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I stole a lot of things when I was 13 and 14. My family lived in Virginia Beach then. My father, who’d been an enlisted man in the U.S. Navy since he was 17, retired from the military while in Virginia, and went into sales. Our family moved off the naval base and into a working-class neighborhood about eight miles from the oceanfront. I never would have dared to steal while we lived on base, not with all the military police always lurking around.  With Craig, a friend I’d made in the new neighborhood, I stole records from the Farm Fresh grocery store close to our houses. Farm Fresh kept a small collection of records – a combination of current hit albums and back catalogue titles that were reliable sellers. Craig and I would pool together enough money from our paper routes for one album, and we’d go into Farm Fresh and buy the record. They always bagged the records in those big paper sacks normally used for groceries. Then we’d go right back to the music section and stuff another album or two in our bag, then walk out. I remember us buying The Cars’ first album from the grocery store a couple months after it came out; then we went back in and ripped off a copy of Led Zeppelin’s Physical Graffiti . With Ricky and Grant, two guys I knew from when we still lived on base and who came to hang out with me sometimes, I stole odds and ends from Roses department store. New locks for our bikes, candy, cigarettes, lighters, and other odds and ends. We’d lift packs of More cigarettes from Roses, then ride to the woods behind my family’s house and smoke out there.  My new friend Dean and I had a thieving routine worked out, involving a bowling alley a couple miles from where our families lived. We’d ride our bikes out to the bowling alley, then hang around across the street, in the parking lot of Tom’s Tiki Tavern. We’d watch for when people drove up to the alley. Once they were out of their cars and had gone in to bowl, we’d ride over and see if they left their car doors open. And if they did, we’d root around the seats, floorboard, and glove compartment, checking for booty. We got coins this way, along with cigarettes, cassette tapes, etc. When we got coins, we’d go into the bowling alley and use them to play the pinball machines. I did some of my best thieving in the early morning. Craig, some other guys I knew, and I were all morning paper boys. We had to have our papers delivered by 6:00 a.m., meaning we were out and tooling around on our bikes when most people were still sleeping. As we each completed our respective routes, we’d take note of any worthy goods sitting around on people’s lawns or porches. Then, when we were all done slinging papers, we’d ride back through the neighborhoods and steal stuff. Our favorite item to take was bikes. If we saw a decent bike left outside and unlocked, one guy would leave his bike chained up somewhere and ride to that house on someone else’s handlebars. Once at the crime scene, that guy would jump off, grab the loose bike, and we’d haul ass out to the woods. There, we’d strip the stolen bike for its best parts, divvy them up, and toss the unwanted pieces of the bike into a creek. The first time I got caught stealing was at Farm Fresh. I was in there alone, just before Little League baseball practice. I wasn’t out to steal records, just a pack of grape Bubble Yum gum to chew on the way to, and during, practice. I had a couple dollars in my pocket, but who wants to pay for gum? I grabbed a pack of Bubbleyum off the shelf, then went into the store’s bathroom, where I shoved the gum into a pocket before I peed at a stall. When I was just about done with my business in the bathroom, I looked into the mirror in front of me and saw that a store employee, wearing a Farm Fresh smock, was standing in front of the bathroom doorway, his arms folded across his chest. When I tried to walk past him, he grabbed my arm and led me out into the store. “Is this him ?” he said, to a nosy-looking woman who was standing outside the bathrooms. “Yes. I saw him take the pack of bubble gum off the shelf. He was looking around while he did it, like he was making sure nobody was watching. Then he took the gum into the bathroom. I’m sure he was trying to steal the gum.” My nerves were going pretty good. But I told myself to stay calm. “You mean this  gum?” I asked, looking at both of them and brandishing the pack of Bubbleyum. “Yes,” the woman said. “I bought this gum from 7-11 across the street before coming over here. Do you wanna walk over there with me and we can ask the guy I bought it off?” The woman looked skeptical. But she said, “Maybe I was wrong. I thought I saw you take it off the shelf here.” “I had it when I came in. I was just in here killing time before baseball practice. I took it out of my pocket, because I was thinking about opening a piece in here. Then I realized I needed to use the bathroom.” The woman still didn’t seem totally sold. But she told the clerk, “I could  have made a mistake.” I said, “You did ,” and walked away from them. Then I rode my bike to practice, popping purple bubbles. The second time I got caught stealing was at a novelty store that opened in our neighborhood. Craig and I decided we wanted a whoopee cushion from there. We couldn’t wait to start playing pranks on our family and friends with the cushion. We had no intention of paying for it. We doubled to the store on Craig’s bike, in case we saw a good bike around that we wanted to steal. We lingered around the novelty store for just a couple minutes before Craig grabbed a whoopee cushion and we hurried out. As we opened the door to leave, we heard, “Wait! Damnit!” We got on Craig’s bike quickly, with me on the handlebars and holding the whoopee cushion, and started riding away. I looked back and saw the store clerk chasing us on foot. When we were about two blocks from the store, Craig’s bike chain popped off and we crashed. The store clerk snatched the whoopee cushion out of my hands and told us he’d have us arrested if he ever saw us in the store again. The next time I was caught stealing was when Dean and I did our thing at the bowling alley parking lot. After breaking into three or four cars there, we rode away on our bikes, trying to think of what else to do. We had some pot I’d gotten from my sister Marie’s boyfriend. We were thinking we’d go out to the woods and get high. But as we pedaled, a K-9 police truck suddenly appeared, its lights flashing, and came to a skidding halt just in front of us. “Park your bikes,” the policeman said as he got his dog out of the truck. He held on to the dog as it growled at us. The cop walked right up to me. “I saw you break into that van at the bowling alley. Don’t bother lying to me, because I watched you do it.” I didn’t understand why he was only berating me, and not Dean. But I wasn’t about to argue, not with that dog looking mean and showing me its teeth. “What you did is called breaking and entering. It’s a crime. I could probably get you put away in a boys’ detention home for that. You think you’d like it there?” I had no idea what life at a detention home would be like. But I figured it wasn’t fun. For some reason, at that moment, I thought of my uncles Joe and Johnny, from Massachusetts. That’s where I was born. We had a big extended family there, on my mind’s side. My grandparents came over from Portugal on the boat. When the navy transferred my dad to Virginia and we moved, my mom was the first of her parents’ 10 children to ever leave Massachusetts. My uncles would be so ashamed of me. They both raised their families while working in factories. I was sure their kids - my cousins - never stole. I never did, either, before we left New England and were isolated from the family. “No, sir. I wouldn’t like it there.” “Then you better not ever let me see you anywhere within a mile of that bowling alley again. Or anywhere else where you’re thinking about stealing from decent people.” “Yes, sir.” “Get outta my face, then, before I change my mind and take you to the station.” I don’t know if I applied the three strikes and you’re out rule from baseball, or of it was just the memory of how I felt with that police dog glaring at me; but I stopped stealing after the K-9 cop incident. Anyway, I had better things to do, like going out with a pretty blonde girl named Jill. Brian Greene writes short fiction, as well as journalism features on books, music, film, and fine arts. His work has appeared in approximately 50 print and online publications.

Of course, he’d be born on a Sunday. A day I use to believe in, now holds weight heavier than my swollen belly. The June morning started slowly as the humid heat, among the Pineywoods, rose across the field like spirits searching for heaven. Deep Texas has many ghosts, and I knew them well. The high grasses in the front yard whispered like the gossips in my school hallways. I heard she had sex with every guy on the football team. Well, I heard she did it with a college boy. I never blamed them for not having imaginations that wouldn’t go dark enough to even scratch the truth. My own mind protected me from it too.  Before Momma and Daddy left for church, my stomach started squeezing in on itself. Forcing my breath to quicken. I noticed her shoot me a glance through the mirror by the front door. For a moment, I imagined the mother within her setting aside her red lipstick and saying, I’m here.  Instead, she pursed her lips and walked out to the car muttering something about being a Pastor’s wife, and what would they think if she was late? And Daddy, well, he just avoided me. I guess our mistakes are easier to forget that way.  Sixteen and alone in that tiny white house is where my body opened forever. I headed for bathroom during the next contraction, and it started to pull me under. Under what, I couldn’t tell you, but it felt like swimming in Jell-O. The pressure in my body made my knees buckle, and my hands gripped at the slick waterproof walls. A crab in a bucket, desperate for a way out.  You did this to yourself, I could hear Momma say. Like the consequences of my sin meant love had to be withheld. But then again, she only loved hard. Said it would make me ready for the real world. I think it only made me search for love in all the wrong places. What do I know? Mother knows best. The edges of my vision fade into a dim haziness. The baby is coming now on this cracked and yellow-stained linoleum floor. Waves of intensity, laced with sweet drops of rest. A final rush of adrenaline, and my mind reels into a frenzied oblivion. Yet, there is a strange comfort in the way death holds your hand when you give birth. It sits near you like a companion, a reminder of how close we tread between life and death as girls. Maybe that’s why they try to silence us and make us feel small. There is nothing small about the universe, with all of its stars and planets.   A flash of sting and I’m back in my body. There is no way to know how long I’ve been in this tiny room except the sun had set and rose again at least once. Where is everyone?  Momma and Daddy were only supposed to go to the morning service and back.  Something scratched and sniffed on the other side of the half-opened door. A round fox squirrel peaks her head around and sits up on her hind legs, exposing her warm caramel belly as if to say, what are you doing in my house?   She was right. This wasn’t my home. I found this abandoned house on my walk home from school a few weeks ago. I remember now, telling myself how I would have you here, away from the house the Devil got to a long time ago.  Still, wave after wave washed over me, layering on top of one another like a tsunami and I surrendered. Your scream blended with mine and I pulled you, slick like a rainbow trout, to my chest.  Alexander. I rub your name on you like a healing salve. A wren sitting on a branch outside the broken window, sings her happy song with confidence. I know she’s calling to me, the way a soul knows when it’s being spoken to. Your baby bird mouth searches for my milk. You are safe here . I try not to think of how even the best of moms can only promise this for so long before the world presents all its dangers.  His sleepy fingers curl around my thumb as a tear lands on his cheek. An anointment between mother and son. This life is cruel, the way it gives a child to a child. I’m so sorry, I whispered down to him. Reaching for my backpack sitting on the toilet, I pull out a pen and a piece of paper.  As I write my note, I study his face, his lips moving in a rhythmic suckling motion.   My sweet boy, My body will forever ache for you, to hold you, to know you.  I love you. Still bleeding, I head for the fire station.  Vanessa Butler, born in San Diego, California, now resides in London, where she continues to nurture both her academic and creative ambitions. She earned a degree in Molecular Biology from the University of California, Santa Cruz, and later completed a Masters in Public Health at the University of East London. Vanessa’s academic journey has deepened her understanding of the interconnectedness of science, health, and society. These themes often feature prominently in her fiction and poetry, where she explores both nature’s beauty and the challenges we face in public health.Outside of writing, Vanessa enjoys crocheting, illustrating, and spending quality time with her two-year-old son. She believes in the power of creativity to inspire and provoke thought, and is eager to bring her skills to an environment where both her scientific background and artistic passions can flourish.

