourish of her arm. Christine positioned her sticks over the center of the snare and began to play. 1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a—1e 2+a 3e+ 4a— # Peter first fell into fiction penning stories to amuse his grammar-school classmates, which helped him overcome his shyness, but resulted in very few completed homework assignments. He is an avid fan of horror movies, especially those with a sense of humor, food served from carts and roadside shacks, and the music of The Ramones, The Replacements, and other bands of like-minded misfits who found a way to connect with the world through their music and their words. He was raised and currently resides in the Chicagoland suburbs with his wife and cats and his writing has appeared in various online and print publications. You can find out more about Peter and his writing at: http://ravenpen.wixsite.com/authorsite

Lucy: I’m Lucy A. McLaren, fantasy author and professional counsellor with a keen interest in mental health and how it’s explored in stories. Which is what brings us here today, because I learned about Courtney Denelle’s debut novel, IT’S NOT NOTHING, which is releasing from Santa Fe Writers Project on 1st September. So, Courtney please tell us more about your book and why I'm so interested in it. No pressure. Courtney: Well, I'm Courtney Denelle. I’m a writer from Providence, Rhode Island. I've written an autobiographical first novel, a novel in fragments, that's drawn from my experience of homelessness and recovery. And it is a slim novel, it's definitely, like, within the lineage of minimalist American contemporary fiction, but it's an exploration of a young woman responding to her own recovery. So, it is very taut, it’s very interior. It’s essentially, like, the story of a young woman landing in a human body after having not lived in her own body for, you know, 24 years. But, yeah, I’m still not super well-versed on selling it in an elevator pitch. L: I'm with you there. Writing the book is one thing, isn’t it? But succinctly explaining it in a few sentences is the challenge. C: Yeah. L: But yeah, it’s a snapshot of Rosemary’s life, isn't it? I felt as though we were coming towards the end of the addiction, and more towards her recovery and gaining self-awareness. For me, it felt like a really intense, emotional read. I read it, because I'm a counsellor, almost as if she was a client of mine. You get these really deep inner thoughts. She's quite self-deprecating, but also really self-aware because we're seeing, you know, glimpses of this past trauma that has happened when she allows herself to think about it. And you start to understand, okay, so this is what's led Rosemary to this addiction, why she's landed where she's landed. So, I wanted to ask, where did you start with the story? Was it something you planned, or did you just start writing it? C: Well, I kind of accidentally wrote a novel! I thought that I was writing a linked story collection, specifically like a linked collection of flash pieces. I’ve drawn so much influence from writers Amy Hempel and Mary Robison, you know, super, super taut on the sentence level. And so, I was kind of exploring that idea and thinking that I was writing exactly as you said, like, little snapshots, not unlike SAFEKEEPING by Abigail Thomas, which is a memoir in snapshots, and if you haven't read that you should, it’s so good. L: Noted. C: But all of a sudden, I had this whole mess of documents on my desktop, and I was like, it's all here! I had little scenes, I had jokes, I had bits of dialogue. So, when I talk about this book it's really difficult for me to talk about this novel without talking about the process of making it, and I feel like it very much was made; it was written and then assembled in this very particular way. My therapist was my first reader, I think that's really important to establish. I didn't have anyone else. I didn’t have, like, a writers’ group or writers’ community; it was very much me kind of engaging with myself on the page. But I was really interested in the idea of articulating the conflicting kind of narratives that exist within ourselves, you know? Really rejecting that idea that we have one little, tiny person behind our eyes that's like thinking the thoughts and pulling the levers and pushing the buttons, you know? Because my, like, experience of myself is not a stream. It’s a room full of belligerents, all of them grabbing for the microphone, all of them insisting on their version of the truth. As an extension of my recovery and of my therapy, that was really interesting. As a writer that was really interesting. I thought that that narrative kind of tension existing within the tension of opposites was kind of fascinating. I think in, like, trauma therapy they call it internal family systems, and meditations, schools of thought, they call it witnessing the quality of your own mind. It’s all kind of the same thing, just using different placeholder words, and I think I was looking for a literary point of entry to examine that. So, in that respect, keeping the trauma off screen, so to speak, was a deliberate choice. Almost like those Greek tragedies, you know, the Greek theatre, where the murder happens off stage, and the dramatic tension comes from the long shadow that the traumatic event has cast. That was a deliberate choice. A way of the narrator experiencing herself and responding to her own recovery, and responding to herself, you know? Kind of, oh, you know, that's just me talking to me about me. That kind of dynamic. And also, compression like in terms of style, like sentence compression, and how can you say it with less? Just as a writer, that's interesting to me. So, all of those things just turned into this big old mish-mash of, like, magazine cutouts or something, and then putting that together. Having said all that, because it's drawn from my own experience… I wouldn't call it a cathartic experience, because I think that denotes some kind of release or some sort of transcendence or moving beyond. I think what the process of writing this, of making this work, provided for me was a sense of feeling real to myself. I'm 40, I was reflecting on a time in my life where I was 24, where I was 25. And I can say that who I am now is no one I could have known then. And it required me as somebody who--I was 38 at the time I was writing--who was 38 reflecting with the benefit of hindsight but stepping into the shoes of a narrator who is completely lacking hindsight. She is, like, permanently present but not in, like, a monk way, I mean just like living in this terminal now. But that process in and of itself has allowed me to live alongside my own trauma in a way that I don't know that I would have been capable of before I set out to write this. And also, artistically, creatively, like, I don't have a higher education. I've always just turned to the blank page to understand myself. So, finishing this novel is like… I get to keep going now. I feel like I’ve revealed myself to be this deep-cover optimist, who did this really hard thing and did it every day, you know? Like we write these books not knowing what's going to happen, but we still show up and do it. I’ve revealed myself to be this deep cover optimist, kind of, like, trying to pull bodies out of the fire. So, I get to keep going, and that has been a radical change in terms of my own way of bearing the weight of my reality. L: Yeah. C: That was a really long answer to your question! L: It’s so interesting though. I just imagine you with a tapestry on the wall. Like this whole wall of pages that you wrote and just somehow tying them all together. I think that's how this story works being told. Where we come in is Rosemary starting to, like you said, she has no hindsight, but she's starting to look back when we meet her. C: Yeah. L: She’s still pushing it away to start with and not wanting to go there, but, you know, she slowly starts to, I think, accept herself, would that be right? And actually work towards being like, “Yeah, okay, some really fucked up stuff happened, but I'm going to try and move forward from it.” It wasn't necessarily a cathartic process for you, but it sounds like it was still valuable for you to do it, to write this, to have your therapist be the first person to read it. That must have been like… was that nerve-wracking? How