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On September 26th, 1687, a Venetian mortar round fired from the Hill of Philopappos hit the Parthenon in Athens, Greece. This caused the gunpowder stored inside by the Ottoman-Turks to ignite and demolished a majority of the ancient structure. Sylvie wasn’t exactly sure why this perfectly useless information ran through her head as she stared down Ms. Carole Burns. Thick burgundy eyeglasses reflected back at her, showing the white of a glistening iMac screen that separated the blazer-clad editorial assistant from herself. Sylvia was sitting in her own blazer, albeit hers was much cheaper (it was Amazon-bought) than the nicely patterned maroon one that Ms. Burns wore. Carole? No—Sylvie had made it to the second round of interviews, but she didn’t think that meant she was on a first-name basis. Though, Ms. Burns had called her Sylvia. “Hi, Sylvia,” she had said, warmly, shaking her hand moments prior—but it was better safe than sorry. Wait—Carole/Ms. Burns had asked her a question. “So, why are you interested in working for Loom House Publishing?” The Parthenon had been a casualty of the Siege of the Acropolis, an event that occurred during the Morean War. It was also called the Sixth Ottoman-Venetian War, which itself was a part of a wider conflict called the “Great Turkish War,” fought between the Republic of Venice and the Ottoman Empire from 1684 to 1699. Sylvie tried hard not to look like a fish, or a cow, or any animal that wasn’t a very intelligent human person who really wanted to land this job. “I’m familiar with many of Loom House’s publications,” she said, and was relieved that she didn’t stutter this time. “I read The Weeping Sky by E. B. Gardner over the summer, and I really enjoyed it. I want to help publish more books like that.” Ms. Burns nodded absently and typed something up out of Sylvie’s view. Sylvie pressed her lips into a smile—a smile, not a grimace—and waited (im)patiently for the next question. “Oh, I love that book. It’s great to hear you know about our branch in London, and their publications.” Ms. Burns finally flicked her eyes away from the screen, smiling again. Sylvie felt her stomach drop—she hadn’t known The Weeping Sky had been published by their London branch. Did she mess up? Why was Ms. Burns still smiling? “Yes. I’ve never been to London,” Sylvie chuckled politely. “I hope to visit someday.” She was dangerously off topic. She needed Ms. Burns to redirect the conversation back to the job that Sylvie was applying for. Please. Pretty please. After a few more clicks of French-manicured nails on the keyboard, Ms. Burns looked at her again. Sylvie readied herself. “Of course. So, why do you think you’re a good fit for the…” a patient pause as Ms. Burns read something on her iMac, “adult trade editorial intern position?” Otto Wilhelm Königsmarck had led the Venetian forces in besieging the Acropolis of Athens, which had been peacefully occupied by the Ottoman-Turks since the fifteenth century. Sylvie didn’t know who had led the Ottoman party during the defense…but that hadn’t been assigned for her humanities class. Which she had taken three years ago. No—all she could think about was the Parthenon and its white marble pillars, and the gunpowder detonating inside. Had the Venetians been to blame, or the Ottomans? “Well, I interned for the Felicity Harburrow Literary Agency when I was a sophomore at Beverley University,” said Sylvie. She did her best to keep eye-contact with Ms. Burns, but she also remembered to blink. Blink, blink. “I really enjoyed my time there. I learned a lot about how to read through slush piles,” that was a keyword, “and agent-author correspondences.” That earned another smile from Ms. Burns. Sylvie had been playing the Felicity Harburrow card for four years now, as she had continued to use it even after she graduated. She’d been lucky to get it in the first place—her mom’s friend from college worked there and had gotten her the job. It hadn’t been the only publishing company she’d ever interned for, but it was the one that had the biggest name. It was the first entry she listed on her résumé ever since. There was a piece of white modern art above Ms. Burns’s head, framed on either side by cases of books published by Loom House. It was marbled, like real marble, and Sylvie’s thoughts once again turned to the Parthenon. And marble debris. Jesus fucking Christ, this isn’t the time, thought Sylvie. Her face must have twisted, because the smile Ms. Burns’s face quickly faded away, and she silently read something else on her iMac. “That’s great to hear,” Ms. Burns finally said, lacing her hands together on the desk in front of her. “So…what do you think your greatest strengths are?” Prior to its destruction, the Parthenon had been converted into a mosque by the Ottomans, though much of its original sculptures and reliefs had remained. It could be argued that the Ottomans even improved the structure, constructing a tower and removing the Christian imagery that had remained since the sixth century. Sylvie stalled. “Excuse me?” Ms. Burns smiled kindly. Or coldly? Either way, she repeated, slower this time, “What are your greatest strengths?” Oh, that was an easy one. Regardless of whether or not she believed it, Sylvie recited, “I’m very passionate about my interests. I crochet a lot, which taught me to be very organized and to manage my time wisely.” So on and so forth, question after question, and Sylvie did her best to fend off the disruptive thoughts about the Parthenon in 1687. But as each question was asked, and as Sylvie answered, she felt her frustration gaining steadily. Though she thought it was mostly due to herself for her failures, she couldn’t help but feel the monotony of the situation she was in. She’d been here many times before. Ms. Burns’s velvety-colored lip gloss cracked as she smiled this time. “So, do you have any final questions for me?” she asked. “Yes,” said Sylvie, her mind suddenly clear. The question had