The poor dogs of Budapest were having a hard time, and it didn’t look like it was getting better any time soon. Over the past few weeks, there had been growing numbers of dogs disappearing, at first steadily, one or two here and there, but the frequency had been increasing, and scores of dogs had seemingly vanished into thin air in the previous couple of weeks. What had at first been a slight concern -  and presumed to be random occurrences of dognapping - was now very much an epidemic. The first suggestion of this disturbing pattern was noted on October 25th, which was 48 days ago. This isn’t a long time in the grand scheme of things, but if you were a dog owner in Budapest, these 48 days would have seemed to stretch out interminably. On the evening of  October 25th, Delphine took her pet Saluki, Ariane, for a walk in the park close to her house, as was their custom. The park is located next to the Danube River, which runs through the heart of the city, and with it being five minutes away, was the perfect place for her to take Ariane for a much-needed run, also clearing her own head after what was often a rigorous day at work. Delphine would keep Ariane on a leash until they arrived at the entrance to the park and then let her off. Ariane knew the drill well. She would show the utmost poise and restraint whilst tethered, then bolt as though from the starting blocks when the time came, sprinting headlong as soon as the tension around her neck was released. Dogs were allowed off the leash in the majority of the park, and Delphine had never worried much that Ariane would act in a foul way, even if she were to stray into one of the few more protected areas. She was well trained and incredibly intuitive, so once she had shot off, Delphine could meander through the park at her leisure, stop and sit for a while if she liked, take different paths even, knowing that Ariane would come back to check in every now and then. This evening's walk started the same as any other; they strolled calmly alongside the river towards the park gates. It wasn’t bitterly cold by any means, but with it being late October, the air had a definite chill once the sun was down. It was a weeknight and they had left a little later than usual, so there were fewer people on the path. Delphine liked it when it was quiet as she could better take in the dark surface of the river shimmering in the city lights. She had grown up around a lot of water, so seeing this was a simple pleasure. Her breath was just visible, rising and disappearing before her eyes, and she looked down at Ariane to see if hers was as well. Her dog looked back up at her gaze with her long muzzle closed tight. They were nearly at the park entrance when rain started falling, not hard, but enough that it introduced that next layer of chill, pronounced somewhat as Delphine hadn’t taken a hat or umbrella with her, which she quietly cursed herself for. Anyway, Ariane certainly didn’t care about the cold or the rain so  Delphine knelt down and unclipped the leash. She had barely straightened back up before Ariane was sprinting across the first open patch of grass. It was late, it was cold and it was wet and Delphine didn’t feel much like walking - it had been a particularly long day at work - so she followed the main path through the park, this being the best lit and shortest of all of the routes available. Once or twice she saw Ariane appear from a row of bushes or a thicket of trees, cast an open-mouthed grin at her owner and then disappear again. Delphine was nearly three-quarters of the way through her loop of the park when she noticed that she hadn’t seen Ariane for a while. She had been walking with her head down, faster than usual due to the rain, and hadn’t been thinking of much other than getting home to warm up and eat. Delphine took a lot of pride in barely ever having to call Ariane, as though the less she had to do it, the more it consolidated both the dog's intelligence and her skills as an owner. But she was in a rush tonight and only thought twice before succumbing. “Ariane.” she called, casually. After a few seconds, there was no sign of the dog, so she repeated the call a little louder, not deeming it necessary to use anything more than her name. When that attempt and another thirty seconds or so had elapsed, Delphine had her first thought of something being out of the ordinary. As much as she hated to do it, she decided she’d have to shout now, aiming it in the direction that she had last seen her. “Ariane!” The words flew off into the darkness. “Where the hell are you?” Delphine muttered to herself. The rain was falling harder and she had to make a decision as to what she’d do next, not having been in this position before. She looked in every direction and could see no-one else in the park, no-one that she could ask for help; one of the few times that she rued a lack of people around her. She cupped her hands around her mouth and continued along the path, hoping that Ariane was waiting at the gates for her to catch up. She would shout her name every few steps, each time towards a different corner of the park, but still there was no response. When she got to the end of the path, the bright lamps at the gate showed clearly that no dog was waiting for her, just rain falling steadily through the light and onto the slick black paving. Delphine was worried. Until this point she had only been asking herself when Ariane would appear, considering how she would discipline the dog for causing her such a fright, but now that it seemed increasingly likely that she was lost, the panic set in. Delphine immediately turned around and retraced her steps through the park, deciding that going back along the same path was the best option; she moved somewhere between a power walk and a jog, shouting as loudly as she was able to the whole time. Delphine was not a noisy person in any area of her life, and a few times she realised that she probably hadn’t ever used her voice in this way before. These thoughts quickly fell aside as another ten metres, then another twenty metres provided no joy in her search. Towards the point at which they had entered the park, she took a side path to a small, circular seating area which was home to some vibrant flower beds. One of the only times she’d had to reprimand Ariane was here, when she had been a few-month-old puppy and was still building her recall abilities. Delphine hoped beyond hope that she would arrive to find her dog guiltily looking back at her from one of the flower beds, a foot or so deep in an eagerly dug hole, or maybe chewing on some of the tulips or lilies that were kept here, but when she turned the corner onto her imagined scene there was nothing; just the scant moonlight and more rain falling to the ground. Delphine started to cry. You can’t ever anticipate exactly how you’ll feel about a pet, or react when they come to some misfortune, but Delphine was utterly forlorn. The only sounds she could hear were her own heaving sobs and the thick raindrops slapping against leaves and bouncing on the path around her. Ariane was gone, for sure, and she knew it.  Ariane was the first poor dog of Budapest, or at least as far as we’re aware. Delphine stayed in the park for another hour that night, traipsing back and forth, shouting until she was completely hoarse, shivering in the increasingly heavy downpour until it became too much and she returned home. She phoned the police to lodge a report, and the next day, on their advice, she went to the station to show proof of ownership and provide them photos of her beloved dog. The officer taking her report was a man in his 50s by the name of Henrik, a First Lieutenant who hadn’t risen in rank for the past twenty years of his time with them, but this was mostly because he didn’t want to. The extra work it would require and the responsibility that it would bring were just too much for him to concern himself with, but whilst he was fairly low ranking, Henrik was respected, because he could speak to people in a certain way. If there were ever someone coming to lodge a report, or give a statement, then those in his precinct would look to have Henrik deal with them, if at all possible, because of the solace he could provide. Delphine had said that she would be arriving at 8am sharp, and as such, Henrik was lined up to greet her. When she appeared, it was clear that she was distressed, though this didn’t faze Henrik. “Hello, Madam,” he said in a deferential tone. Not pitying or authoritative, just a human sound. Henrik noted Delphine's red, puffy eyes and smiled at her in his soothing way. “Please, if you’ll come with me, we can get you comfortable and try to make this process as quick and easy as possible. Would you like a drink of some sort? There’s tea, coffee, water, maybe even some juice if you’d rather.” Delphine only shook her head and followed him down the sterile corridor. Once they’d arrived at the assigned office, Henrik held the door open and invited her inside. “Take a seat wherever you’ll be most comfortable,” he said, and followed her in, shutting the door softly.  “As I say, we’ll try to make this as painless as possible for you,” Henrik said as he sat down opposite Delphine, sliding a pad of paper and a pen in front of him. “If you can tell me exactly what happened with as much detail as possible, I can get this report filed and start looking for your dog immediately.”  Delphine recounted the previous evening and really did spare no detail; her account was incredibly concise, which impressed Henrik. He made his notes as swiftly as he was able, only asking once or twice that she pause whilst he caught up, then politely inviting her to continue. As soon as Delphine reached the end of her story, she stopped speaking and clasped her hands, staring at a space on the table between them. “First of all, Delphine, I’m very sorry to hear about Ariane. I have a dog of my own and I can only imagine how you’re feeling, not knowing where she is. On the positive side, your statement is comprehensive, and with this, we have the best chance of getting her back as soon as possible.” Delphine nodded but didn’t raise her eyes.  “I’d like you to call all of the local animal shelters as soon as you have a chance, and if you use social media then post in any places that you think could prove useful, as well as these,” he said, handing her a piece of paper which he had handwritten earlier that morning containing page names, groups and communities that could possibly offer help. “From here, I’ll lodge your report and we will start looking for Ariane right away.” At this point, the person in Henrik’s company would often let out some kind of sigh of relief, or show an ever so slight curl on their lips, assured by his words, but Delphine was unmoved. Her hands were clasped tightly, her gaze unmoving.  “Delphine, are you alright? Is there anything else that I can help you with, or offer at the moment?”  Realising that her role was finished for now, she stood up silently and held out a cold, white hand.Henrik got up hastily from his seat and reached for it, taking it in his own much thicker grasp. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” she said a little unsteadily. “I have a rather bad feeling about this. I know that these situations must come up all the time, but this doesn’t feel normal. Do you know what I mean? It’s obviously bad, and of course I can feel it in a much more visceral way than anyone else would because it’s my dog that’s missing, but something about it just feels unusual, maybe freakish in a way. It’s hard for me to describe, but, do you follow, Lieutenant? Have you ever felt what I’m trying to describe?”  Henrik was a little bewildered, which was uncommon, but he remained as measured as ever and allowed just an extra second or two for a response to form. “Delphine, I think that I understand what you’re saying. These types of situations are very complicated to begin with, and then some strange feeling or omen can come over us, and it just makes the whole thing even more cloudy. I only have the details you’ve given me, and like I say, it’s a very extensive account, but as for any particular strangeness in this case, I’d have to pick that feeling up as I learn more. I hope that what I’ve said makes sense. It’s hard to provide anything more substantial when it’s brand new to me.” Delphine’s underslept eyes peered into Henrik’s as he finished speaking, and she gave his hand - which incidentally she’d been holding the whole time that he spoke - a squeeze and then let it go. “I appreciate your time and your words, Lieutenant. I think that you do understand me,” and with this, she turned to leave the office. “No need to see me out, I know the way.” Forty-seven days had passed since Delphine’s report was lodged and in this time, almost 400 dogs had been registered as missing in Budapest, with the volume of cases growing by the day. There had been twenty-eight alone in the last 24 hours. The numbers were unfathomable given that there had only been 284 total in the twelve months before this outbreak. When Henrik had taken Delphine’s report, the police showed no interest. Of course, someone was assigned to follow up, check the usual avenues pertaining to illegal dog trade, etc and see whether something came up, but for all intents and purposes it was of incredibly low priority. By the time a week had passed and the cases had gone from two or three a day to eight or nine a day, there was city wide attention growing in the situation. A week later, it was nationally recognised, and by now, around a month and a half on, it was topping the headlines across the country and making news in other European outlets. Delphine had said that something felt unusual, and so it had turned out to be. The numbers themselves were completely out of whack with anything normal, but the fact that these dogs were disappearing at such a rate and not reappearing was causing the police major headaches. Whenever a dog went missing, it would usually be picked up changing hands in some shady circumstances, or else found by the local animal authorities or at a shelter, but these dogs were nowhere to be found. Every single one that had gone missing was unaccounted for, and that was downright bizarre. To add to this, not one of the dog owners had seen someone take their pet. They disappeared in myriad ways: some of them out on a walk, some whilst in the garden, some being left in the car whilst their owner popped into the grocery store, but in not one case had anyone seen a person make off with their dog. The police were without a sniff of a clue, until today.  