was that? C: Well, she is an actual Earth Angel. I wouldn't have been able to do it without her. And also, I have to say as a client, as a patient, you know, the effects of having a counsellor, a therapist that is able to walk beside you in this process is ultimately the difference. The difference between just surviving and at least opening up the potential to thrive, or thriving, and my therapist is that person in my life. And so it wasn't, I wouldn't say nerve-wracking. I felt like it was almost like, “I made this for us.” I didn't share it until I was pretty much done. I had just got back from my first residency, and I just handed it to her like a big stack of papers. Like, I gave her actual paper, and so it was a really moving moment for both of us, because I think even if it totally sucked, it still would have been like… “If not for you,” right? “If not for you, I wouldn't have been able to do this.” I often think like in visual art there's this space for outsider artists, so people that make visual art without any sort of instruction outside of academia, and almost always it's having to do with mental illness, you know. Sometimes they call it naïve art. That is really like my experience of having written this novel and engaging with the page in general like that is, it's such a direct extension of my recovery but there doesn't seem to be, like, a place for that in literature. I think maybe because publishing is like an industry, you know, publishing is like the noun. Maybe all writers feel alienated, all of us feel slightly mentally ill. But I think that notion of outsider art, that, kind of, like, deep dive into your own emotional underworld, that’s the closest I can come if I were to try to define my approach, my literary approach. And so of course it made sense that my therapist would be like my co-pilot. It’s easy for me to imagine her experience reading it the first time would be like, “Oh, shit—I actually said that!” But I think there’s something to be said about writing autobiographical fiction versus writing memoir. Even though it’s drawn from my experience, it’s still a novel. The timeline is compressed, you know. So, it was almost like, I’m sure she saw some sort of proxy of herself in there. And, yeah, so it’s… I think, seeing, like—I used to be active on Twitter, I’m not anymore. It just makes me feel bad. L: I don’t blame you. C: But when I used to be active on Twitter, every once in a while, there’d be, like, a literary Twitter flare-up, right, about whether or not writing is therapy. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen that, maybe it’s different in genre circles or what have you, but the literary camp loves it. Every once in a while, the same arguments crop up and one of them is, you know, “Writing is not therapy.” And I think the diminishment of that kind of presupposes that we’re all just like sharing these flabby journals for the world, as if it’s not rigorous, as if it’s not serious, or as if because it’s therapeutic, we’re somehow not cutting along the nerve, we’re somehow not doing the work. And maybe I understand the impulse behind that argument, especially if it’s coming from a workshop mentality of, you know, peer call and response. But, I mean, I was directly engaging with myself through the process of not only writing this in terms of generating the work, but brutally revising. I mean I could recite it to you at this point, I’ve gone over it so many times. So, if that’s not rigorous in a literary sense, I really don’t know what is. I apologise, I feel like I’m going so wide with all your questions. I’m deep in my coffee at this point! L: Don’t apologise, it’s all really interesting. I find it interesting; I write such a completely different type of story. You know, I’m a fantasy author, I’m making up worlds and characters, but I also use my own experiences from a mental health perspective within my characters and I fully think writing is one of the best types of therapy. I’ve said to so many of my clients: just write. Just start writing and see what comes out. I think you just need to read it, almost, like I did—as the counsellor reading the client’s experience, with no judgement. It felt like a really honest book. You didn’t want to be fully autobiographical, this is a story, ultimately, but it also was something that you wouldn’t have written if you hadn’t had your therapist alongside you. You see that with Rosemary as well, in terms of her starting her therapy and where that leads. I just find it absolutely fascinating. So, how would you say your experiences informed how you told the story? You didn’t want readers to be able to distinguish what is you and what is Rosemary, but how important was it for you to put some of your experiences in there? C: Well, I mean, I feel like it was almost the only way it could have been, you know? Because of my origin story, not as, like, a human, but my origin story as a writer is so enmeshed with my own recovery. And, I mean, just the basic idea that you’re always in recovery, you’re never recovered. It’s this perpetual process, it’s always keeping one foot in front of the other. And also, it was important for me—and this, kind of, came together more in the revision phase, where I was compiling and editing and moving and clipping and cutting and cutting within an inch of its life—but it was really important for me to resist at every turn some sort of overcoming adversity narrative, you know? Because that is exactly my experience. There’s never going to be a laurel crowning that is going to place her on the other side of all that has passed. The best we can do in terms—and when I say we, I mean me and her—is that we can learn to live alongside it. We can learn to live in the world and, kind of, solve the problem of living. And when you’ve lived with a fatal urge, even when that urge is not activated, it casts a long shadow. So, you know, feeling in a sustainable capacity, at least in my experience, requires me to perpetually recalibrate and try to understand, or at least move towards understanding, in order to bear the weight of my own reality. And, so, I think that was the trajectory of the novel. It needed to land on… not hope, but something like it. That had to be the case. I mean, maybe this is specifically an American problem, it feels like it but it’s not possible that it is—but the idea of bootstrapping, you know, the idea of meritocracy. All of these things that guild the turd of trauma in order to make it all seem worthwhile. Like, there needs to be a finish line. All of that, to my mind, just reduces our capacity for care and concern. It’s like a way of auditing who among us is trying hard enough, wants it enough. And that is really fucked up, and there’s no solutions there. If you’re moderating who among us is worthy of care and concern, it demands that shame and feigned self-accountability are the only ways to keep going. That idea, it requires the baseline assumption that we’re all choosing a choice. We’re all choosing our path. Again, that was, in terms of the novel, it was important for me to write Rosemary grappling with that. At one point, she’s trying to take on, “Okay, well, if I’m a fuck-up, if I’m a piece of shit, well then, okay. Accepting that is the first step and I can just get myself out of it. If I’m living a choice, I can just un-choose it, can’t I?” But, of course, trauma is not like that. Mental illness is not like that. Economic situations are not like that. Poverty is not like that. So, all of those things, kind of, moving alongside them in terms of the structure of the novel was an important nod to those ideas. Which is directly related to my experience. And also, the overcoming adversity narrative, like, I mean, I’ve been experiencing that kind of tension myself in pre-publication. This idea of creating a public face of the writer-self. You know, in terms of marketing and promotion, and that’s a really daunting task not only because it’s such a private endeavour, right? Writing in general. But also, because it was autobiographical, not wanting to completely lean into the sad story, you know? I’m opposed to that because the idea of that marketing snapshot or what have you is that there was some sort of inevitability, you know, to my having survived… or my having even finished this novel. And there’s nothing inevitable about it. L: It’s like that idea that you said—I don’t think it is just America, you know, I certainly see it in the U.K.