nagged at her all the way up the office building’s stainless-steel elevator: they hadn’t listed any compensation alongside the job description on Loom House’s website. It might be reckless to ask about it as her first question, but she felt unusually daring right now. Somewhere from within the conglomerate of pressure at the back of Sylvie’s mind, she saw the pale specter of unpaid rent notices sitting on her paint-chipped kitchen table, and the mass of red numbers following a dollar sign at the bottom of a hastily filled spreadsheet. “Is there any compensation for this internship?” she asked. Ms. Burns had been looking at her iMac, but at Sylvie’s query her gaze darted back to her. Sylvie couldn’t help but think that the burgundy glasses made her eyes look wider than they were. “I’m sorry, what did you say? I didn’t catch that.” When the mortar shell fired by the Venetians hit the Parthenon with a “miraculous shot” on September 26th, three hundred people are claimed to have died in the resulting destruction. The roof of the structure was said to have fallen on some, while others died from their wounds, unable to receive medical care due to lack of supplies from the Venetian’s besieging. Sylvie felt shaky—her hands were cold and clammy in her lap. “Will there be any, uh, compensation for the internship?” she repeated. Ms. Burns perked up. “Oh! We do offer college credit, if you’re currently enrolled at an institution. We would just need to see your academic transcript.” Sylvie scrunched up her eyebrows, trying to look pitiful. Something turned over in her gut as she did so. “Unfortunately, I’m not a student right now. Will there be any…um, financial compensation?” Ms. Burns mimicked her expression, scrunching up her own eyebrows and tilting her well-groomed head to the side. If she were outside the situation, Sylvie thought it would be comical, seeing two grown women in a nice corporate office making pouty faces at each other. Like children. “Unfortunately, due to how the industry is right now, we can’t offer a salary or stipends,” cooed Ms. Burns. Sylvie’s hands were white-knuckled as she held them together on her lap. She felt the urge to bite the inside of her cheek, to keep away the pressure that had been steadily pooling at the base of her skull. She took a deep breath. It didn’t help much. “But, after you complete your time with us, we can offer a recommendation letter. Many who have interned with us have said it was a rewarding experience, just on its own.” Prior to that day in 1687, the Parthenon hadn’t been considered a ruin. Sure, it had been sacked by Heruli pirates in 276, made into a Christian church in 484, and had much of its pagan iconography destroyed in the siege of Constantinople in 1204. But it’s that day in 1687, when the roof was blown out, and the front façade collapsed, that many academics point to as “ruinous.” Before she knew what she was doing, Sylvie was standing up, hastily gathering her purse and heather gray jacket from where she’d draped them on the seat behind her. She’d made a mistake, though she only saw the fuzzy outline of it right now. She had to leave. Ms. Burns scooched her chair back in response, but Sylvie’s hand was already on the cool metal of the office door before it occurred to her that she should say something. “I’m sorry, Ms. Burns, thank you for the interview,” she said, opening the door with a rough tug, “But I really—I have to go.” Sylvie mangled her face into a smile, hoping for something. Shock was quickly hidden by vacant pleasantry on Ms. Burns’s face. “Of course! We’ll—um, be in touch,” she offered. Probably not. “Thank you!” And Sylvie was out the door. Her pointed-toe heels clicked on the marble as she walked through the lobby of Loom House’s office building. She made a beeline for the revolving door, not even registering the secretary who threw a polite smile in her direction as she exited. Outside, the air was warm and heavy with exhaust, and in her professional attire Sylvie began to sweat. The street was busy and loud, with taxis rolling up to the curb and expelling people just like herself in suits, blazers, and slacks. Sylvie turned around. In front of her, the façade of Loom House Publishing stood, ruled by a tall, arched door framed by squarish off-white pillars with rolling ionic tops. It came to her slowly—maybe the façade had reminded her of the Parthenon, and that was where all of this started. But she knew, like most things built in New York City at the turn of the century, that the pillars were likely made of concrete, and not marble. Ever the Greeks’ shadow. She tried to imagine how the concrete pillars would collapse, if hit by a Venetian mortar round. If they would fall in complete pieces, or if they would just be obliterated on impact. Either way, the image was comical to her, and with a snort she walked away and down the block. The entrance to the subway was a dark hole rimmed on either side by green metal bars. Sylvie’s heart crept into her throat as she walked down the steps. She knew what awaited her: the unpaid rent notices on her old kitchen table, and the ever-looming debt of living. Note from the author: “Ruins” originates from my feelings after undergoing the interview process for a handful of literary agencies and publishing houses, and is meant to encapsulate the frustrations and anxieties that I know I and my contemporaries have surrounding unpaid internships, debt, and corporations overall. This is paired with some very intriguing information on how the Parthenon in Athens, Greece, became a ruin. Elizabeth Roos is a senior English (creative writing) major at SUNY Geneseo. She is originally from Clifton Park, New York, and volunteers at a birds of prey center in her free time. Though she specializes in fantasy and science fiction, she has been developing her skills writing literary short fiction, and her work has been published in MiNT Magazine, The Lamron, and The Allegheny Review. Her interests can be summarized as, in short, words and birds.