This morning, the morning of Thursday, December 12th, Delphine came back to the police precinct in which she’d filed her report. This time she was unannounced, but Henrik was working any and all hours that he was awake these days, and after a small amount of sleep in the early morning, had just returned to work. He recognised her the minute she walked through the door and approached the reception slightly more hurriedly than usual, intercepting her at the front desk just as she was about to speak to the officer manning it. “Delphine. It’s Henrik, I’m not sure if you remember me.” “I certainly do, Lieutenant. I have something to show you,” she said, patting the small bag hanging from her shoulder. “Of course. Come with me,” he said, motioning them in the same direction as they’d gone 47 days prior. Henrik had been awake through most of the night, a fact that he hadn’t registered physically until just now as a deep and heavy lethargy set into him, passing over his eyes and trickling all the way down to his leaden feet.  “I’m going to grab some coffee. Would you like anything? It would be no bother at all.”  “Oh, a coffee would be nice, thank you.” “It’s nothing special, but it does the trick on these long days,” Henrik said with a smile, leading them to the kitchen.  They passed through a few nondescript hallways and arrived at the dining room which was also a pretty drab affair. Off to one side, a large island served as the focal point of the kitchen and the rest of the room was a collection of identical round tables with three or four chairs around each. The entire space was monochrome, save a few posters containing a little colour. Everything looked new, but imbued with some kind of dullness that gave it a different sort of age; a weariness. Delphine took the room in and followed Henrik to the workbench that had the appliances, including a filter coffee machine.  “Ok, now comes the important part. You’ve got to choose your favourite mug.” Henrik pointed to a deep drawer with a generic label maker sticker. The black letters were all in lowercase, which Delphine found interesting, and they spelled the word ‘tasse’. “One of the officers was learning French a while back and stuck these labels everywhere to try and help.” Below this drawer was one labelled ‘plaque’ (plate) and below that ‘bol’ (bowl) and so on. Delphine whispered the words to herself, reflecting that many people presumed she spoke the language on account of her name. In fact she barely spoke a word of French. She opened the top drawer and chuckled as she looked down into it. There were dozens of mugs staring back at her and they were all identical; a dark shade of navy blue with a pair of white stripes wrapped around it. Delphine picked one up from the middle and saw that there was a small Hungarian flag set into the stripes. “Looks like I’ve found the one!”  “Ah, a fine choice!”  Henrik poured them both coffee from the pot into their generic mugs and looked over to the large window on the opposite side of the room, easily its best feature. “How would you like to sit in here instead? There’s more light and a bit of a view, rather than those stuffy interview rooms.” “Sure thing.” Henrik led them over to the table that sat against the window and fell into his seat heavily, again feeling the strain that his many years mixed with minimal sleep were taking on his body.  “I’d like to know how you’ve been since we spoke last, but you might want to just show me what it is you’ve brought in. I have all the time in the world, but it’s up to you, Delphine.” Delphine had been up and down, or more correctly, way down and on her way back up. It had been close to seven weeks since Ariane had been removed from her life and she had experienced varying stages since then. For the first few days she had routinely gone about her life, that is until she returned home after work to an empty apartment, saw Arianes bed, food bowl, and other effects and realised that things weren’t routine at all; that the living creature she most closely shared her life with was gone. On a morning, it wasn’t so bad, as Ariane was not a morning dog and tended to stay on her bed asleep, or half asleep, whilst Delphine showered and got dressed - usually hurriedly - before leaving for work. In this part of the day, they were living separately. The evening was when they spent their time together and that had been taken away. Delphine had actually gone to the park each evening for the first four days and walked it back and forth, side to side, all the while without any real hope of finding Ariane, but doing it just the same. Once she had let go of this idea, this ritual, she’d drifted into a period of pervading gloom. She sat at home on her own, listlessly, doing very little, sleeping at irregular hours around her work. All thoughts were consumed with the loneliness that she felt and these interminable bouts were punctuated with sharp reminders that she had no idea where or how Ariane was. She could be lost, injured or worse, and this made Delphine confused, ladling feelings of helplessness on top of her solitude. She wasn’t much of a social being, but any outside contact with friends dried up totally during the weeks she was buried in this phase. Over the last couple of weeks things had slowly gotten better, but in a way that was hard to describe. The feelings of loss were the same, the loneliness and despondency didn’t change from their earlier forms, but there was an understanding that nothing could be done, and this brought some relief. When Delphine felt the sharpest pains of abandonment and isolation, a touch of this comfort came over her if only she grasped for it, as if what had happened might be for a reason, and even the idea of a reason was enough to cling to. This sense of hidden purpose was a soothing voice for her. Yesterday, on returning from work, Delphine had flicked open her mailbox. There was no lock on it, and every day she acknowledged this detail without it making a distinct impression; it was just a fact that anyone could access her mail if they wished to. The box was never opened with anticipation, just a perfunctory action taking place, but today it held a surprise; there was a white envelope with her name and address handwritten on the front. Delphine never received letters like this, rather the usual bills, junk mail, the odd appointment confirmation, things of that sort. She pulled out the letter and looked at the handwriting, studying as if she might be able to figure out whose hand had created it but knowing full well that wouldn’t be the case. Once inside her flat she opened the envelope and saw the top of a glossy photograph poking out. Of course, she knew that this had to be linked with Ariane going missing. She’d known it the second she’d seen the ink on the envelope, but now she was faced with something tangible. An image. She held her breath and pulled the photo out quickly, thinking it would somehow help with the pain of seeing something unspeakable. But it wasn’t. It had a strange composition, dream-like in a way, but it was undoubtedly a real image that had been taken of a real scene. The background of the shot showed a lavish party taking place, glamorous looking people milling around in front of what seemed to be a grand, villa style mansion. They all looked natural, so Delphine felt confident that it wasn’t staged. People were drinking, some of them dancing, and from their expressions, it was clear that they were having a good time; a party or celebration of some sort. One half of the foreground was taken up by a swimming pool giving off the lustrous glow that comes when water is lit from below, illuminating the darkness of night. In a crescent around the edge of the swimming pool were three wooden sun loungers topped with cream cushions running the length of them, two of which were angled towards the house, the third facing the camera. Both of those looking the other way had people on them, their shoulders and backs of their heads visible over the frame of the lounger, and on the third sat Ariane. She was not looking directly at the camera, but in the general direction, just past it, maybe at someone or something in particular. Her mouth was slightly agape with the very tip of her tongue poking over the front teeth - an expression that Delphine knew well. At first glance of the photo, with Ariane sitting there, Delphine’s heart had started to pound. As would be natural, the first thought was that of foreboding - my dog has gone missing and now someone has sent me a picture of her, this must be bad news - but the more she studied the photograph, each element of it, the setting, the people, the environment and then again and again Ariane, she began to calm, and by the fifth or sixth time going over it she felt only curious about this oddity in her hand.  Delphine opened her bag and handed the photograph over to Henrik without a word. She took a sip of her coffee and watched his eyes scan over it, his face offering no reaction. For what seemed a long time, she continued to take sips and was surprised by how good it tasted. Henrik sat there with his neck craned slightly, looking down at the strange artefact. His eyes flitted to and fro, but still his expression never changed. Finally, he put the photo down on the table between them and looked up at Delphine. “This is very, very strange,” and he took a sip of his coffee. “Receiving something like this is incredibly uncommon, and honestly, at first glance, doesn’t give any indication as to what is going on. Of course it has been taken somewhere, and with the little it shows, we can start looking into where that might be.   How do you feel about it? and feel free not to answer if it could be distressing to do so.” Delphine listened to Henrik speak and matched the words alongside his placid expression, his calm demeanour. “Firstly, the coffee is really great. I wanted to make sure I didn’t forget to tell you. This picture has actually brought me some solace. I don’t understand the meaning of it, and I can’t imagine why someone would have taken her if their intention was just to send me an odd photo, but seeing her like that, unharmed, looking healthy even, it tells me that there is something happening I’m not supposed to understand yet, or maybe ever. The look on Ariane’s face? I’ve only ever seen her look at me that way, never anyone else, and here she is pulling that same face. She’s fine, no, she’s better than fine, and so I think that I should decide to be fine as well. I do want her to come back to me, but I only want that if I know that she’s coming back to be happier than where she is now…” Henrik listened, nodding here and there “.. of course, there’s no way I can really find that out unless I see her… anyway, I feel sad and happy. Still baffled by the meaning of it all, but at ease.” Delphine actually laughed at the end of the sentence “I’m sure that sounds like gibberish, but there you are.” Henrik took a moment to let her words sink in, looking at Delphine and then at the photo. His phone started vibrating in his pocket just as he was about to respond. The timing was not good - he never liked to answer his phone when he had company - especially in the current setting, but he knew that he should answer it, just in case it was important. “Sorry, Delphine, I’ll have to get this. I’ll be just a moment.”  Henrik stood up and took a few steps away from the table speaking calmly and methodically, as he always seemed to. Delphine spun the photo around so that it was facing her and leant down to look at it again for the umpteenth time, and as she did, she noticed something that she hadn’t seen before, leaning closer still to be sure of what it was. Henrik slid his chair out and sat back down opposite Delphine, prompting her to look up. His face was unsettled, which wasn’t something that she’d seen before, and just before she was going to speak, to tell him of her discovery, he started to talk in an uncharacteristically shaky tone. “That was my wife on the phone. She just went to pick up Lilith from the groomers, and she’s disappeared.” It is December 14th now. In the past 72 hours or so - presuming that Delphine’s photo arrived early, on the day of December 11th - there have been dozens of dog owners coming into the police station to present photos that they have received in the post. The photographs have all been taken in different locations, but each of them exhibits a similarly joyous scene set behind the respective owner's dog, and as far as dogs can look similar, they have the same kind of middling look on their face. Many of the owners are completely distraught. They speak to Henrik and others in various states of anguish, some in floods of tears, some grovelling for their beloved dog to be found, some even becoming aggressive in their protestations that the police are useless, neglectful of their case and indifferent to their personal agony. A smaller portion of those who come in are perplexed by this development; they struggle to understand what could possibly be taking place, and when Henrik and his colleagues can offer no explanation, they end up leaving the station bemused, a disorientated air about them. During this whole period, some interesting - in most instances concerning - trends had formed throughout the city. Once the missing dogs had become a well-established phenomena, a not insignificant number of Budapest dog owners took certain measures. Sales of home security systems skyrocketed for one, and on any given day, you could see several installation vans lining suburban streets, bringing the latest technology to the homes of these fearful individuals. A more disturbing statistic was the sharp spike in firearm license applications. Fortunately, this wasn’t a simple process, and as such, the city didn’t instantly fill with anxious gun-toting dog lovers, but those who were worried enough were arming themselves in whichever way possible, purchasing rubber bullet guns and the types of blades and blunt instruments not often highly sought after. Unfortunately, the tension did cause some nasty incidents to occur and several people ended up hospitalised due to unprovoked assaults from jumpy dog owners, two actually losing their lives. The increase in violence across the city did nothing to quell the rise in the number of dogs going missing. One thing for sure was that none of the other dog owners seemed to exhibit the tranquility of Delphine. She was apart in her outlook on this now widely shared situation, and by this point her life had regained much of the meaning and happiness that it held before Ariane’s disappearance. Despite missing her, and of course wishing that they could one day be reunited, she had found a substitute for her dog's presence in the conviction that she was being cared for and ultimately living happily.  