—this idea that, yeah, some people are overcoming the trauma, the bullshit that they were born into or that’s been inflicted upon them, and that they’ve overcome it and “made something of themselves”, and therefore it was worth going through the trauma because that’s how they’ve ended up being a “success”. Whereas, actually, it results in there being these people that are completely looked down on, as if homeless people, for example, as if they’ve chosen to be homeless. As if they want to be living on the streets. As if anyone would make that choice. I remember reading a quote once that was, basically, “No one wakes up and says, ‘I’m going to go and do some heroin’.” No one makes that decision because they just fancy it. There’s a psychologist called Gabor Maté, he’s amazing, he works with people who have been through trauma, addicts. I highly recommend his book, IN THE REALM OF HUNGRY GHOSTS, if you haven’t read it, it’s amazing. But he basically looks at the fact that addictions are rooted in abuse, trauma, or some kind of painful experience. And I don’t think that’s fully appreciated by people, no one is an addict because they have just decided to be an addict. Something has happened to them in childhood or whatever it may be, something too painful, they don’t want to look at it. It’s almost, like, this form of suppression, right? Something there to push away whatever they’re feeling. I think you’ve already touched on this, but do you feel like those things, trauma, addiction, homelessness, do you feel like they’re completely misunderstood by society as a whole? There’s this “war on drugs”, which is a completely ineffective way of trying to deal with drugs and drug addiction. I think we see that in both our countries. C: Yeah, yeah. I mean, you see, like, attempts at destigmatising. You see that happen in little spurts here and there. Again, this is as a non-professional, this is as a person just living in the world. I mean, I remember at one point there was the conversation around mental illness as it pertained to psych meds. And it was about destigmatising antidepressants and psych meds in general—all like, “If you had diabetes, would you shame somebody for taking their insulin?” And I think at that particular time, it was like, “Okay, that’s something.” But that was only one step, because that particular strategy is not without its own limitations too, because operating under that assumption, you know, you take your meds and, like, now you’re right as rain. You’re able to be a functioning, productive member of society. Of course, that’s not the whole story. There does seem to be—again, this is just me noticing—but there does seem to be a more comprehensive, or at least the beginning of a more comprehensive, conversation around complex trauma that seems to be happening. Things like addiction, symptoms of mental illness, personality disorders, things like that, are kind of referred to as the constellations of symptoms, you know? And so, addressing just one of those things is never going to be the end all, be all. I think all of the little, like, blips, and all the little pop-cultural ways of destigmatising these issues are not without their own challenges. Or not without their own limitations. I think you see such an abundance of really, and I’ll say really, funny memes about living with anxiety, living with depression and things like that, and I think that they’re hilarious, they resonate. And so, I guess you could make an argument of, “Oh, this is all of us normalising the ebb and flow of symptoms of anxiety and depression.” But there’s also a nihilist aspect of it, too. That could just be the precarious times that we live in, but those things dance together too. L: Yeah. It’s like that weird enmeshment of… Like, the fact that there are memes, for example, and the fact it’s all on social media, and that social media in and of itself can have massive negative impacts on people’s mental health. It’s a weird relationship, isn’t it? On one hand, it’s great it’s being spoken about more. People feel more open to talking about mental health, I think especially the younger generation, probably the generation below me. You know, I work with teenagers, and they just seem so much more in touch with their feelings than I ever was when I was their age. But, at the same time, they’re also glued to their phones, right? With the rise of stuff like TikTok, you’ve got children on there. It’s… I don’t know, I find it somewhat scary. C: Yeah. L: Yeah, it’s a weird dual relationship between them. On one hand it’s good, on one hand it’s terrifying how much stuff is put out there. C: Yeah. Well, and it also creates pop-cultural, kind of, archetypes for what are acceptable expressions, for lack of a better phrase, of mental illness symptoms. I always joke with my friend and my husband that I’m not pretty enough to be sad on the internet. Like, you know, the pretty girl, sharing the confessional, “This is what I look like after crying.” Again, I get the impulse, but it still is accepting some form of who gets to be mentally ill in public. Like, who gets to confess, or publicise maybe the more anti-social symptoms of mental illness and trauma and how sometimes—most times, maybe—there is a gendered aspect of that. So, me saying, “Oh, I’m not pretty enough to be sad and confessional on the internet,” is, like, I’m joking, but also, I’m not, you know? L: Yeah. C: That’s some dystopian shit. L: It really is. Going back to the subject of homelessness, addiction--people aren’t liking and sharing images of homeless people on the street going, “This is awful, how do we deal with this?” It’s a hidden aspect, it’s something no one really wants to see. C: Yeah. L: I think because it just feels like such a massive issue. Like, again, with the rise of talking about mental illness, great. But if our governments aren’t funding mental health care, what do we do then? You can only do so much as an individual person in society. You can give a homeless person some money. Ultimately, what’s that going to do in the long-term? You feel helpless in a way, you want to help but you don’t know how. Part of it I think is being able to talk about it more. Stuff like your book I feel is really important in opening that dialogue. But that feels like it puts way too much responsibility on you as an author going out there and talking about this stuff. C: Yeah. L: But I think it opens up that dialogue, and that’s the first step, right? To people being aware of these issues, noticing them more. For me, I only became aware of these things when I trained as a counsellor when I was in my late twenties. Before that, I was just ignorant, I would say. I think being able to read stuff like this can be quite eye-opening for people who haven’t been anywhere near these kinds of experiences, have lived what would probably be seen as a privileged life. They haven’t been through trauma or witnessed addiction or been through it themselves or anything like that. C: Yeah. I also think we live in such dark, precarious times. I think there seems to be an aspect… I mean, I live in a deeply polarised country, it’s God-awful. There seems to be, like, again, this desire to measure who among us is worthy of care and concern. And in order to do that, you have to actively work against compassion. You have to actively reverse engineer your empathy, you know? It could just be that everyone, for the most part, is in a precarious situation, and almost, like, acknowledging someone else’s greater issue that’s maybe plugged into a bigger, vaster mechanism of adversity is somehow taking away from their pain. And it’s like, well… it’s not cake, you know? It’s not like there’s a finite amount of pain and acknowledging that socio-political catastrophe is somehow taking away from you. Yeah, I mean, I write fiction. I have no answers. I think there’s one point in the novel where Rosemary is really entering into therapy as a willing patient for the first time, and she says—I’m paraphrasing myself—she says, “I ask questions with no answers, and so they’ll be asked forever.” I think that is really my experience engaging with the blank page. It shows up in my novel that I’ve just finished, I’m starting my third. It’s, like, the