One night while we slept Dreaming of forests And inhabited attics And circuses Impossible spaces Tilting platforms Sad, beautiful strangers A dark meteorite Weary of travel Came crashing Through our roof, A guided missile Steered by God's unwavering hand We slept on Restless in the heat And found it the next morning Set deep in crushed floorboards, Kitsch flowers and vines Blackened on the wall The people came. It seemed routine to them A house with a space rock Lodged in the hallway They brought equipment Paperwork. Finding it could not be lifted They shook their heads, Finally bemused, they left And did not return It became furniture And we awkwardly stepped past it As we went about our days, Sometimes it whispered And crackled in the night Once a faint face formed Briefly On its tarry surface Looking far into the distance. * Years later I wake to find myself Sleepwalking, A pale ghost Haunting our little house And suddenly afraid I call you Hear my thin voice Die in the night air Like a spark Never to be heeded again I know then that I stand before the visitor Suddenly huge, impossibly dark, terrifying The long and secret process of becoming, finally complete Its whisper has become certain and clear "This is the dream", It says, "This is the nightmare" J.S. Doherty is a writer, musician, and technologist from Belfast, Northern Ireland, where he balances a hectic home life with a range of creative projects and regular visits to the ocean. He is currently working on a collection of new poems due to be completed in 2023.

Lizzie and I were the only two ‘girls’ on the Snake Mountain Hotshots that year, 1997. Our supervisor Bob would only hire two for a twenty-person crew and he even told me once that he hired two so that they could be friends. Fortunately, Lizzie and I were friends, or became friends. I dont think thats always the case w/two women—I talked to other women on other crews—that can set up some kind of dynamic where the women compete w/each other to be accepted by the menfolk. It was both of our first time on a hotshot crew, an elite wildland firefighting crew that travels all over the west—where the big fires were, that/s where we went. She/d done one season on a regular hand crew in Tahoe, I/d been on an engine in Sedona, then helitack for two in the Grand Canyon. I think both of us wanted to test ourselves, prove ourselves. Much to Bob/s annoyance, I was one of the better sawyers that year—meaning I could handle a chainsaw—so I got to be on the third saw team. I was actually relieved when Lizzie asked to be my swamper. I wasnt looking forward to being on a saw team w/some dude—even the safe ones would always mansplain cutting to me. Lizzie wasnt in the best upper body shape, but I wasnt either compared to our lead sawyer Trace, who looked like a grizzly bear. But swamping is more about stamina, moving slash the sawyer cuts away from the fireline. Which is hard work. The hardest job on the whole crew really, especially since saw team members each carried an extra chain and saw kit w/tools and extra parts in our packs. I wasnt quite sure I could handle cutting all day but I wasnt gonna say no and be a pussy when Trace offered. Fortunately third saw is usually for clean up—making sure any ladder fuels in the black are cut and cutting any logs or downed trees into rounds—which takes time but isnt as much arm work—Lizzie did some of that, just so I could get a break and she always took care of gassing and oiling the saw when I emptied a tank, so I could pound some water. One of Lizzies goals was to really learn how to run a chainsaw on her own and if I have one minor claim to fame its that she learned it from me that summer. Lizzie showed up to work the first day in jeans black t-shirt and fire boots—she liked Whites, I liked Nicks—and w/brown dreadlocks pulled back in a big Alien tail. A big wooden cross necklace drooped down so low it kind of hung between her boobs. As far as I know, she always wore it—tucked in on fires or outside when not. Even, you know, during other times. Lizzie wasnt a total conservative—I mean, she was on a hotshot crew for gods sake—she never swore but didnt mind if other people did, like me, or the whole rest of the crew, all the time. She didnt smoke or chew but did drink. I did all three—Skoal Wintergreen was my fave and kept me going on a long day, which gave the guys endless amusement—they/d offer me their chew just to see a girl put a pinch in. They laughed and laughed all summer. But Lizzie was what my mom called a Jesus freak. She/d been homeschooled up by Mt. Shasta (the town) and from what she told me her parents were old school live-off-the-land hippies when most people by the seventies had given that up. I think she went to some summer camp somewhere and discovered Jesus—not like w/a vision or anything, not even as a Jesus=God kind of way, just talked about him as a person or a teacher and loved that and read the Bible on her own. She told me, —My parents didnt understand it, but didnt stop me. They always just wanted me to learn whatever I was curious about. They thought it was a phase. Her dad was a woodworker, made furniture Amish-style or something—no nails, just grooves and glue—and taught her how to work a bandsaw and lathe. And how to whittle. She was carving