Unfortunately, the same can not be said for Henrik. His dog Lilith is a twelve-year-old Border Collie that he had fostered since she was just two months old. Whilst he has worked long hours for her entire life, he was still undoubtedly her person . His wife would feed her, let her out when needed and complete any everyday tasks that were required, but Henrik was her person. He would walk her each morning as soon as he woke up, taking her on long routes around the city. He would bathe her, brush her, talk to her, train her and have her on his lap on those evenings he was at home. Henrik was not an angry man, and other than a few instances in his much younger days, had never felt any particular animosity for anyone or anything, but in the days since that phone call from his wife, he had been unable to quell a feeling of rage that had infused him. If he was suitably distracted, then his normal composure and mild disposition would return, but given a second to think, any slight opportunity to reflect on her disappearance he would feel the burning ignite again, his teeth clenching and his hands becoming tight fists at the ends of his arms. One problematic aspect, possibly the most taxing, was that he didn’t know where to place the anger. He felt a disembodied fury that he couldn’t project at a particular person. Neither was there a wider group to act as a focal point. He did, however, feel a deep resentment for his wife. She had been the one who took Lilith to the groomer. He had told her to stay in the room with Lilith and the groomer the entire time, but she had left to complete another errand. When she’d called him with the news, he didn’t even ask why she had ignored his instruction, because he knew that hearing any explanation or excuse would have just made it worse for him. The other part of it was that she had never shown Lilith the same love that he had, or at least not the same type of love, in his eyes. It was a paradoxical conflict for him, because he wanted Lilith to be his dog, truly. He wanted her to love him more than anyone else, especially his wife, and whilst he would vie for her affection, and duly receive it in abundance, he still couldn’t help but begrudge his wife for not trying as hard, not seeming to care as much. He couldn’t displace these feelings, and what’s more, he didn’t want to get rid of them, even though he knew how poisonous and illogical they were. They felt vital to him. A necessary force that he may need to harness at some point.  On December 18th, six days removed from her last visit, Delphine again showed up at the station, and again, Henrik was there, this time stewing in the dining room in which they’d last sat together. A junior officer led her through and she had sat down opposite him before he’d even realised she was there. “Hello, Lieutenant,” Delphine said pleasantly, an unintentionally cheerful inflection to her voice. Henrik attempted a smile, but there was no fooling her or anyone else; he was as stiff as a board.  “I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to let you know that you can stop looking for Ariane.” Henrik couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His eyes lit up and genuine glee burst from his mouth. “Oh my god, they’ve returned her? That’s incredible. I didn’t think they would just start turning up again so easily, but this is wonderful news. I’ll have to start contacting the other owners to see whether their dogs have also appeared.” With that, he sprang from his seat and tapped his pockets as if trying to quickly decide what to do next. “Lieutenant,” Delphine said calmly. “Maybe you should sit back down.” “But why? We need to get this news out as soon as possible, well, as soon as we’ve confirmed that the dogs have started being returned. Imagine the news stories! and Lilith..” The name came wistfully from his lips. “No, you’ve misunderstood, Lieutenant. Ariane hasn’t come back, I just want you to stop looking for her.” Delphine pulled another photograph from her bag and handed it to the unbalanced figure of Henrik. He looked at the photo at first without seeing it, attempting to compute Delphine’s words. After taking a moment to try and compose himself, he pulled it closer to his face, squinting to take it all in. The composition was similar to the hundreds of others that he’d now seen. This one showed a sports field with players clad in short-sleeved shirts and shorts. Football, he quickly realised. In the background was the supporters' stand, hundreds of spectators with their arms aloft, cheering, revelling at what they were watching. The rest of the frame was made up of the players exhibiting similar ecstasy; a group of five or six were huddled together, their arms enmeshed, grabbing their teammates' shirts intensely. The rest of the players were scattered, some on their own, looking skyward in rapture, others in twos or threes, holding each other's shoulders or jumping into each other's arms, all of them in a state of euphoria. The picture looked like scenes from a World Cup victory, the players crying tears of unbridled joy. In the midst of the revelry, just set forward from the rejoicing players was Ariane. She had been captured in profile, jumping some three feet off the floor with her mouth wide open, tongue lolling from the side of an unmistakable smile. For a second, her face looked like a completely human expression, a smile the same as the hundreds around her, but he then realised that this was, of course, just a happy dog. A dog that could feel the energy and was channeling the same excitement, full of the elation she was being fed. Delphine watched as Henrik pulled the photo away from his face and it dropped from his hand to the floor, his eyes glazed.  A week on from Delphine’s visit was Christmas Day, December 25th. Henrik and his wife didn’t have any family in the city and the few friends they did keep up with had decided to get away over this period, going for a few days to other European cities or travelling domestically to stay with family. Henrik’s wife had wanted to do something similar. She pitched a few ideas to Henrik, knowing how distraught he was with the loss of Lilith, and tried to convince him that it would be good for them to get away for a while, have a change of environment that might ease his worries, if only for a while. Henrik refused point blank at each and every suggestion, even though he knew that they were good, and knew that she needed it just as much as he did. His pig-headedness had shocked her, for he had always been considerate, and even if they did end up disagreeing on a matter, they would do so respectfully, discussing an issue until they both understood each other. As she tried to access this rational part of him the only response she would get was some version of ‘what if they send a photo while we’re away’ she would explain that it would only be for a few days, and even if he stayed to receive it right away, what difference would it make? Her empathy ran its course after he had shut down every option, and she had decided that she would go to stay with her mother anyway, with or without him. On Christmas Eve, Henrik came home from his shift just before 11 pm. The house was tidy and his wife was gone. Their modest apartment still had all of Lilith’s effects laid out, as if she were the one just out of town for a day or two. He came into the noiseless space and sat on the sofa alone, his hands firmly clenched. Henrik had no distractions at all, no Lilith, no partner, no work to take his mind elsewhere, so he started to think about Delphine, the way that she had given up on Ariane, how she had been able to smile and even laugh. He didn’t understand. How could someone act that way when something they were supposed to love had been taken away from them, stolen from them no less? His hands ached from the pressure and he unclasped them, holding them up in front of his face. “Where is my photograph?” he said to himself. There were deep gouges in his palms where his long fingernails had dug into them. “Where is my photograph?” he said again, reaching for the small side table and picking up a mug that he had left there days ago, a small amount of dark liquid swilling around the bottom of it. He thought about the stickers on the drawers at work. “Tasse,” he said to himself as he threw the mug at the wall in front of him, the ceramic making a sharp crack and breaking into a few pieces, old coffee dripping down the white paint. “Lampe,” he said, and wrapped his hand around the base of the lamp and threw it in the same direction. It was plugged in, consequently whipping towards the ground when it ran out of cord, bouncing off the hard laminate floor. “Bougie,” he said, gripping the candle like an American Football and throwing it with venom against the wall, the glass of the candleholder thudding into the plaster and dropping to the ground. Henrik looked for something else within reach but nothing was close enough. He turned to the shelving behind him and saw the ornament right above his head. His wife had commissioned a fine glass figure of Lilith to be made in honour of their dog's 10th birthday. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship and had sat in the centre of the arrangement ever since, often making Henrik smile when he would look up at it and then down at Lilith herself, or vice versa. Henrik turned around on the sof, and propped on his knees, managed to grab it down, bringing it close so that he could look at the detail on it. “Chien.” The likeness was remarkable, and whilst he’d forgotten the name of the artist, he had always held them in much esteem. He loved this figure. “Where the fuck is MY photo?” he screamed as he turned and threw the glass Lilith against the wall. Another week on and it was a new year, January 1st. For a while now, the number of vanishing dogs had been dwindling, until yesterday, on the 31st, there was but one report made. Henrik had taken the report and all but knew that it was the last of it - no more dogs were going to go missing. In the intervening days, he had a dozen or so owners come back with second photographs that they’d received, a week from the first, just like Delphine. Four others presented a third photo, but the vast majority got in touch to let him know that they’d received nothing further. Most were one and done. The news outlets were well aware of the different circumstances that people were experiencing and speculated as to the inconsistencies among them, making tenuous links to different categories, breeds, or characteristics of the dogs that could be the defining factor in whether an owner received a photo or not. Those who did receive a second photo tended to become even more confused, and those who hadn’t received a first were even more embittered. Meanwhile, Delphine had received a third and just this morning a fourth. In every image, Ariane was increasingly radiant, each time more animated. It hardly seemed possible, but it was true. For Delphine, these pictures offered a continued source of inspiration, and as her improved mood buoyed her through the week, it was again boosted seven days later when another arrived; a perpetual cycle had begun. She had planned some changes to her own situation, deciding that she would cut back her working hours to afford her more time to tend to her personal life, and with this extra freedom, take up something truly meaningful. What that was she didn’t know, but she was convinced it was waiting for her. Delphine contemplated getting another dog, but now wasn’t the time. The photographs of Ariane would amply fill her up, and sure enough, on close inspection, she could just make out the letters on her collar tag DL; Delphine’s initials. Letters that hadn’t been there before.   Daniel is a UK native that has been residing in New Zealand for close to 10 years. He produces short stories, prose and poetry. He has had short prose pieces published in Salient, Shabby Doll House and miniMAG and short stories featuring in CRAFT literary and Northridge Review.

I open a library book of poems, a mix of earthy and intellectual I’d say, if forced to label the flavor after a few pages. And there she is – the Queen of Spades. She’s come all the way from Vegas, a casino/spa I find when Google does its thing. A perfect combination. A dozen personas flash by: the poetry-reading gambling addict, the math teacher at a conference indulging in blackjack and a scrub, the bachelorettes, ill-suited and loud, and on and on. But coming from a card-playing family – pinochle on holidays around grandma’s table – I feel affection for these royals, although it’s bothersome the king always beats the queen. But this queen has escaped and though I’m tempted to welcome her into my home, to give her the privilege of marking the pages of many books over time, I finally decide to send her back, tucked somewhere in the middle, to be discovered by another who might be intrigued and conjure countless backstories although it’s just as likely she’ll be tossed in the recycling bin with only the electric bill and a coupon for Greek yogurt for company. No more couplets and metaphors, slant rhymes or similes, and whatever began in Vegas is still there, as, according to the rules, it should be. Mercedes Lawry’s most recent book is Small Measures  from ELJ Editions. She’s also published Vestigesfrom Kelsay Books, three chapbooks and poems in journals such as Nimrod  and Alaska Quarterly Review . Additionally, she’s published short fiction as well as stories and poems for children.