same kind of stuff. I’m tilling the same soil over and over again. I have a friend that I met at a residency, she’s a poet, and she has this idea--and I’ve heard it from others as well--that she’s always writing the same poem. Like not, of course, line by line, word by word, but she’s always approaching the same stuff. And I feel like that’s the only way that I feel capable of impacting in my own teeny, tiny little corner of the world, just impacting these heavy, grief-laden things, is by engaging with those questions. Not with the hope of necessarily landing on an answer, but in sussing something out in the process. I mean, you can drive from New York to LA with your headlights lighting up, what, only 20 yards ahead of you, and you somehow get there. Yeah, something like that. L: Yeah, I think you’re right. It is often the case, you are just asking yourself a question and each time, maybe, you’re getting a different answer, and you’re exploring it in a different way. When you said that about, you know, writing the same poem, actually that resonated with me in terms of exploring a lot of the same issues in different ways in the stories that I write. I’m sure it’s the same for you. So, you’ve just started your second book, did you say? And you’re working on your third, too. C: Mmhm. L: Writing this has been important for you, but, like you said, it doesn’t mean what’s happened to you has gone away. C: Yeah. L: You’re still going to keep exploring that. And, I don’t know, I think in a way, doing that keeps those questions at bay a little bit. I almost imagine them growing and growing until it gets to a point where you have to start doing something about it, otherwise it just starts really weighing down on you and being quite a repressive feeling. And just being able to deal with that, to keep it at bay, to know that you’re doing all you can. There’s not a magic switch that you can flick in your brain that goes— C: I’m all better! L: Yeah. If only that was the case! And I think that can feel frustrating for people. I’ve had clients where it’s been like, “Why can’t this just go away?” And unfortunately, it can’t, the brain is not equipped for that. There are no answers, really. I think we’re all just doing our best, really, aren’t we? And trying to deal with our own shit, basically, in whatever way that we can. C: Yeah. L: It sounds like for you, that is writing. You’ve found your way here. So, you started writing at 38. Have the floodgates opened? C: Yes and no. I have always been a reader, first and foremost. A voracious reader. Like, my bio says that I received my greater education at the public library, and that’s the truth. I have always been a covetous reader. Like, I’m mad at all the books I haven’t read. I’ve always written in an effort to understand what felt completely ineffable to me; in order to, like, reduce the charge of feeling so much all the time. I have stacks of these composition notebooks—you know, the black and white ones—and a lot of it is just bullshit. A lot of it is terrible. I don’t relate to writers who are, just in terms of process, really enamoured of their first draft. L: Oh God, no. C: Oh my God. But there’s always something there. It’s kind of, like, describing myself to myself. I didn’t start writing deliberately. Meaning, like, writing with the intention to make something. Writing deliberately with the intention to improve. That didn’t start until my mid-thirties. Up until then, it was me and my notebook. My way of trying to figure out, like, “There must be something to do with all of this noticing that I do. There must be something!” When I read certain writers of minimalist short fiction—Amy Hempel in particular—it was like a religious experience. Because her way of writing, not only did it make me feel less alone at a time when I needed to feel less alone, but it told me I could be a different kind of writer, you know? Because I wasn’t telling what I thought were stories. I wasn’t, you know, creating story worlds and stuff like that. I love that as a reader, but as a writer, I don’t know that that’s my DNA. But when I read Amy’s work for the first time… I mean, it coaxed me on. And so, I started writing short fiction. A lot of that short fiction was not short stories, but it did show up in my first novel. But the catalyst of deliberate practice, writing with the intention of improving, and then writing with the intention that I was going to finish something and send it out into the world come what may, that has had a reverberating effect. And with finishing the first novel, it presented a whole new fascination, a whole new approach to those questions, you know? It enabled me to pursue those fascinations, kind of, not really knowing what would come of it. Wound up being an art world satire—go figure. But while still, kind of, having that whistling in the graveyard voice. Finishing that work has created a whole different approach to those same questions. Themes of belonging and what does legacy and ancestry look like, feel like, beyond, like, documents? Family tree stuff. What is the actual thumbprint of ancestry? I’m still working something out. It’s like I’ve built up that muscle now. And also, have been bolstered by the writing community that I’ve found only recently in the past couple of years. I’m still really challenged by imposter syndrome. Even that feels like, almost, too cute of a descriptor. Like it feels so much more existential than that. It feels as though, oh my God… pre-publication has really been challenging for me emotionally because it’s made me aware. It’s really pushing up against this system of limiting beliefs that I had. Whether or not they were thrust upon me, whether or not they’re coming from myself, whether or not it’s both of those things… the system of limiting beliefs that, like, conditioned my responses, conditioned my way of understanding what I could expect, what I deserve, how much space I had the right to claim in the world. Publishing this book has really been pushing up against all of those beliefs, and that is interesting, to say the least. So, that’s another aspect of the ways in which writing this particular novel continues to shift my perspective in terms of not only all that has passed, but in all that lies ahead of me. L: Yeah. I’m with you there. You don’t really know what to expect, do you? When you’re a debut author going through all this for the first time. You feel that sense of vulnerability of putting, basically, a part of yourself out in the world. And, yeah, imposter syndrome does sound weirdly cutesy, but it’s on such a deep level. Like, for me it brought up my inner teenager, she reared her head. And I was like, “Whoa, okay. There’s stuff here I need to deal with.” C: Oh, yeah. L: And you just don’t expect it. I don’t know whether that’s going to happen with every book, or whether it’s just… having never been through it before, you’re blindly walking through… C: Yeah, yeah. You know, somebody asked me—they were like, “Is it the subject matter? Are you feeling apprehensive about these darker origin stories living in the world?” I’m like, “No, that is not it. I made peace with that a long time ago.” The weird thing that has been activated within me is, almost, like… I’m ill at ease with my own audacity. Of having made this thing and now I’m saying to the world, “Look at what I made.” That feels so audacious. And it’s so at odds with how I endured. Meaning what I told myself about what I should expect, you know? And that’s crazy. I think in a certain capacity, I realised in the process of writing this book, I was submitting short fiction, I was sometimes getting stuff published, mostly not. I was getting those, kind of, tiered rejections that are like, “We love what you’re doing, we just wish you’d do it differently.” But I think all of this existential woe that I’m feeling, it’s making me realise, like, oh my God… I feel like I would have been all set shovelling those in the slush pile forever. Like, I would’ve had the moxie to endure that. The kind of moxie that’s indistinguishable from fear, you know? But the fact that, in my own little, teeny corner of the world, there’s an element who are receptive to all that I have to say, it’s thrown my whole system through a loop. My whole system is, like, wired against all of that. And so, I’m not anxious about the