little wood animals since I was six. The way she described it to me was after her ‘come to Jesus moment’ of how ‘cool’ Jesus was, she whittled a small carving of him and gave it to a girl she liked at camp. —She was so happy that I thought maybe I could make more and make more people happy and, you know, spread Jesus’ message. That could be my purpose in life. I decided I/d do 10,000 carvings in wood. That will just take my life. The process, the whittling, the carving, is also a way for me to return to Jesus, think about him, to focus myself every day. I did the math w/ her one time when we were in fire camp laying on our sleeping bags waiting for the dudes to stop belching and farting and go to sleep. —Lizzie, if you do one carving a day, that/ll be like twenty-six years to do 10,000. If you do one every other day that/ll be fifty-two years! She laughed. —I never even thought about that! —How many have you done? —She didnt hesitate. —Two thousand and seven. She was twenty-two that year. —Lizzie, you/re behind! You/ll have to do two a day sometimes to catch up! She/d been laughing the whole time. —I know! The problem is that sometimes they/re big! Sometimes they take a few days. —You mean they/re not all just little whittles? —Ha! Little whittles. I like that! No but seriously, I just look for wood, I look at wood, and see the Jesus in it. It could be a tree. —You cut down trees to carve Jesus in them?! —No! Of course not! I just carve out his face and prayer hands in a living tree. Like, reveal the features I already see. I did tons of those up at Humbolt around campus and the woods out back. But I do want to do big ones! Have you ever seen the totem poles native tribes do up in Canada? I/d like to do something like that. Except Jesus. So thats how she got her nickname. A lot of us had them on the crew, like Dingo, Snake and Maui. Mine was Vasquez, because of the character in the Aliens movie. Which, I was cool w/. Vasquez rocks. At first Lizzie was Jesus Lizzie, then it just seemed natural to make it Jesus Lizard. Strangely, they never shortened it to Lizard—she was always Jesus Lizard. Even over the radio: —Maui, Chase. Send Jesus Lizard over here. And she was ok w/ the name. If I/d been interviewed for the documentary thats what I wouldve told them about. I know thats what they would have ended up calling it, not Carving Jesus. Lizzie even did one of her tree carvings out back of our barracks. The guys got to be in the brand new barracks buildings, but the two of us were in an old trailer together right on the edge of the compound up against Forest Service land. It/s still there as far as I know, though I wonder if anybody ever found it. Most of her Jesuses (Jesi?) are of a bearded man w/ hands together at his heart, and that one was—she did it in a ponderosa pine, stripping the bark away around eye level, finding knots and cracks and making them the facial features or the hands, using her knife or chisels and ‘gouges’ w/ a mallet. It really did look like the face of Jesus (or a bearded man) was there, like she/d just peeled away the outer surface of the tree and unhidden Jesus. She didnt usually like to make crucifixes, though the one she wore she had made. —I dont know, thats not his main message. He didnt die for our sins. He died because he was healing people for free, offering his knowledge for free. Mostly, at least at that point, on the road, she did smaller whittles. She always had a big lockblade knife on her, and a piece of wood. On down times, if we were in mop-up mode on a fire, she/d get them out and whittle while we talked. Sometimes it was annoying when I/d be trying to take a nap, but if thats the most annoying she ever was I/d say she was doing ok. What the rest of the crew thought of her was mixed. A lot of the guys didnt like ‘girls’ on a crew period. If she had just been a hippie tho, I think she would have gotten a lot more meanness—to the point of harassment—but the Jesus thing threw them—they didnt know what the hell. She made a Jesus carving for each and every one of them, regardless if they were raving assholes or not. Some of them, a few, kept them all summer and would even pull them out of their red bags on the buggy to show her. —Hey Jesus Lizard! I still got your Jesus! She would always smile. Like, really smile. —Right on! I/m glad Jesus is still w/ you. There were of course bets on who could bang one of us. I had my informants, some of the safer guys like Roberto and Joseph who would give me the scoop. And, you know, what girl can resist being around eighteen buff dudes? Lizzie was the cute one, they all wanted her, but the odds were good, even for me. Towards the end of the season, when we/d been gone to Idaho for two three week stints—r+r in Boise and back up to the panhandle for the biggest fire in North America, ever—we came back to northern California, to our station and all headed to the one bar in town, The Timberline. I was playing pool, pacing myself on the alcohol so I could concentrate and beat everyone (my dad had a pool table in our garage in Salem—the one skill he taught me) so I was not blackout drunk like everyone else. I do remember that every time I saw Jesus Lizard she had a shot glass in her hand and I know neither one of us bought a drink all night. I got