In my twenty-first summer, I learned how to be nocturnal. Once I realized I prefer the dark, it was simply a matter of reorganizing my time. I got a job as a night shift security guard on a college campus and started going to bed right as my apartment yellowed into morning. I ate Chinese takeout for breakfast and IHOP waffles before I fell asleep. It was hard to be friends with anyone, but at the time I wasn’t worried about that. I was a freshly minted grown-up, and everything in my life felt suitably upside-down. The chosen weirdness of that summer made the far more frightening chaos of simply existing easier to stomach. The job at the college was boring. The campus was in the most affluent corner of town and didn’t need half the security guards it hired. My duty was not so much safety as to keep up appearances of safety—if an alumni donor were to enter campus at any hour of the day or night, my job was to make sure they wouldn’t reconsider their donation. I wandered in a lot of slow, menacing circles. I picked up lots of trash using those little metal tongs. Sometimes I’d find a half-empty pack of cigarettes or a nice new lighter.  Mostly, I just walked and listened to the dark. There were a few weeks I was seeing a girl at the college, a cute redhead I’d swiped right on because her bio said bet I can outsmoke you  and I like a challenge. She’d meet me midshift, like one or two a.m., and we’d get high behind the physics building, and she’d rant to me about posthumanism and dystopia and economy collapse and I’d say it sure turns me on when you talk like that  and we’d fuck against the cold cement wall and then right away she’d stumble off to bed and I’d stand in the solid darkness, listen to everything invisible and alive surrounding me, then shrug it off, zip up my pants, get back to the job. It didn’t last. Turned out she was a bit crazy. When I broke it off, she tagged the side of my golf cart with a lopsided owl and the words hoot hoot motherfucker. I’m still trying to figure out what that means. Not that I think about it anymore, really, not her or the job or even that whole summer. But when I do remember, I wonder. There was one night that comes back to me still. Or morning really, those first strains of light meaning it was almost time for me to clock out and head off to bed. On my final lap of campus, I spotted a homeless man staring into a hole in a tree. I thought he must be drugged up on something, a substance that animated the unmoving, conversing with what he took to be the tree’s open mouth. Then the man turned around. I remembered abruptly that I was wearing my deliberately intimidating black security guard uniform, that by all the rules of my job I should eject this outsider from campus. All summer, I’d never actually been confronted with a situation in which I was expected to do any guarding. I didn’t want to now. He was just a guy, a down-on-his-luck guy.  I waited for him to become frightened by my imposing appearance. I waited for him to run from my obvious institutional power so I wouldn’t have to assert it.  Instead, the man pointed into the hole in the tree. Hey kid,  he said,  check this shit out.   I approached, a bit cautious, and saw movement in the opening. Inside the tree was a nest of baby birds.  I said, would you look at that?   And the man said yes, yes I would.  We smiled at each other, and he was the one without teeth, but my mouth felt hollow and empty of something important. In the half-light, we watched the babies move over and around each other, making tiny bird murmurs. Their speech felt very nearly comprehensible. We stood there for a long time, trying to understand. Then there was a whir of great wings and the owl mother alighted above us. She was huge and flat-faced and angry and her claws were sharp and we gave her plenty of space, backed up from her nest and stood at a respectful distance. Her world wasn’t one in which we belonged, but I think, in that moment, we both wanted to.  The sun came up for real then, forest shot through with perpendicular golden light. The owl went flurrying into her hole. Together, the homeless man and I turned, like we’d been summoned by the dawning back to our human lives, and walked away. I gave him four dollar bills and the half joint I had in my pocket. Then I drove home and slept until the sun went down. That week, I got fired from my job because another security guard had watched me watch owls with a homeless man rather than telling him to get lost. He followed the man afterwards, told him to get lost, and reported me. I didn’t care. I wanted to work somewhere I didn’t have to fuck people over. I sent my resume out in great paper flurries, worked one bad job, then another, then two at once, realized everyone was fucking each other over all the time, kept at it anyway. Hell, I’m still here. I’m still working, a desk job now, something that doesn’t keep me up all night and gets the bills paid and at least keeps the damage I do at a manageable distance so I don’t have to think too hard about it. Some nights, though, the insomniac of that summer still comes out in me, a nightbird which spreads its wings when the sun goes down and urges me out of my house. I walk again, in the silvered moonlit blackness, listening for living things. I think if I throw myself out into the night, again and again, I might begin to see a way forward through the dark. “What is the difference between a cathedral and a physics lab? Are not they both saying: Hello? We spy on whales and on interstellar radio  objects; we starve ourselves and pray till we're  blue.”  —Annie Dillard, Teaching a Stone to Talk:  Expeditions and Encounters Whale If you are a child, you might find the world a perfectly comprehensible place.  Let’s say you are, because otherwise the suggestion is ludicrous.  Let’s say you are six years old, your shirt is sticky with strawberry ice cream and your parents have taken you to the natural history museum in order to demonstrate that you are not the only creature that has ever lived. Say you fall asleep in the car on the way there, and dream of a universe which exhales neon all over you. Say you are disappointed to wake up. You know what,  your parents probably don’t figure into this. Your parents know of the multiplicity of the natural world and don’t care much about it. They probably don’t think it is worth explaining to you, at your young and tender age.  It is much more likely you will have to figure this out for yourself. So let’s say you are six years old (but let’s leave out the ice cream, it’s too sticky), and say you go on a toddle down the street and happen to find your way into a natural history museum (say you have five dollars in your pocket from selling lemonade, or however it is that children earn their incomes). So you get to the ticket stand, your head rising just barely to the counter. You put your small hands on the plastic surface streaked gray to look like stone, and you look up into the tired eyes of the ticket-taker.  Say you say, I would like to learn about all the living things who have ever lived. How much does that cost? Say the woman behind the counter looks down at you over half-moon glasses and wonders who has lost their child. But say she is a good sort of human who has devoted her life to helping others find meaning in a dying world. So when you come dawdling into the museum in search of knowledge, something so simple, say she feels a stirring of camaraderie between herself and you, six years old, trying to make sense of your place in the order of things. So she comes out from behind the counter and takes your small hand in hers.  She says to you, we’ll start small and get bigger. How does that sound to you? Say you agree this sounds wonderful. It is your most tried and true strategy, to begin at the roots, closest to your eye level, and work your way up. So say the ticket-taker brings you first to the entomology wing, where opalescent beetles and fuzzy green moths and great long-legged spiders are pinned to slices of clean white paper. The invertebrates , says the ticket taker. The spineless ones. The phylum which has dominated the earth, although you won’t catch many people saying it.   Say you imagine yourself without bones, just a skin-bag of life-juice skittering across the ground in search of sustenance. So this is how most of the world lives, you think. You wish for a million billion creepy-crawly legs. You wish for an exoskeleton, jewel-bright and impenetrable. Then you are on to the fish, fins flashing phosphorescence through the dark of the water. Here is where the bones begin,  says the ticket-taker. Next are the terrariums, scaly loops of snakes and beaded lizards lazing in the warmth of false suns. And from there, say you walk to the hall of taxidermy, where a thousand birds fly through painted skies above fields of frozen megafauna, trapped in crystallized time, like amber, all feeling drained from their clear glass eyes as their bodies live out forever their most characteristic movements, one paw caught poised in midair, a tail swiping away a long-dead fly, all those heavy hooves which will never hit the ground. And then you have reached the final hall, the hall of the whale, where the great creature’s skeleton swims suspended from the ribbed vaults of the museum ceiling, and you look up through its long-fingered phantom fins to its vertebrae, fit together, the world’s puzzle solved and hung on iron wires, a kind of art enough to shift the bedrock of history, enough to make you think there must be some maker out there with a scalpel and opposable thumbs, or else one able to enact the simple magic of everything which calls itself different but arises from the same cosmic soup, even you, even the whale, its great beaked skull, its mouth which could inhale you like plankton and spit you out all fluorescent-glowing, its empty-socket eyes which watch you way down there, tiny feet on the museum floor, a brand new life form, a cosmic speck, yes, which is beginning to understand its place in the universe.