grit of the work living in the world. That’s like… “Well, if it’s hard for you to read, imagine how hard it was to live!” But it’s the conundrum, right, of making art in a dark time. It challenges everything that you’ve conditioned yourself to believe in order to keep yourself safe. And I say this as somebody who, as a young woman I dumbed myself down to keep myself safe, in my early twenties. So, we do certain things to keep ourselves intact, to keep ourselves safe, you know, as women, as vulnerable people are wont to do. We rely on certain things to just keep on keeping on. And it’s also interesting too. When I think about, you know, conflicting narratives that exist within ourselves, some of those narratives do not want to go down without a fight. They are, like… they really think they’ve got my best interests at heart by girding me for the worst. So, yeah, to establish, my therapist is an Earth Angel. She is earning her paycheck, keeping the ship upright or whatever. L: Yeah, I’m sure this has brought stuff up for you to work through. Like I was the same with my counsellor. I think, like you said, as women, as vulnerable people, trying to keep yourself safe—it’s like making yourself invisible, right? Trying to make yourself small. And putting a book out in the world is like the opposite of that. You know, when you said about the audacity, the words, “Who the hell do you think you are putting a book out?” came to mind. C: Yeah! L: It definitely brings up stuff. But, for what it’s worth, your book is amazing. It was so different from my usual style. Like, I read epic fantasy. So, to read this minimalist, literary book, I did not know what to expect going in. But I was just so compelled by it, and, yeah, I think just from the mental health perspective, like I’ve said, it brings up really important topics that need to be spoken about more. You know, it’s the first step. Like you’ve said, you don’t feel like you’re an expert on this. You’re not a mental health professional, but you are someone that’s talking from your own experiences, and I think that’s, in a way, more valuable to people. Not everyone has been through these kinds of things or has any idea what it’s like to go through them, and being able to connect with someone on this level, via a story, really gives people the opportunity to try and understand what other people have been through. And where we’ve been through so much utter shit the past few years, just being able to connect on a human level feels like really… the most important thing. Cutting through everything else, social media, bullshit politics, all that kind of stuff, just reading a book feels really special, I think. A window into something we don’t get in other areas of our life. Okay, so--to finish up, where can we connect with you? Author website? Social media, which we’ve put down as something evil! C: Yeah! I have an author website. It’s mostly photos that I’ve taken, I’m a photography hobbyist. You can shoot me an email there—it’s just courtneydenelle.com. But you can also find me on Instagram, which is probably the social media network I’m most active on. I love visual art and memes about existential woe, so you can count on me for that. L: Awesome. Listen, thank you so much Courtney for chatting with me today. It’s been really insightful and interesting. Thank you. C: Thank you, thank you. And thank you so much for your close read. I really appreciate it, especially as a writer, as a mental health professional. The writer Alexander Chee has this essay, I turn to it like a sacred text, it’s called ON BECOMING AN AMERICAN WRITER, it grapples with the idea of making art in really precarious times, and he says at one point in the essay, “It’s easy to feel like your work doesn’t matter, your art doesn’t matter, in dark times. But there’s no way of knowing what a reader having read you will go on to do.” And so, your close read just means the world to me. I really appreciate it. And thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to listen to my caffeinated ramblings! L: My pleasure. Thanks Courtney. Courtney Denelle is a writer from Providence, Rhode Island. She has been awarded a residency from Hedgebrook and received her greater education from the public library. You can find more information on her author website, courtneydenelle.com. IT’S NOT NOTHING is available now. Buy it here: https://bookshop.org/books/it-s-not-nothing/9781951631239 A lifelong lover of the genre, Lucy A. McLaren began writing her debut fantasy novel while studying to be a counsellor at university. It is because of this that her work is underpinned by an exploration of mental health issues within the flawed characters through whose eyes the story is told. You can find more information on her author website, lucyamclarenauthor.com. AWAKENING: THE COMMUNE’S CURSE BOOK 1 is available now. Buy it here: https://bookshop.org/books/awakening-9781951631178/9781951631178

That year morphine became a minuet, Sweet pianissimo. Its soft pedals stilled Anguish, reproached relentless timekeeping — Tick, tick — mortality’s metronome. Before my mother died at home, she learned That cancer’s like a Depression Era Endurance contest: the dance marathon, Odds stacked against her, swaying in slow mode. Despite defiant hair, a plump physique Deceiving guests, illness hokey-pokeyed Her organs, shook breasts off, rhumbaed her cells, Vitality an unremembered song, Mere noise until sweet exhalations ceased. Her corpse was wheeled away. The tempo changed. Dynamic force reclaimed the rooms, infirm No longer. Energy expressed intent As if Mom were at a debutante’s ball, Star of the floor show, sequined, applauded. The mind’s embrasures, freed from pain’s embrace, Seek entertainment, longing to erase What’s real. Belonging to another realm — Where everyone’s transparent —Mom’s got plans She’s telepathed. But first she wants to dance. A coldness sidles up to seize my hand. Native New Yorker LindaAnn LoSchiavo, a Pushcart Prize, Rhysling Award, Best of the Net, and Dwarf Stars nominee, is a member of SFPA, The British Fantasy Society, and The Dramatists Guild. Elgin Award winner "A Route Obscure and Lonely," "Concupiscent Consumption," "Women WhoWere Warned," Firecracker Award, Balcones Poetry Prize, Quill and Ink, and IPPY Award nominee "Messengers of the Macabre" [co-written with David Davies], "Apprenticed to the Night" [Beacon Books, 2023], and "Felones de Se: Poems about Suicide" [Ukiyoto Publishing, 2023] are her latest poetry titles.

The Monster of Old It was a horrifying creature, long pointed nose, buzzing wings, eyes deep black in a circle of garish red. I didn’t dare raise a hand against it, for it filled my ears with a raw hiss, and I froze as it circled me, seeking out a strip of bare skin for landing. Then my father chased it with rolled-up newspaper, before thwacking it to death against the kitchen wall. “Don’t be such a sook,” my father said to me. ‘It’s harmless.” Years later, that insect became the beast in this story I was writing. My monster was huge, bloodthirsty, and threatened all of mankind. It had honed its threat, whetted its appetites, acuminated its ambitions, back in my childhood. A Strangeness The morning looks familiar but feels different. I yawn as usual, rub my eyes, take one glance at the body in the bed beside me, before stumbling to the bathroom. Same body, same bed, same bathroom as it has been for the past ten years. So what’s changed? What is missing? Something is nagging at me. Something I should be aware of but can only draw a blank. The kitchen’s the same. So’s the coffee maker and my favorite cup. And the table. The chair. That song of the brewing java is the one that I’ve been humming all my life. Suitably wired with caffeine, it’s back to the bedroom, where I open the closet wide, grab shirt and slacks, shoes and socks, make myself presentable for the outside world. I peek out the window. That world is still there. So what’s wrong? It must be my companion. She’s always up by this. If this were sci-fi, she’d be an android that reached its end date and expired. If this were true crime, she’d have been smothered by an intruder during the night. If it were horror, she’d have every drop of blood drained from her veins. But it’s real life. She died of natural causes. A year to the day. That’s what it is. I forgot her anniversary.