a little distracted w/Trace putting his hand on my thigh and whispering sweet nothings in my ear like, —I’m gonna destroy that pussy. What girl can resist a line like that? We all got 86ed—or else the bar was just closing, I forget, so a bunch of us piled in Trace and Maui/s pickups and ended up at Lizzie and I/s trailer. Trace didnt really give me time to collect myself—or even ponder the fact that he had a girlfriend—and had me in my room, w/Lizzie and the other guys right on the other side of the door in the living room. My pussy was indeed destroyed, as I think everyone on the compound could hear. Afterwards, or during, Trace said, —I/ve been waiting to do that all summer. I said, —Me too. He passed out. I got up and took a shower, then checked the living room. No one there. But there were definitely voices coming from Lizzie/s room down the hall. Male voices. Multiple male voices. If I/d been any more sober I might have—should have—checked on her. But, instead I went back and put my head on Trace/s chest and fell asleep. In the morning after the awkwardness of Trace leaving w/o much conversation, I was sipping tea on the couch (the only thing my stomach could handle) when Jesus Lizard came out. Smiling. —Lizzie, are you ok? She kept smiling. —Yeah. Why? —I just...did you....like... She giggled. —Yeah. Did you? Actually I know you did. I heard you. —Yeah but did you...like...w/ all of them? Her face got red. —I mean, yeah? —Do you remember? —Mostly? —Are you ok w/ that? She shrugged. —Sure. We stared at each other. I said, —Ok. Wow. How many? She looked at the floor. —Um...I dont know. I nodded. —Ok. Wow. After that, for the rest of the season, which was like six more weeks, down into Big Sur and Orange County, the dynamic shifted. Not that they had ever took Jesus Lizard seriously but, before, she had been kind of the crazy little sister. That they all wanted to bang. After the banging, they became more rude to her, ignoring her or yelling extra harsh. Not everybody, not overhead or the safe guys, they treated her the same, mostly. But the assholes were just bigger assholes. Surprise. I think at first she was surprised, then hurt, and she would lose her smile at those points. Thankfully by the time we were in central and southern Cali, we were running four saw teams, cutting all the time through forests of manzanita brush (and poison ok) so she and I just spent most of the time by ourselves. She still carved little Jesus dudes—even gave me a rare crucified Jesus out of manzanita, which I still actually have up on my bedroom wall, the one arms cracked off and I glued it back. I call it ‘Cracked Jesus.’ On the Big Sur Fire we were inland, in the forest, in the redwoods actually, but in mop-up mode holding a line we hadnt cut and there was this ponderosa pine stump, waist high. Normally a sawyer low-stumps all her trees, but this one got left or lost. Lizzie got back her regular energy, crouching down examining it. —Do we have to lowstump it? —Well if we dont someone will. Do you want to do it? —I want to carve it. I can see Jesus in it. Look: these knots are the eyes, this is the nose and prayer hands would be here. And I could see it. —So this Jesus is buried halfway in the ground? She laughed. —Yes! Rising back from Hell! Can I use the saw? Will you make sure I dont kill myself? —Sure. Just watch the kickback, especially if you try to cut w/ the tip. Dont do that. That became her first Chainsaw Jesus: Rough, but definitely him, w/ a long nose and beard and the two hands. Mostly what she did was trim the back side of the stump, carving the wood away from the Jesus. We didnt tell anybody about it but Joseph commented on it in the buggy later after we/d hiked out, that it was a good Jesus. Still maybe out there somewhere in the woods east of Big Sur, if some other crew didnt cut him down later. By the time the season ended, we were all done and we left the morning we got back (hotshot tradition: to leave early on the last day). Lizzie and I exchanged parents’ phone numbers and addresses and hugged, knowing neither of us would be back the next summer. She never fought fires again. I went back to helitack—helirappel actually—up in McCall, Idaho. And now she/s actually done. 10,000. Some people dont believe her, but I do. I had seen some news features on her throughout the years, especially more recently as she was getting closer. The documentary about her is still up on Netflix. She still has the dreadlocks, now silver. And, she wears long flowing skirts, or overalls when she/s working on one of her bigger chainsaw sculptures, which go for tens of thousands of dollars now. She lives in Sisters, Oregon and has a wife and two daughters. When she/s asked in the documentary if she/ll keep carving Jesuses after 10,000 she says, —I dont know what else to do. I still believe in ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ That/s still worth reminding people about. Her daughters have whittled their own Jesus carvings, though they seem more excited about the little wooden animals they made. Born in Puerto Rico, John Yohe has worked as a wildland firefighter, wilderness ranger and fire lookout. Best of the Net nominee x2. Notable Essay List for Best American Essays 2022 and 2023. @thejohnyohe www.johnyohe.weebly.