The first time Nicole encounters him, they are at a youth event, one of those big multi-church affairs, across several days. Nicole’s church is only here for one day, a volunteer afternoon, BBQ picnic, and concert. Her church’s volunteer contribution involves hauling junk, trash, brush, and leaves out of people’s yards, in a crumbling downtown neighborhood. So when Nicole arrives at the picnic, she’s still got a big old t-shirt on over her concert clothes and a pair of her mother’s gardening gloves scrunched up in her back pocket. Her arms are sore. Her purse is with a youth leader, locked in his car, so she can’t touch up her makeup. She’s scarfing down a couple of hot dogs, when a school friend taps her on the shoulder. “Hey!” the girl says, “Have you met Jonathan? You know, from my  church? You should talk! I think you’d get along.” Nicole turns to see she’s got this boy, this Jonathan, standing beside her, looking bored. Jonathan isn’t wearing work clothes. He’s wearing a Christian band t-shirt, a slouchy black sweater, and un-distressed jeans. He looks her over, evidently unimpressed. Nicole offers a hand, introduces herself. He barely returns her greeting, glancing back into his book, his fingers tucked between tented pages. “What are you reading?” she says, for lack of anything better to say. “You wouldn’t know it,” he says. Nicole already can’t imagine why anyone would think she and this boy would get along, but she tries again. “Well, try me. I know a lot of books.” He shows her the cover, rolling his eyes, with a can-I-go-now attitude. She barely gets a chance to read the title, only catches the author. He’s right, she hasn’t read it. Because it’s old. Really old. And boring. She excuses herself from the conversation, and he seems just as happy to be done with it as she is. So much for that, she thinks. But then, there he is again. This time, they’re at a youth retreat. One she didn’t expect him to be at. This time, it’s because someone wants to win an argument. A stupid theological argument. Something about forgiveness, and who does and does not get a chance at heaven.  On this issue, Nicole will not budge, and she’s not really interested in arguing about it. In fact, she’s been trying to leave this conversation for the better part of half an hour, by the time this boy, Jonathan, walks up. But the friend arguing with her refuses, absolutely refuses, to drop it, insisting that Nicole’s reluctance to judge, to condemn, is just as morally suspect as if she’d committed the sins in question herself. “That basically makes you a murderer , you know?” the girl says, “You know that, right?” “I’m sorry you think that,” Nicole says, and tries to leave it there. Grace means grace, Nicole thinks, whether you like it or not. Grace means grace, and grace is for everyone. Not just the people you like. That’s what Nicole’s Grandma always says, and Nicole loves her Grandma, trusts her, with a deep and ferocious loyalty.  Jonathan is here to tell her why that’s wrong. As if she should care. She tells him as much, right away, “Why should I care what you think?” “You never know,” he says, “you might learn something.” Nicole’s mouth snaps shut. For a moment, she can only seethe. But, she shouldn’t speak out of anger, she thinks. So she swallows her words, breathes in, collects herself. “I’m not even sure what your church’s theology is,” she says, voice full of forced calm, “I don’t know you. You’re certainly no better qualified than I am. Why should I want to learn anything from you?” That gets him. Really gets to him. Jabs right up under his skin, at something deep. Something she didn’t even know was there. He begins to rant. He rants and rants. Gets right up in her face, in the middle of a room full of other teenagers trying to carry on their own conversations. His voice rings in her ears, a fine mist of his spit, his contempt, dusting the powdery finish of her makeup.  She listens quietly, while he enumerates his pedigree. His father is a pastor, he says, and a venerable one, a truly great  teacher. So are both his grandfathers. It’s a family tradition. Something she  wouldn’t know anything about. Soon, he will be going away to seminary. And then he too will be a pastor. He’s been reading theology since the seventh grade, he says, not on his own, but with the guidance of “great leaders.” Like his father. He wants to know why she thinks her mere “thoughts” can compete with this kind of quality education. He wants to know why she thinks she can “logic” her way out of biblical authority. His biblical authority. Which is not just his, but his father’s and grandfathers’ before him. How lucky she is, to get an opportunity to benefit from so much learning, so many generations of wisdom. How foolish, to throw it all away in favor of her own, craven  will. He really uses that word, “craven.” She’s not convinced he knows what it means. “Are you done?” she says, when he finally peters out. “No,” he spits, but clearly he is done, because he spirals back through a few of his points before falling silent for a second time. Then, the punch, “What do your parents even do?” he says, “Because they’re not any Christian leaders I’ve ever heard of. And frankly, I think someone should talk to them about the kind of guidance they’re providing to their kids if they’re going around spouting off ideas like yours. ‘ No unforgivable sin,’ ” he repeats, the claim he finds so offensive. Adrenaline pumps through Nicole’s chest, lingering after his display of aggression and authority has ended. She should walk away, leave this conversation, walk right into the women’s bathroom, if that’s what she has to do to end the argument, but he’s got her hackles up now. Nicole’s Grandma is a recovering addict, an AA Mentor, a respected church member, who volunteers for anything and everything, especially if it will put her in contact with the kind of women, the kind of people, this boy seems to most resent. Inconvenient people, difficult people, down-on-their luck people. People like Nicole’s Grandma. People like Nicole, who have issues, who have made mistakes, and who know they will keep on making mistakes, and needing grace, probably for the rest of their lives. Sometimes, Nicole thinks, her Grandma’s grace is not the grace of this church, or any church, at all. But something more akin to love. Unconditional, empathetic, whole with the understanding of having walked the same paths, worn the same shoes. Not that her Grandma would ever agree. When Nicole has complained, in the past, about people like this boy, their dogmatism, their strident, arrogant Christianity, Nicole’s Grandma has been firm, unbending. ‘Oh, Nicole,’ she says, ‘Jesus doesn’t care about any of that! Ignore all that crap. Focus on Jesus. Focus on his grace. It's the only thing that matters.’ Nicole wants to get up in this boy’s face, ask him if he’s ever really had to seek forgiveness for something, if he knows what it’s like to really need grace, the kind her Grandma talks about. The kind that actually matters. Instead, she says, “Show me in the book, then.” “What?” “Show me where it says that in the book.” She pulls a Bible from her bag and holds it out to him. He sneers at the NIV on the cover. She rolls her eyes. “You can use your own Bible if you want. Show me where it says any of that? Chapter and verse.” He sputters. Takes the Bible and looks at it. Then shoves it back at her. “You expect me to provide citations? To a verbal conversation? Is that it? Look up my father’s sermons on the subject and you’ll get all the chapters and verses you need. You’ll see that I’m right.” She flips through the book, finds a verse, clears her throat, “Luke 6:37. Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.” She flips forward. “Romans 2:1 …for at whatever point you judge another, you are condemning yourself…” He scoffs, “Well of course. But there have to be limits.” “Tell me,” she says, “tell me where in the book it says there are limits.”  “So what, you think people should just be able to do whatever they want ,” his tone is mocking, “and then come to God and no matter what it was, it all goes away and we all just have to welcome them  into our community?” “No,” she says, “I don’t think that. But I’m not God. I don’t think it’s my place to decide who’s forgiven and who isn’t. Do you?” “I’m done with this,” he says, “This conversation is a waste of my time.” And with that, he turns on his heel, and marches out of the room.  With a shrug, Nicole returns her Bible to her bag. That’s enough of that for one lifetime, she thinks. She tries to walk away, but a friend trails after her, down the hall. “I really think you should think about what he said… I mean, his dad is my pastor, and he’s a really smart guy, and…” “Why is excluding people so important to you?” “What? I’m not… I’m just…” “What? You just think some people  don’t get the same forgiveness you do? Because some guy at some pulpit said so? I don’t care who he is. He’s human. He’s fallible .”  “That’s so disrespectful! He’s a rightful authority. You can’t… That is so wrong ! I’m going to tell one of the leaders you said that!” Next thing Nicole knows, she’s being hustled into a corner of the retreat space, to sit with one of the female small group leaders and two male pastors. They quiz her about her ideas, ask her if she knows what it means to have a “rebellious heart.” The female leader tells Nicole she thinks it’s important for “us women” to remember that we don’t have biblical headship over male religious authorities.  Nicole says that’s fine, this pastor is not a pastor in her church and as far as she can tell, no one believes in following anything any random pastor says, just because they’re someone else’s pastor. The woman tells her that’s true, but she feels it's a bit different when that pastor is part of the same spiritual “conference,” and that, regardless, it’s important to be polite. Nicole says she’ll keep it in mind, and they let her go.  The following morning, Jonathan stares daggers at her across the room. But he doesn’t move to speak with her. And, for the last day or so of the retreat, she manages to avoid him entirely.  They’re a lot older, next time. The final time.  It’s been years since Nicole last attended a youth or young-adults group. Though, for the sake of Nicole’s Grandma, and her fervent, no-nonsense faith, she’s tried to continue attending church. She’s not at church, or even a church event, this time. Instead, she’s standing in the entryway of her friend’s parents’ house, waiting while her friend tugs on shoes and a jacket, then searches the entire house for her purse, so they can rush out the door together. He, Jonathan, arrives with a guitar case in tow, a friend of her friend’s older brother. They’re in a band together, it turns out. Some kind of Christian rock group. They eye each other warily.  “Hey,” he says, “Nicole, right? Still got a lot of strong opinions?” “You’d probably think so,” she says. He laughs. “Did you ever check out my dad’s sermon?” “No.” “Pity,” he says, “he’s a good speaker.” “I’m sure he is.” “You should catch a service at our church sometime,” he says, “hear him speak in person. Or me. I’m preaching at the church now, first Sunday of every month.” This is why he’s talking to her, she realizes. He wants to make sure she knows about this. Who he is now. Who he is becoming. How he has walked in the well-worn tracks of his forefathers, taken on their mantle, as if it were his own. “That’s nice.” “You should come by sometime,” he says, “Who knows? You might like it.” He turns to go. Tosses the last line over his shoulder like he’s been harbouring it, holding it close, all these years. “Might even learn something!” Unsure of what to say, Nicole says nothing. Pulls out her phone and stares at it, as if anything were happening on the quiet screen. And then her friend is ready. And she leaves. Emily Strempler (she/her) is a queer, German-Canadian, ex-fundamentalist writer of inconvenient fiction. Raised in a deeply conservative prairie community, she married at eighteen before leaving the church and moving out west. Her work can be found in numerous publications, including Broken Pencil, The Bitchin' Kitsch, and Agnes & True.

As we enter the barn, I prepare myself to be hit by a stench, but I’m greeted by the aroma of a bakery. The interior shouts success. It’s spotless and bright like a cloning facility. Large screens scroll commodity prices and flash Cake Cattle — The Sweetest Investment in Agri-tech.  Might make a good headline for my article.  I remove my notepad and ballpoint pen from my shirt pocket as Wilkins leads me to the first stall where a brown steer munches at a trough. “Our best-seller,” he says. “What do they eat?” He scoops his hand through the feed and lets it trickle through his fingers. “This is the maintenance diet — a proprietary blend of grain, sugar, and flour.” The animal looks normal but feels spongy when I press my finger into its side.  As Wilkins cuts a small chunk from the neck, I wince, and the beast snorts. I hesitate when Wilkins hands me the morsel. Seems strange to be eating something that’s looking at me. I take a breath and put the sample in my mouth.  “Rich and moist — good chocolate cake.” I scratch the steer’s forehead. “Sorry, buddy.” I nod to a calf in the next stall. Its hide is a patchwork of cowhide and what appears to be frosting. “That one —”  “Is about halfway through its transition.”  “Walk me through the process, Mr. Wilkins. Not too technical though. Our readers have short attention spans.” Wilkins explains how calves, at birth, start on nano-bot feed that modifies their genetic structure.  … their genetic structure , I scribble.  “By the time they’re yearlings,” Wilkins says, “beef flesh has become cake. And trust me, the market’s devouring it—our quarterly returns have never been better.” … never been better. I   look up and shake my head. Wilkins leans close. “I don’t understand all the ins and outs, but it’s a great way to diversify my herd.” He snaps off a horn from the chocolate cake cow. The steer stamps its hoof.  “That doesn’t hurt?”  He takes a bite of the horn. “Marzipan. It’ll grow back. And they’re more profitable. Regular steers are a one-off, but cake cattle are productive for five years.”  “Some people think it’s cruel to turn cattle into walking birthday treats.” Wilkins shrugs as if he’s heard it all before. “No worse than being walking sirloins and roasts.”  His words bite more than I think he intends. As bad as being  … I write, then tuck my pad in my shirt pocket.  “Now, let’s take a look at those pig pies,” Wilkins says. “You’re going to love the cherry.” I tell him I’ve had my fill. David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois. His work has been selected for Best Microfictions 2025, nominated for four Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net, and two Best Small Fictions. His writings have appeared in various journals including Roi Fainéant Press, Ghost Parachute, Bright Flash Literary Journal, Moonpark Review, Maudlin House, and Literally Stories. His website is  http://writings217.wordpress.com . His Twitter is @annalou8 .