An infant's preference to attend to events that are neither too simple nor too complex according to their current representation of the world(1) Talia watched the planet’s surface roll by, searching for clues under the cloud cover. She spotted some unusual red cloud formations, underlit with a darker green hue that reminded her of pohutukawa trees, and she couldn’t stop looking at them. Pohutukawa bloomed at Christmas time in New Zealand—Christmas meant summer rain, mud everywhere, beaches, slathering on sunblock, the inevitable family tensions spilling over into squabbles. Dan hadn’t emerged yet, even though his alarm would have sounded at the same time hers did, more than an hour ago. Bloody Dan. Maybe this planet was just right for the colonization project: the most ambitious the S’rocket Lab had ever embarked on. All the drones sent out to gather audiovisuals and samples had confirmed the findings of liquid water, breathable atmosphere, and no sentient life. Nothing found moving, crawling or flying—no heat sigs identified as showing animal characteristics. It was a planet of vegetation, a surprising amount of which tested fit for human consumption: perhaps because there’d been no animal life to munch on the plants, the plants hadn’t needed to evolve the kind of defence mechanisms favoured by plants on Earth. ------------------------- (1)Kidd, Celeste; Piantadosi, Steven T.; Aslin, Richard N. (23 May 2012). "The Goldilocks Effect: Human Infants Allocate Attention to Visual Sequences That Are Neither Too Simple Nor Too Complex" Defence mechanisms… Talia sighed. She didn’t really “get” Dan, even though they’d been through basic training together. He wasn’t bad-looking at all, but any attempt at conversation was like pulling teeth. When she’d seen the flight roster for this round, she’d rolled her eyes, knowing she probably wouldn’t be getting laid for the duration. And the outrigger ships were big, but they weren’t that big. Her finger beat a restless staccato on the porthole. Anyway, they were finally here, orbiting the first of the prospective worlds in the solar system they’d been assigned to review. Even with the outrigger’s brand-new slipstream drive it was a long way from the main galaxy hub station. Maybe this was the one. If it was, she’d get her cut of the rich bounty for such worlds, and the settlers might even name a mountain range or a continent after her. But in the unlikely event that there was any form of indigenous sentient life, they’d beat a hasty retreat, as Ethics required, and send in the diplomats instead. ‘Keen to get down there?’ Her head jerked in surprise at the loud interruption. Dan pushed himself off the wall to join her at the porthole. She noticed his chin was freshly shaved. ‘It’s been so long since we were on land.’ She grinned, although as usual he was avoiding eye contact. ‘Not sure I remember what that feels like.’ ‘It’ll feel different down there, in point eight grav,’ he pointed out. ‘Lighter than old Earth.’ You’re oddly chatty this morning, she thought, and gave a slight sniff, but couldn’t detect the presence of fresh alcohol molecules. ‘You worried about it?’ she prodded. He grunted, and they gazed down at the curve of Gliese 581c’s atmosphere, sharing a familiar silence. She couldn’t decide whether he was a natural loner, a natural arsehole, or simply didn’t like her. Either way, there was zero camaraderie. ‘Yeah, nah.’ She stretched her arms out over her head, fingertips brushing the wall, and caught Dan’s side eye. ‘Let’s go.’ There was no need to filter the atmosphere for breathability, but as a precaution they put on their full-body suits with rudimentary personal fields. Penetrating the atmosphere in the new anti-grav capsule was a much more soothing experience than the old pods had been. Talia buzzed with exhilaration as the gravity began to kick in within the unit: they had plenty of time to look around like gawking tourists at the sweeping red vistas under the clouds. There was the mountain, which dominated their planned landing spot. There was the foamy edge of the sea, with kelpy strands washing around in it. Dan looked even blanker than usual as he stared out the window. Talia wished she had someone to share the moment with. The AI brought them in to land with an almost imperceptible bump on the irregular surface of the rocks at the foot of the mountain. Under the capsule the rocks shifted; there was a single loud cracking sound, and then silence. Dan pressed the hatch button without waiting for her re-check and go-ahead as per protocol. Plonker. They were on edge, but that was exactly when it was important to stick to what they knew. Not that she’d report him for such a piddling infraction. The hatch hissed open, and the wind howled in. With the wind came a surreal, irrational feeling of danger. It was like Makara Beach on the southwest coast of the North Island, how the wind blasted you away, rocks and scree, and the wildness. This was a big planet, she reminded herself, and atmospheric conditions were liable to change. Red dust seemed to fling itself at them from every direction. In her mouth was a taste like acrid lemon. Funny, the drones hadn’t picked up any ambient lemon flavour... She mentally shrugged. There was only so much testing they could do. Their sensors continued to feedback the readings they’d been expecting: all levels normal, nothing flagged. Talia swivelled slowly, trying to tally up what she was seeing with the info dumps from the drones. Rocks, vegetation, and more rocks, interspersed with areas of fine red dust. The long vistas were blocked out by dust floating and hanging in the air, but out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of something moving. Something tiny and gleaming, like a little Christmas tree bauble—when she turned to look at it more closely, it was gone. Her anxiety kicked up another couple of notches. Dan was striding away up the slope of scree towards the mountain. ‘Hey!’ she shouted. He didn’t turn or give any sign he’d heard. Swearing under her breath, she scrambled after him. Her feeling of dread was worse than ever. Get out, get out fast, get out now, it told her. ‘Tali, look at that.’ He pointed to a large rock, which didn’t look much different to the others. ‘What am I looking at?’ ‘See that stuff under there? It’s one of the food sources the drones found. I’m gonna try some.’ ‘Not till we check…’ Dan was already scooping up some of the mossy substance from under the rock in his gloved hand. ‘Come on. The risk is negligible. My personal AI just all but confirmed it.’ Talia watched with disbelief as he opened his mouth piece, put it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed, grinning. He’s a fricking loose cannon, she thought. ‘Think about it: I’m the first guy to ever—’ He staggered, clutching her arm and grasping his throat. ‘You all right?’ Idiot. She groped for her medsac. He straightened up, grinning even wider. ‘Relax. Just messin’ with ya.’ Picked a fine time to grow a personality. ‘Dan, this isn’t the time’—and that was when she saw it—a small beaky figure, darting along the rocks, with a blaze of red and white on its tiny head. ‘Dan, what the hell is that?’ ‘What?’ He looked blank again, and turned in a slow circle. It was gone. Talia fought down rising paranoia. ‘Dan, I’m getting the feeling—’ She stopped herself. ‘Does your mouth taste like lemon?’ ‘All I can taste now is that kack I just ate. Why?’ There it was again, scuttling along the rocks. ‘Kiwi Santa!’ she shouted. Dan swivelled towards it and managed to trip over his own feet, but it vanished in an instant. ‘What the actual fuck,’ Dan said slowly, as he got up and brushed himself off. It had been unmistakable: a kiwi bird in a Santa hat. ‘You saw that too?’ ‘Let’s not jump to conclusions,’ Talia said. Had Dan seen exactly what she’d seen? Obviously, it wasn’t a native bird. Could some environmental factor be the cause of a hallucination, which she had then suggested to Dan? Was this the defensive mechanism of a previously undetected species, one that the drones hadn’t picked up? Dread rippled through her belly again. ‘Dan, I really think we should get outta here.’ What am I saying? They’d come so far, they weren’t about to run off at the first sign of trouble, not without running all the diagnostics. They had to make a full report. Without warning, the flying motes of dust seemed to brake, stutter and hang in the air motionless, as Talia’s perception of time changed dramatically. She was immediately attentive, passive, expectant. She met Dan’s eyes, and for the first time she grasped the crushing weight of his insecurity, which directed most of his actions—he was exhausted from trying to show the world the man he should be, full of confidence, brave, smart, strong, which meant hiding anything that didn’t fit that picture, and under that lay anger that she hadn’t appreciated his efforts—but that didn’t matter. The important thing was… What was it? In pliant wonder, she reached out for any threads of sense, as the meaning she made of her life was stripped away from her like a well-worn T-shirt. Actually, the most important thing was… Was… She knew then, that it was Christmas morning. Christmas morning in Wellington. Fairy lights on a well-worn plastic tree. Waking up early to find a pillowcase down the end of the bed stuffed with presents. Fights and inevitable tears as the kids raced around, high on sugar. In the familiar scene, she now sensed an unseen force standing by, watching as a parent would, with something like an indulgent shrug. I wanted a bike, she pleaded with the force. A pink one, with pedals, a bell and a basket on the front. The force followed that thought down a rabbit hole, from her early aptitude for bike-fixing and then mods, to her years of engineering training, and then in excruciating detail through the plans of the capsule and the outrigger ship she knew so well. The slipstream drive. Helpless, she looked at Dan and saw his blink reflex stretch out to infinity. Then as the dust zoomed back into an indistinguishable blur, she felt a jolt of agony through her skull and staggered, bracing herself hands on knees. The dread hit with renewed ferocity. It was so awful and visceral that she cringed with her whole body. Her dad was so angry; he’d pushed her out the front door and locked it. Locked all the doors, closed all the windows, but she could still hear her mum screaming “Christmas is cancelled!” from inside. Get away. Run. Talia grabbed Dan’s arm, pulling him and then shoving his unresisting form down the slope. She skidded down the scree after him, past caring about details. They jostled each other at the door in their mad rush, and as the hatch whipped closed and the capsule began to lift, she could breathe again. Was this something too complex to comprehend—something their minds couldn’t handle in its raw state? It had to be some kind of sentience. Sentience, or an improbable mass hallucination induced by some unknown environmental factor, or both. It seemed safe to assume that they could write this world off and move on to the next. She licked her lips and tasted lemon. She’d do a full analysis, including toxicology. ‘Merry Christmas, Tali,’ Dan mumbled, very close to her ear, and she realized he was cuddling her from behind. Talia waited at least a full minute, feeling oddly comforted, before she pushed him away and gave him a light punch in the arm. Sharni Wilson is an Aotearoa New Zealand writer and a literary translator from the Japanese. Her work has appeared on the Reading Room and Ash Tales, among others. She can be found at sharniwilson.com.