As I heft the suitcase onto the station’s tarmac The rivers of her tears are pooling in the corners of my eyes Grant Shimmin is a South African-born poet of Manx ancestry who has lived in New Zealand for 22 years. A career journalist, he is passionate about human relationships, family, inclusion and the natural world.

not quite It’s not snowing, but it’s not not snowing either. Up by the Georgia border, we’d call anything wet and white “snow,” but out here they have words for not-quite: graupel, sleet, wintry mix. Out here you can hear ice break a tree’s bones. My mother used to call any day the air got below freezing, like a boast, like nobody could believe Floridians had it in them. She’d drive all the way out here but who would watch the dogs for two weeks? When she texts now, there are not-quite words for love: stay warm, stay dry, stay safe. aims But I don’t always want to be this force of nature— your Bay of Fundy high tide, night and day, relentless until I’m rendered moot. Let me creep along the shore as some other creature— your broken clamshell, piece of sea glass, this jellyfish finding your bare foot. dinnertime we sit at the dining room table with a bucket of fresh names, scooped straight from the shore, still briny and wriggling. “how will i know which one is right,” you ask, plucking out all of the mythological swimmers, chucking diana. the pot rumbled behind us. “i think you just know,” i shrugged, “but if i had my way i’d be a victoria.” you sighed, squinting at a hundred half-chewed variations of kayleigh, eyes where their legs ought to be. “hold on: what about these,” i said, holding a few olden sturdy ones. “not mary—" “hold on, marrryy”—i chucked them in the boiling water until their shells turned vamp red. the decades and silent letters sloughed away in the stock. “sometimes it’s just there,” i said before squeezing a lemon wedge and sucking on the largest one’s head. i handed you the supple body, every letter where it ought to be, sudden pink flesh. KJ Shepherd lives in Austin, Texas.

Maybe we’re satellites Sending signals to each other But never touching Ramona Gore is currently a Cinema and History major at Binghamton University, minoring in Asian and Asian American Studies. Since middle school, she has kept a notebook where she stores snippets of her own unique poems. Her work has been published in Duck Duck Mongoose Magazine and Idle Ink.

~Venice, February 2002 Empty-eyed, paper-mache bird heads stare through windows, hang with beaks turned down toward the street. Red, purple, jewels and feathered masks line dark walls. A rainbow of plumage covers holes, nails, and centuries old stains that resist layers of paint. Cat eyes, bird eyes, hollowed out, lined with jewels reflect the single bulb above them. In the street, orange and yellow sunset reaches across gondolas, resting on the sea, tied, waiting for tourists and drivers. They rock against one another, knocking on the concrete wall, count the seconds till darkness.I hold my breath on the Bridge of Sighs, wait to hear the moans of prisoners echo between walls and the sound of waves hitting boats that carry the damned. I only hear heels, sharp and thin, striking brick walkways. The sun has set. Shadows stand tall against street lights. A lone waiter sits and smokes in front of a window filled with streamers. Alone in Plaza de San Marco, I grasp the blessed, blue rosary from the basilica. Four horses, replicas of the stolen Quadriga, hover over the edge above me, only the sound of my breath fills the space. From the corner, a clown, painted white and red with black lines that jut from his eyes. His suit, purple and blue with bells. He skips across the plaza, pirouettes, and covers me with showers of confetti.