Mountain Lion Trail  It was quiet that morning in the woods – gravel crunching, light casting  hand puppet shadows on the ground through the leaves.   We watched for the cats and kept the dog close, jumping at broken sticks  and pawprints in mud crevices.  You stopped suddenly a hand out to signal.  No predators but a Mama Turkey and her chicks bumbling through the brush. A silent harmony of bobbing necks.  We intertwined our fingers, crook of a knuckle wrapped round. A hand on the dog as she watched with us, waited for them to brave  the open.  Looking for safety wherever they were going.  Like fools. Like us.  Wearing Red Lipstick is Romantic  Even when it’s not quite the right shade  smears streaks on my teeth, licked clean.  Even when bleeding outside its penciled  lines like ink pooling on soft tissue paper or seeping deep into cracked-lip crevices or half-left on glass rims, shining spoons, red puckered rings like a signet marking  the places I’ve wrapped my mouth round. Rushing to the bathroom to check it’s still in place, not giving a reason for someone to laugh at my brazenness, my unblushing   belief that I am the crimson-soaked darling.  Even with unplucked hairs and dull teeth glaring back beneath unforgiving lighting. Still, when whispering goodbye at night – hair tousled, hand on appled cheeks, smile smudged and swollen, clear I’ve been kissed.  Sleeping on the Floor in Summer Take the crook of my elbow its dimpled meadow for my veins and your thumbprint hook held close to me back to the summer we discovered the blustering  bites of fire ants and lightning bugs in mason jars against the moth-ball perfume dusk the playing deck cards  sticky from too many  fizzed ginger ales exploding their whiskey-tinged liquid on folding tables in that back patio room  where the sun beat through the screens in mesh constellations  and the concrete floor relieved us of the heat our cheek bones growing  numb against the cool cement the fans whipping  the air so thick  you could pull it over you  at night.  College Girls  The college girls at the gym  lift heavy weights while I did hours of cardio  until the screen recorded an arbitrary  number of calories burned  then drank those back in vodka that night.  How wonderful – maybe girls don’t spend years  wishing themselves smaller like I did.  But in the sauna they talk about  how they long for a natural ass, one they don’t have to work for. It sounds so much like my 13-year-old self  that I understand girls are still craving and hating  even when they are perfect when they have no idea how beautiful  they’ll find these bodies when they’re 31 looking at pictures whiplashed by the sudden sadness  that they didn’t appreciate themselves.  I used to feel so close to a college girl like I could still be their friend.  Now I feel more like their mother thinking of leaning over to say  they’ll long for their current figures  one day but also  they’ll realize how little they matter.   Haley DiRenzo is a writer, poet, and practicing attorney specializing in eviction defense. Her poetry and prose have appeared in BULL , Epistemic Literary , Eunoia Review , and The Winged Moon Literary Magazine , among others. She is on BlueSky at @ haleydirenzo.bsky.social  and lives in Colorado with her husband and dog.

Perception “You need to give me some warning next time so I don’t laugh,” I say as we exit the elevator, but you tell me I’ll catch on with practice. I wonder if you do this with all the girls you hang out with: wait for a stranger to enter then look me in the eyes, slick your hair back, and start on a story about how grandma called and they’ll have to amputate. Your lips and tone are even.  You’ve rehearsed this. I was never good at improv but I try to play along  because I don’t want you to think  I’m not fun and spontaneous. The receptionist at the next hotel doesn’t know what to do with us  after placing two water bottles on the counter and you telling him,  “she keeps telling me I need to hydrate more.” He looks at us one at a time, stern-faced, and says, “I know better than to get involved,” as though we’re an old married couple and not a couple of thirty-somethings with reservations in separate rooms because when we booked this trip you had a girlfriend and we had a budget to fill.  Two days later, at lunch,  our server apologizes for the wait, then says, “Though it looks like  you’re enjoying each other’s company,” and you say, “we are,” before sipping your iced tea, and I know she knows there is something lingering under the surface. Just like the rental car associate  who asked if we were married but gave us  the same rate anyway.  Just like the hiker we passed at Pinnacles who offered to take our picture and said, “gorgeous” after each shot. You’re surprised when I tell you I have feelings.  You say you don’t often think about how other people perceive you or the things you say, but when I ask if you noticed vibes, you say we have a “connection,” as if the two can’t be synonymous,  as if it isn’t obvious to everyone except you.  Same Frequency    In Monterey, we swap stories from our senior proms. I tell about my friend giving the DJ a mix CD featuring “Keasbey Nights,” and all the kids who stayed until the end formed a circular skank pit and danced.  You’re familiar with ska, but not skanking, so the next morning I demonstrate in my hotel room, kicking my feet and swinging my arms. You’re entertained, but say you hate that it’s called skanking .  You sit in the desk chair, never moving closer, though I want you to.  My friends have always told me I’m too innocent, and maybe your hesitation puts me in good company.  A couple days later,  driving through Soledad and sienna mountains,  “Rude” by Magic! plays in static bursts  on the one radio station we can find not broadcasting church sermons on Sunday.  It’s catchy. I sing along.  You say you hate the lyrics,  that the fictional character in the song is the rude one, marrying his girl anyway after her dad says no . I pause before twisting the radio dial. I used to be attracted to guys who liked the same music as me, but now I’m noticing all the more important layers, appearing in static bursts like one-second clips of familiar songs I’d almost forgotten the words to, while scrolling through the FM band.  What No One Tells You About Living on Your Own After a Breakup How you won’t miss the person you lived with,  but you’ll miss having someone  to help zip up your dress, clean the snow off your car, listen to you vent after a stressful day, celebrate when you get a poem published.  How you’ll eat and sleep better, keep a cleaner house, learn to mow the lawn, man the grill,  find time to work out and get the body you wish you had when there was someone to share it with.  How you might prefer the solitude.  Chelsea Dodds lives in Connecticut and holds an MFA in fiction from Southern Connecticut State University. Her writing has recently been published in The Forge, Maudlin House, Rejection Letters, and Poetry Super Highway. When not writing, Chelsea can usually be found hiking, practicing yoga, or planning her next road trip. You can read more of her work at chelseadodds.com .

A man squeezes into the middle seat beside me. ‘Could they make these seats any smaller?’ he puffs. I don’t answer, pressing my face against the window as drizzle weeps onto the tarmac.  ‘I wasn’t always this big,’ he says. ‘It’s the meds.’ I sneak a glance. He’s stretching the seat belt over his stomach, sweat beading on his brow. On the seat next to him, there’s a black instrument case, buckled up and ready to go. From its shape, it has to be a banjo. I shudder and want to ask him why the hell he didn’t put the thing in the hold. But I don’t want to strike up a conversation with him in case he thinks I’m being friendly. I close my eyes and hope for sleep.  Two hours into the flight, I’m woken by turbulence making the plane pitch and keel through an ocean of air.  ‘I’m terrified of flying,’ my neighbour says. I want to tell him not to worry because plane crashes are more efficient than car crashes. No chance he’ll wake up from a coma to discover he’s the sole survivor. But instead I tell him I’m scared of banjos. An encounter with a banjo-playing nun when I was a little girl.  He laughs. ‘So we’re both making progress.’ ‘Are we?’ ‘Yes. I’m taking my first flight in decades and you’re within reaching distance of a banjo.’ The plane lurches and my stomach with it. ‘What are you doing here if you’re so scared of flying?’  My bluntness stuns him momentarily. ‘I’m going to see my son. I’m bequeathing him this fella.’ He strokes the neck of the case.  ‘Bequeathing….’ I echo. ‘Yes.’ We go back to silence. But it’s different now. Conspiratorial. After we land, I stretch on my tiptoes to reach the bag containing the ashes of my husband and daughter from the overhead compartment.  ‘Allow me,’ he says.  ‘Thanks.’ He hands me the bag. ‘That’s heavier than it looks!’  I want to say it’s not heavy enough. That two lives should weigh more than this. But then I’d have to tell him everything. So I just nod and smile. I see him one last time in the arrivals hall, banjo slung over his shoulder. He’s waiting for someone. His son, I guess. I give a half-wave. He waves back. Then I walk towards the sliding doors. Eleanor Luke lives in Spain with her husband, one teenager, another tweenager, and a small menagerie. Her stories have appeared in The Birdseed, FreeFlashFiction, FlashFlood, Retreat West. Longlist Reflex flash fiction. Top ten Oxford Flash Fiction Prize 2022, shortlist Welkin Mini 2024. When not writing, Eleanor can be found eavesdropping on other people’s conversations.

Content Warning: Sexual Assault In bed with your eyes closed you’d run your right thumb across your left cheek, sweeping it gently under your eye out toward the temple, followed then by your fingertips, which would cradle your jawbone and pull it slowly forward, your lips parting. The boy you pictured would tilt his head, brown hair falling down over his eyes as he opened his mouth and met yours. Then you’d roll over and mush your face around into the pillow, but by that point, it all felt particularly desperate.   You were the only one who hadn’t been kissed. You weren’t blonde and funny, or thin and sporty. You got zits each month before your period and you were pale, your flesh soft and mushy, your hair a boring, flat brown. You’d tried kissing Lisa Trimble once when you slept over at her house, but it didn’t feel much different than the pillow. She made you swear not to tell, which was an easy promise to keep because people calling you a lesbian was definitely not going to help your cause.  By the time it finally happened, everyone else was already having sex, moving through life as though they were part of some glamorous club. You’d spent an entire summer throwing yourself at a guitar-playing boy who’d had sex with a lot of girls, and it was all pretty pathetic because he clearly wasn’t into you, but finally relented on a night when he was drunk and stoned and bored enough. You wanted to feel magic, but he just seemed bored. There was no tender cupping of your cheeks or pulling you in close, and there would be no phone calls or dates, but rather jokes with the guys about how he finally put you out of your misery—you were smart enough to know how all that worked.  At least you were able to arrive at college a little less than completely chaste and be around people who were a little less judgy, all of which combined to make you begin to feel a little less unappealing. There was a boy who kissed you one Thursday night in your dorm hallway, telling you to tune in during his next DJ shift for the school's radio station, and you smiled when he dedicated “Ziggy Stardust” to “a certain special woman”. There was the art major you met in Shakespeare class who invited you to the brightly lit, high-ceilinged concrete studio to sit on a metal stool and watch him paint, pausing every 20 minutes or so to  stand between your legs and kiss your neck and collarbone as you inhaled the smell of acrylic and turpentine. It was all finally happening for you.  And then on your birthday at a bar to which you’d gained entry by smiling like the girl on your fake ID, your roommate’s long-haired ex-boyfriend appeared with his ripped jeans, leather jacket, and shit-eating grin, buying you shot after shot until he must have decided you were good and ready, inviting you to come smoke weed in his apartment above the bar, and you thought that sounded like something a hot, fun girl would do, so you stumbled up the stairs behind him, laughing as you tripped over the landing, and he pulled you up and into the bathroom which was weird because there wasn’t any weed there and it was so small and tight and he was so tall and was moving his mouth all over your chest and saying how he’d always wished it was you he’d been dating and that felt bad because he was supposed to have loved your roommate, and then he was setting you up onto the tiny counter as though you were as light as a doll and that felt good because you’d never felt like someone who could be picked up, and then he was having sex with you and wait a minute you didn’t want to be doing that, and you were telling him no but he was laughing and just kept saying not to worry, but you weren’t looking for him to make you feel okay about it, you were looking for him to stop, and you were falling off the counter and being pressed up against the wall, and then he was telling you happy birthday and zipping up, pulling you by the hand back down to the bar where he moved away from you pretty quickly, and you stood watching while he smiled and laughed, patting people on the back as he sipped his beer, and that night in bed alone you curled into a ball, pushed your face into your pillow and thought about that little girl, tucked safely under her sheets, eyes closed and dreaming about finally getting to be a part of this world.  Amy Allen has had poetry and fiction published in a variety of literary journals, and her poetry chapbook, Mountain Offerings, was released in April of 2024. She lives in Shelburne, Vermont, where she is thankful to be surrounded by mountains, water and wildlife, and she owns All of the Write Words, a freelance writing/editing business. Amy currently serves as her town’s Poet Laureate, a position that includes outreach work with local schools and organizations.