Morning comes and gently we unravel— limbs knotted by close familiarity break free and fall straight into the sea of sheets we stained scarlet with secrets, rippling in folds to reveal our bare bones shivering, resembling derelict dwellings left too long in the storm. Skin and spirit separate once more and as soon as darkness falls, I must become the skeleton you hang in your closet.

Alex Frazier stared in from atop the mound as I settled into my crouch and rolled through the signs a second time. Behind Frazier, the vast expanse of Municipal Stadium’s blue outfield seats unfurled, crowned with a tangle of light stanchions that stretched into the high and cloudless sky. With 78,000 seats, it was easily the biggest place I’d ever played. But with only a thousand or so folks squinting and shifting in the sun, it felt empty, lonely even. *** Before the game, Coach Dietrich gathered us in the clubhouse. “This is what we worked for,” he growled. “Let’s get out there and play our game. Have fun,” he continued, “and soak in every minute. But,” his steely-blue eyes connected with each of us, “stay within yourselves and,” he added, finally, “believe.” I shuddered at that last word. Believe. “Now, c’mon,” Coach said. “Get in here.” He pulled off his cap and wiped his forehead on his three-quarter-length sleeve. “Let’s break it down.” We crowded around Coach, our hands flat, arms extended, lumped and bundled. I glanced down at the tiny, iron-on patch—a JP in black block letters—that sat just above the Cardinals script scrawled across my chest. It’d been three years since Jeffrey Phillips died, three years since I prayed and wished and hoped. And it’d been three years since none of it had worked. “Believe!” we shouted, and then headed up the tunnel, through the dugout, and onto the field. *** I signaled for a fastball, down and away. Alex Frazier nodded and went into his stretch. The batter was this big fucker named Trace Whitlock. He was a slugger—a right-hander with little speed and tons of power—and I didn’t want to get beat. Down and away was our best chance to get him and keep the game knotted at three. If we got him, we’d head to extras. I was set to lead off our half of the tenth. Then came our big guys. We’d chewed through most of their staff, and with no studs left, I figured we could win the thing, win the Midwest Club Championship and head to Nationals. But I couldn’t think about that. Not then, not with two outs and a runner on second. I had to stay sharp and be aware of the likelihood of a play at the plate since the runner—a speedster named Garrett Browning—would surely be moving on the pitch. Frazier hurled, and the ball spun backward toward my mitt. I sank low in my crouch, ready to get my thumb underneath the baseball. Whitlock, though, had other ideas. He went with pitch and sent a fading bleeder toward the foul line. In shallow right field, Brendan Mills read the pitch nicely and broke early. He stabbed the ball on its second bounce, and drifted into foul territory. As a left-hander with a fairly strong arm, he immediately planted to throw home. But Garrett Browning was flying. I watched him hit third just as Mills gloved the ball. I saw, too, the hefty Whitlock round first, confident that Mills’ throw was headed home. Getting Browning at the plate would be tough, I thought, but Whitlock, I noticed, had slowed on his way to second base. If Mills went to second, we could get Whitlock before Browning crossed. “Two! Two! Two!” I shouted. Mills adjusted and delivered to second base. A perfect throw might’ve nabbed Whitlock. But Mills’ readjustment took something off, and Whitlock slid feet first just under Byron Jackson’s tag. A beat or two afterward, Garrett Browning swept across the plate and won the game. Whitlock, Browning, and the rest of them moved on. We were done. My stomach knotted, and for a few seconds, I thought I might break apart. I walked off, down into the dugout, and through the tunnel. The clubbies told us there were rats down there, and I wondered as I pulled off my gear if the rats were angry at us for being there, for disturbing them with light and noise while the Indians were away. Or maybe they were disappointed. I thought of all the rats, huddled somewhere, disappointed at the way we’d played—at the way I’d played there at the end. Maybe, I thought, they’d all left our clubhouse for the first-base side, the winner’s side. We even lost the rats, I thought as I unfastened my shin guards and dropped them on the floor. We lost the goddamned clubhouse rats. But Coach Dietrich tried to pick me up. He assured me I’d made a baseball play. Hollings Dietrich played second base for eleven seasons across three different Minor League organizations. Twice he made it to AAA, and once he got a September call-up. “Look,” he said, his hand on my shoulder as we boarded the bus in the bowels of the stadium, “you made a tough call in a tight spot.” He smiled. “That’s all you can do. It’s all anybody can do.” But despite that, despite what he and others said, I couldn’t help but think that the loss was my fault. I replayed the moment over and over on the drive home and then that night in my room as I lay in bed: I should’ve just let Mills come home with his throw. We might’ve gotten Browning at the plate and kept the score knotted. As much as I tried not to second-guess my choice, I just couldn’t stop myself. Over and over, I thought about that at-bat and what came immediately after. I slowed it down, sped it up, paused it here and there. I wore that moment out from the inside. And I wondered if I just hadn’t believed enough—believed in myself, my teammates, and the moment. I thought about what Jeffrey Phillips might’ve said if he'd been there. Over the last year or so, I'd found myself thinking about Jeffrey less and less, which worried me; perhaps I was beginning to forget him. *** Jeffrey Phillips was only 13 when he died. The last time I saw him, he lay twisted in a hospital bed, gasping for air. I stared at him then, and I prayed because I couldn't think of anything else to do. I prayed as hard and as quickly as I could. Jeffrey was one hell of a ball player. At 13, he could flat out mash. Back then, we played on a 70-foot diamond. Most of the fences were 200, 225 feet. Jeffrey would blast dingers 250, 275, even 300 feet. They were moon shots, and they happened too regularly to be flukes or accidents. People wondered how far he'd go. People talked about him as if he was a sure thing. I suppose he might’ve been. *** About a week after Jeffrey Phillips’ funeral, I got up in the middle of the night, sat down at my desk, turned on my lamp, and made a list of all the things Jeffrey Phillips would never do again. Then, I made a list of all the things Jeffrey Phillips would never do at all. I’m not exactly sure why I made those lists, but I know that for a while they made me feel better. I didn’t feel good, but I felt better, as if writing down the things Jeffrey wouldn’t do somehow gave shape and substance to who he was. But then I kept writing and writing and writing—I wrote things I hardly understood—and the lists made me feel worse; they made me feel awful. So I stopped writing, and when I stopped writing I began to think about my prayers and why they hadn’t worked. I hardly prayed at all after that day, after the day Jeffrey died. *** I first read Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey Into Night on the bus ride down to Tampa before my second Minor League season—four years after that season-ending loss up in Cleveland at Municipal Stadium. I became obsessed with O’Neill’s characters—his parade of tragic, fringe dwellers—their disillusionment and despair. There was something about their persistence that could possibly empower my own. I wanted like hell to claw my way to the Big Leagues. But I wondered if my efforts were angling toward failure, spoiling the very marrow of my dreams. Persistence had become what I valued most; it became my measuring stick. My desire to relinquish outcomes offered some potential benefits, but I was too concerned with losing what I’d gained instead of gaining what I could lose, so I never fully reaped the benefits. The very promise of a next pitch, a next at-bat, a next game was an opportunity, but one I never really embraced. I stayed a baseball middle-classer; unwilling to push through success into the possibility of something more, something unknown. When I finally made it to the Bigs, I was terrified I wouldn’t last. My foundation, I feared, was far too fragile. I played one game in the Bigs. I had one single at-bat, nothing more. My Big League career stretched through portions of three separate days, but I actually only played for a grand total of about seven minutes. And I wouldn’t trade those seven minutes for anything. But what is seven minutes—a mere 420 seconds—in relation to all the time and energy and hoping and wishing and worrying, all the anxious, restless thoughts and uncertainty. For decades, I walked a tightrope between believing in myself and believing beyond myself. I was told, over and over and over again, that believing in myself was key. Everyone, it seemed, agreed. People talked about it all the time. But no one ever talked about what to do when believing in myself wasn’t quite enough. *** My Catholic schooling—all twelve years of it—was sewn through with a common thread: humility. Before long, though, I uncovered an impasse: Humility and belief in one’s self were nearly incompatible. I learned that I could believe in myself, but not to the point where my belief in myself superseded my belief in anything else. *** Back when I played for Hollings Dietrich, in-season workouts were held on Sunday mornings. Hollings would start things with a light jog, then a little bit of stretching before we hopped into our throwing progression. After that, it was square drill and hitting, hitting, hitting. We took so damn many swings those mornings. At first, the Sunday morning practices seemed strange. In time, though, that strangeness wore off. Hollings never referred to it as practice; instead, he called it church. “All of our faith,” he said at the beginning of our second or third practice, “lies here, “ he pointed, “here, between the foul lines. All our faith,” he smiled, “and belief. You gotta believe,” he added, “because ain’t no one else gonna do it for you.” Tommy Vollman is a writer, musician, and painter. For many years, he was a baseball player. He has written a number of things, published a bit, recorded a few records, and toured a lot. Tommy’s work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the “Best of the Net” anthology. His stories and nonfiction have appeared in The Southwest Review, Two Cities Review, Hobart, The Southeast Review, Palaver, and Per Contra. He has some black-ink tattoos on both of his arms. Tommy really likes A. Moonlight Graham, Kurt Vonnegut, Two Cow Garage, Tillie Olsen, Willy Vlautin, and Albert Camus. He's working on a short story collection and has a new record, Youth or Something Beautiful. He currently teaches English at Milwaukee Area Technical College and prefers to write with pens poached from hotel room cleaning carts.

Some houses on Harwood Avenue were louder than others. Some houses housed families with twelve to twenty raucous kids who were kicked out until dinner. Offspring were stumbling obstacles wrestling around Edgewood Park. Same damn clouds bristled and puffed all summer. Faces blustery and overfed. Tangled teeth, twisted jaws, and panic hooded themselves under manic curses between beer and cigarettes. Our house was a mausoleum. No one in the neighborhood had just five kids. I pretended there was another sibling besides the four I had. “Her name is Gertrude. We call her Gertie. She writes me every week.” “Where is she?” asked a kid I babysat, Madeline, who was nine and had eight brothers. “In Kazakhstan for pregnant girls. Gertie’s having twins. They need more kids in Kazakhstan, so she’s giving them up for charity.” “Where’s Kaziktown?” asked Madeline. “In Arkansas. She’ll be back sometime.” “Show me the letters.” “They’re in cursive. You couldn’t read them anyway.” Madeline believed anything I said. One of her brothers was almost sixteen, had three rolls on the back of his neck. One night he waited until I was on the way to the bathroom, snapped my head against the wall and lathered his tongue around the back of my throat, while groping my non-breast with his greasy, fat hand. I got why most of these parents had separate bedrooms. The mom paid ten bucks an hour to lock me and Madeline in the kid’s room with pizza and movies until they got home. I worked other babysitting jobs, but those parents were cheap. They only paid five bucks an hour and never offered food, so forced me to steal from them. I gorged on Pop-Tarts, ice cream, Fritos, potato chips, and drank through liquor cabinets. And searched over time for the treasure chest of items I found: a blue floppy dildo the size of a unicorn’s horn, a concertina, and three satin negligees in drawers and backs of closets. Found a porno DVD under one dad’s mattress. I watched it a few times before I took it to another babysitting job and tucked it under some other dad’s mattress. I liked to move stuff around. Replaced the porno with a Bible under the first dad’s mattress. He belted the shit out of seven jumpy kids. Wore loafers that looked like the hooves of a horse. I shared chips and ice cream with those sad kids. Booze was rampant in each house, so I barely made a dent. Sometimes I mixed up keys in hallways that paraded little brass hooks, took a few from one keychain, popped them onto another. A pair of one mom’s stilettos, all dust and stink like sweaty pantyhose in a hamper, were placed in the back of another dad’s closet. No sense in giving any of these cheapskates a fair shake until they opened their wallets and spilled out more cash.

Musing on a long ago winter, At the Amish farm house, A bird strikes the window pane, "Ach my!" my mother exclaims, "It is a death message!" The kitchen is now lit, By kerosene lamp light, A sudden knock on the door, My father receives the news gravely, Mom weeps softly, Occasionally over the years, A bird bangs against the window pane, "Ach!" Mom cries each time, While Dad answers the door, Musing on this winter night, As snow silvers the city skyline, A bird strikes the window pane, But no one knocks on my door. James Schwartz is a poet & author of various poetry collections including The Literary Party: Growing Up Gay and Amish in America (Kindle, 2011), Punatic (Writing Knights Press, 2019) & most recently Motor City Mix, Sunset in Rome (Alien Buddha Press, 2022), Long Lost Friend (Alien Buddha Press, 2023). literaryparty.blogspot.com @queeraspoetry