Neon t-shirt of Tweety Bird scowling Does it look like I care? because you don’t spare anyone’s feelings. Sheer leopard print blouses because you are feisty, sassy, and wild! Windbreaker of Winnie-the-Pooh, elbow-deep in honey because relatable much? Big girls gotta eat. F.R.I.E.N.D.S. graphic t-shirt because, like Fat Monica, you dance with donuts, too! Pandering sentiment about girl power in glittery cursive font because keep your head up, girly! The future is female. Distressed AC/DC tank top because you don’t mind their objectification of women. Sloppy off-the-shoulder Caution: may contain wine! because alcohol dependency is quirky when it’s you. Garfield thinking I’m up. What more do you want? because you are one lazy piece of shit. Cowl-neck sweaters and chunky knit scarves because your double-chin should really be a secret. The poncho: available in black, brown, and charcoal because the pinnacle of beauty is a repurposed tarp. Justine Defever resides in Michigan and is an Associate Professor of English at Cleary University. Her poetry has been recently featured in Sad Girls Club Literary Blog, Silent Spark Press, You Might Need to Hear This, and Quarter Press. Justine completed a residency in Edinburgh, Scotland while finishing an MFA in Creative Writing at Arcadia University. Read more of her work at justinedefever.com.

There is too much. There is not enough. If there is an in-between, I don't possess the scale to calibrate that balance. I am what I own, and what I own owns me. Not long before she died, my mama said to me, "You are a really nice person." The wonder in her voice, as if recounting a recent revelation, unwomaned me. Still, there's nowhere to be but where you are when you're there. And, let it be known that I was there and fully present. I owned and was owned till the earth scorched beneath my feet. I loved and was loved until my heart left my body and lay in the sick bed next to hers. I was not found wanting. In the end, I was not found wanting. Kelli Simpson is a poet and former teacher based in Norman, Oklahoma. Her work has appeared in Lamplit Underground, Green Ink Poetry, One Art Poetry Journal, The MockingHeart Review, Remington Review, and elsewhere.

Dear Dead Brother #5 (Passed on June 16, 2004) Last night, my partner and her dog slept on me The closer I get to real love Livelier become my internal freakouts Our father put up with so much Our mother put up with so much The years passed, and it never looked happy – These cold January nights dead brother My partner says she wants to move to Russia after the war There are still wars dead brother I escape into entertainment, cartoons and documentaries I want there to be love, I really like this person, And her dog The dog, small, wearing a coat posed for a photo. The dog sits on my lap, slowly he slumps, Then falls asleep on me – During the day I spend my time in a cubicle Two monitors, endless litigation – Defendant’s Motion to Save His Own Mind – Defendant’s Motion to Cure His Sinus Problem – Mostly I copy and paste, rename things, The dog spends his days in a small cage, Because he rummages and likes to pee on the floor – I feel bad for the dog, but some feel bad for me – A long time ago, I dated a woman from Europe That has, what seems to be, a supply of money That never depletes. On her Instagram, she scuba dives Off the Barbary Coast – the pictures are beautiful – I assume to her I’m just like the dog – There is a piece of knowledge that eludes me Incredible desire to be young and play hide and go seek To get a thrill out of jumping over something, When was there time to play baseball? A piece of knowledge Like Schrödinger's cat The ends of the earth The red mountain is millions of years old I am standing next to it The dog looks at me, wanting love My partner looks at me, wanting love I don’t care when poets mention death anymore – Nothing is as scary as one’s own potential – Trying to forget the first 20 years of my life – All those years still haunt me The loneliness, the survival mechanisms Moods that hurt and won’t end Dead brother, I was once a dishwasher At a steakhouse in Ohio, shortly after you died – The plates would come, I sat them on a tray And pushed them through a large metal machine That shot water at them After the rush was over, we would clean up, We would eat the remaining steak soup Many nights that was my dinner Later in Las Vegas, I worked as bagboy And ate two eggs and bacon, wrapped in a tortilla So far from our gnocchi and rigatonis Now my boss gives me million-dollar cases – Now someone wants me to love them Now a dog sleeps on my lap When I work, my earbuds play Coltrane and Bach The sounds of distorted guitars no longer inspire me – The 90s are a million miles away – I feel disgusted with the 90s, Why did they even happen? There is a piece of knowledge that eludes me I believe the mind and body are one This oneness eludes me as well Even dogs seem to be beyond my grasp lately Noah Cicero was born in 1980 in a small town in Northeast, Ohio. In 2003 his first book came out, The Human War, which has been translated into several languages. He has published books of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, many have been translated. His poetry book Bipolar Cowboy was shortlisted for Goodreads Best Poetry of 2015, which has a new edition from Girl Noise Press. He has recently been published in Maudlin House and Sage Cigarettes. Noah Cicero has given speeches regarding literature in Peru, Chile, South Korea, and Mexico. He attended Youngstown State University for Political Science and the College of Southern Nevada for Paralegal Studies.  He currently lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. He has lived in South Korea teaching ESL, various parts of Oregon and Grand Canyon, Arizona. He hikes every Sunday in the mountains and desert. He has been to the bottom of the Grand Canyon four times.