Cara made it to the railing first, a few seconds ahead of Brooke. Although her lungs felt like they were going to explode, Cara did her best to breathe evenly, to make sure everyone knew that she could have run up all those stairs faster than that if she wanted, it wasn’t even hard. The two sisters leaned on the cold metal rail and blinked at the cavern below, trying to spot bats or other cave creatures. Nothing moved other than a few trickles of water.  In time, Mr. and Mrs. Trudeau joined, not bothering to hide the fact they were gasping for air. Mr. Trudeau sat on a small bench next to the rail and coughed at his shoes. It echoed back to them a half second later. “Ha!” Cara shouted. Ha , the cavern replied. Brooke said, “Hello!” and waited for the sound to bounce back. It didn’t. Cara gave it another try. “Hello, cave!” The cave returned her greeting. Brooke frowned. “This is stupid,” Brooke said, loud. She pretended not to listen for an echo, but her scowl deepened in the silence. Fifteen minutes and a few pictures later, they all left together. When they arrived at the SUV, Mrs. Trudeau said, “What did you think? Did you guys like it?” “Yeah!” Cara saw her sister’s face and said, “But why didn’t Brooke’s voice echo like ours did?” “That kind of stuff never works for me,” muttered Brooke. “Physics,” Mrs. Trudeau said. “Some pitches just don’t echo. Or, I guess, you just can’t hear them. Like a duck! Did you know that you can’t hear a duck’s quack echo?” Brooke said, “I’m not a duck.” Mrs. Trudeau rummaged through the plastic bag of snacks, looking for something or other. She said, “Of course, you aren’t a duck. You’re our beautiful butterfly.” Mr. Trudeau said, “OK, let’s get going. We need to check into the hotel and hunt down some dinner.” # “Cara!” Mrs. Trudeau stomped down the hallway, late in the morning. “I told you to get up. I’m not going to tell you again.” Brooke always woke early. She stayed quiet in her small dark little room waiting for her sister to drag herself out of her own room across the hall. Brooke lay on her side and watched Mrs. Trudeau open Cara’s door and turn on the lights. Cara muttered something meaningless, thrashing the bedcovers. Her feet hit the floor with a thump. “Get moving, young lady.” Mrs. Trudeau walked away. “Good morning,” Brooke said to the disheveled lump moving into the hallway. Cara had taken her blanket and wrapped it around herself. “Can we play soccer today?” Cara squinted and nodded. “Mm hm. Yeah.” “Yay!” Brooke threw aside her sheets, hopped from her bed and yanked open her dresser. “Where are my blue shorts?” Cara shivered and pulled her blanket closer. She yawned. “Are you going to ask Mom and Dad to join a team this summer?” Brooke closed the drawers in the dresser and moved to her closet. “I think so.” She kicked aside a pile of clothes. Dust stirred, wafting into the air. “I think they’ll say yes,” Brooke said between sneezes. “They said I could play if I practiced enough.” Cara yawned again. “You should be on a team. You’re good.” “Cara, put that back.” Mrs. Trudeau had returned, carrying a basket full of laundry. “You know you need to make your bed on the weekends.” Cara pulled her blanket up to her chin. “I don’t see why I have to make it at all.” “Because you do,” Mrs. Trudeau said. “It’s as simple as that. Please stop arguing with me.” She set the laundry inside Cara’s room. Cara made eye contact with Brooke and rolled her eyes in an exaggerated motion, crossed them, and stuck out her tongue. Brooke laughed behind her hands and looked back at her own bed. It was already made, even though Brooke couldn’t remember making it. The covers were pulled tight and smooth. # “Do you think I’m imaginary?” Cara opened her eyes. She had nearly fallen asleep and it took a few seconds to realize she was in bed and her sister was talking to her. A gap in the curtains let in enough light to illuminate Brooke, propped up on her elbow facing Cara. Cara said, “You can’t be imaginary. That’s for make-believe. Like, you could pretend you have a giant talking panda as a friend, but it wouldn’t be real. You’re real.” “Are you sure?” Brooke looked at her hand, spreading her fingers. “Nothing works for me.” “What do you mean?” “The hand dryer didn’t turn on in that bathroom. The grocery store door doesn’t always open for me. My echo doesn’t work.” Brooke picked at a thread in the blanket. “Maybe I’m not real.” “That’s dumb. You’re real.” Cara closed her eyes. “I’m going back to sleep.” # Flat noodles with butter and mountains of parmesan sat waiting for dinner. Cara’s favorite. She made it halfway through a second plate before realizing Brooke hadn’t eaten yet. “Hey, mom? Can we do cereal tomorrow night?” Cereal was Brooke’s favorite. They never ate it for dinner because cereal was for breakfast. Mrs. Trudeau was refilling her glass with water. “Cereal is for breakfast,” she said. Brooke gave a small nod. Maybe as a thanks to Cara, maybe just to say, I knew that. “Just once?” Cara said. “Maybe.” Mrs. Trudeau scooped a spoonful of steamed vegetables onto Cara’s plate. “If you both finish your zucchini, I’ll think about it.” Cara didn’t like zucchini and her mother knew that. Well, too bad, she was going to eat every bite. Cara put two pieces into her mouth and chewed with a grimace. “Thanks, mom.” Mrs. Trudeau gave her a hug from behind. “You’re stubborn but I do love you.” She kissed the top of Cara’s head. Brooke’s eyes were boring into Cara’s. “Don’t you want to hug Brooke?” Mrs. Trudeau stopped, halfway back into her chair. She stood. “Of course I do.” She approached Brooke from the side and hugged Brooke with one arm. One quick squeeze and Mrs. Trudeau sat down, smiling. Brooke stabbed a noodle and tried to twirl it around her fork. Mrs. Trudeau said, “Cereal for dinner! Aren’t we fancy?” Mr. Trudeau said, “Eat your vegetables, now.” # “I need these markers.” Mrs. Trudeau squinted at her phone. “Markers aren’t on the list.” “No, but I need these.” Cara held the package of sparkly gel pens out for Brooke to admire. Her face made an expression that said, help me out here . Brooke took the pens. She said, “They’ll help Cara write better.” Cara’s expression scrunched into irritation. She grabbed the package back and set them down. “Never mind.” Brooke rubbed her finger where the plastic edge had scraped it when her sister pulled the package out of her hands. “When do I go to school?” “Hey, yeah,” Cara said. “She’s supposed to start going this year.” Mrs. Trudeau sighed and pushed her grocery cart down the aisle. “Next year.” Brooke ran her fingers along the school supplies. “That’s what you said last year.” “Next year.” Mrs. Trudeau wrestled the cart around the corner. “Let’s go find you guys some ice cream!” # “That’s enough sugar.” Mr. Trudeau took the shaker from Cara’s hand and poured a healthy stream into his coffee. Cara stirred her oatmeal and spooned a glob into her mouth. While she chewed she said, “I met someone named Cassidy yesterday.” Brooke said, “I didn’t meet anyone yesterday.” Mr. Trudeau sipped his coffee. “Who is that?” “She was picking up this boy Graham from school. She said she used to babysit us.” Mrs. Trudeau dropped the cup she was rinsing into the sink. “Cassidy Ruth from Fort Collins?” “I guess so. She said her family just moved here and she recognized my name from when I was a kid. She asked about Brooke.” “She knows me?” Brooke sat up straighter and smiled. “I don’t remember her. What does she look like?” “You two were very little,” Mrs. Trudeau said. She locked eyes with Mr. Trudeau. “How lucky someone like that ended up close to us even after we moved so far away.” Mr. Trudeau downed his coffee. “You know what? I have some time later today, I’ll come pick you up after school. Speaking of, it’s past time you headed out.” Cara looked at the clock and gasped. She ran to the door and heaved her backpack into place. Mrs. Trudeau said, “Have so much fun today!” Mr. Trudeau said, "Don’t miss the bus.” # “Mom?” Brooke looked through the fridge, found nothing. She wandered the house for a bit. “Mom? Can I play on my phone? I’m bored.” The door to her parents’ room was closed. Brooke tried the knob. Locked. She went back to the living room where her phone lay dark on the end table. “I’m going to play for just a little bit, if that’s OK.” A lack of an answer was as good as a yes. Brooke tapped the side button and the screen lit up, asking to be pointed at her face. Brooke held the phone out and held it directly in front of her. The phone waited a moment and then dimmed again. Brooke tapped the phone back to life and failed once more to get it to recognize her face. She tapped in her backup code, but the phone refused to acknowledge her efforts and the numbers on the screen didn’t react. The phone dimmed again. “Mom?” Faint music drifted in from the closed bedroom door. The sort of music Mrs. Trudeau liked to play while she dozed in the bathtub. Brooke went back to her own bedroom, sat on her bed, and waited for her sister to come home. # “Cara? Are you OK?” Cara nodded but didn’t look up from the floor. She removed her shoes and walked to her room without saying a word, her face drained of color. Brooke picked up Cara’s backpack where she had dropped it by the front door. She hung it up before Mrs. Trudeau could see it and make a fuss. Then she put Cara’s shoes on the shoe rack. Mr. Trudeau came home later, making loud whooping sounds about the danged heat out there. He filled a glass with ice water and flopped onto the couch. Cara emerged from her room. Her face had regained some color, but she still looked unhappy. “Hey girlie,” Mr. Trudeau said, crunching on an ice cube. He hadn’t said hi to Brooke, who was already sitting in the living room and had been for some time. Mrs. Trudeau came in from the backyard, hair plastered on her face. She pulled off her gardening gloves and scrubbed her hands at the kitchen sink. Cara sat next to Mr. Trudeau and squeezed him in a tight embrace. He smiled, then frowned. He said, “You doing OK?” Cara released him and pulled a pillow into her lap. Her chest heaved with each breath. She looked up at Brooke. “Vee’s brother is sick.” “Who is Vee?” Mr. Trudeau asked. Mrs. Trudeau entered the living room, drying her hands. “Vee is a boy in Cara’s class,” she said. “He’s my friend,” Cara said. “His brother is sick. He’s worried he’s going to die.” Mr. Trudeau took a gulp of water. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I’m sorry, muffin. What’s wrong with him?” Cara was still looking at Brooke. Her eyes shimmered. “Did something happen to Brooke? I can’t remember. I always get so close to remembering.” Now they were all looking at Brooke. Water dripped onto the couch, from the glass in Mr. Trudeau’s hand, from Cara’s eyes.  Brooke gripped the arm of the couch. “Is something wrong with me? Did I get sick?” Mrs. Trudeau ran an arm over her face. She said, “Nothing’s wrong with you. Cara, you stop that.” “But why?” Cara choked out her words. “It’s so hard to pretend sometimes.” “I’m sorry about your friend but Brooke is fine, and we are not talking about this,” Mrs. Trudeau snapped. Cara buried her face in her hands. Mrs. Trudeau said, “Now. Do you need help with any homework this evening?” Mr. Trudeau watched the glass sweat in his hand and said nothing at all.