The late Trinidadian author’s ghost has lately been observed hovering around the merry colored-creations of several well-meaning white authors. “We’re just fed up. He shows up every time we have a character named Radhika or Yasmeen and tries to make out with them,” said Marianne K., author of I Said No. “More than once I’ve thought of informing law enforcement,” she said, adding that “There has to be a safe environment to write!” Academics familiar with the works of VS Naipaul, known for his seminal novels, House for Mr Biswas and A Bend in the River, have expressed reservations at his ghost’s erratic behavior. They fear his after-life shenanigans will come back to hurt their careers. They have husbands to feed, children to send to Coachella, they said. John Harris John, bestselling author of Innocent Girl, has been a particularly serious victim of this in his new novel Sensitive Girl. “I have a scene where Amina, the ‘sensitive’ girl in the story, invites the boy John from her MFA class for her birthday and makes biryani for everyone,” John said, “They discuss the particulars of this strange and tasteful food—this is based on my own MFA days, so it’s 100% authentic—and he asks her about the difference between Kacchi and Tehari. I figured it’s a good way of educating my readers on the many colorful variations in the food of other cultures, y’know, but Mr Naipaul’s ghost saw fit to barge in right away. ‘It’s rice, you idiot. Eat the fucking rice,” he kept berating my character. And since the character, John, is loosely based on me, it felt like he was berating me.” John Harris John has since been too afraid to go back to his writing. He is not alone. The Nobel Laureate’s ghost has been a nuisance to the wider, white writing community. To combat this issue, John, Marianne, and their cohorts have decided to organize a séance. “We have quite an exciting night planned,” They said, “Holding hands, we’ll try to banish his evil spirit from our realm with recitations from Maya Angelou’s poetry.” When asked what they plan to do if the method does not work, Marianne said, “We’ll have no other way than to call the cops on him then. It’s a matter of our safety at this point.” As the event drew closer, the authors gathered around the cul-de-sac, exchanging stories of the assaults they had to undergo from Naipaul’s ghost. “He came up to Rajiv, a supporting character I wrote to complement Rachel’s workplace, and I swear he grabbed his hair in a fist, and shouted: ‘POC? More like piece of shit!’—Can you imagine what I had to go through? I spent hours on twitter stalking Indian guys to research him!” Said one fellow writer to his colleague. The day grows damp. Huddled in a circle, a candle draining out in full force in the middle, the chants start to envelop the room. Visions of friendly allies at Bengali aqiqahs and Tamil weddings dominate the imagery, baiting the infamous scourge to rise up to the occasion and fall prey to their trap, for these saviors, valuable contributors of several online magazines, are the true fighters, willing to go any lengths on twitter—the real Area of Darkness—to preserve their beloved, pristine multiculturalism. Shahriar Shaams lives in Dhaka, Bangladesh. Shahriar’s essays and stories have previously appeared in the journals Singapore Unbound, Third Lane, Six Seasons Review and Jamini, and in the literary pages of the Dhaka Tribune and The Daily Star.

Let me tell you about the time I was eight and made my big screen debut in Cannibal Family. I played Billy Barker, the youngest son of a grisly clan of people eaters. The short story is I stole every scene I was in, outshining seasoned actors. The longer version is we don’t live in a just world—the meek suffer, the wicked thrive, etc.—and scorching performances don’t often scale to lasting success, which is the easiest explanation for how yours truly, Mick O’Grady, recently ended up back in central Michigan doing a two-month residency at the Cannibal Family House Museum. Several years ago, entrepreneur and private investor, Dale Pressman, bought the three-story Tudor at a foreclosure auction and renovated and restored it to its original specs as the principle shooting location of the 1986 horror classic. Once Dr. Pressman had the place looking just like it did back in the day, he petitioned the township for historic landmark status (Approved!), threw open the doors to the public as a living tribute to the power of cult cinema, and told Afterburn Pictures, who still technically owned the rights to the movie, to take their copyright infringement lawsuit and swim home up a dirty river. During business hours I donned adult-sized versions of my costumes and recited my ever-quotable lines for visitors, such as, “Pleased to eat you, sir,” and, “Rump roast … Again?” I regaled them with behind-the-scenes anecdotes about the film’s production and fielded questions from fans—price of admission didn’t include photos or autographs, so I had a nice little side hustle going, provided I didn’t flaunt it. I was supposed to blog about my daily experiences on the museum website, but my postings were infrequent. Every day was pretty much the same. Once I spiced up a posting with a track from my band, SK!N FLÜT, only to have Laszlo scold me. He was tasked with overseeing day-to-day operations but mostly acted like a power-tripping security guard, his managerial style showing a fascistic streak probably nurtured in whatever Eastern European country he grew up in. “My friend, no one cares about a middle-aged man making electronica,” he said. “It’s synth pop.” “Nevertheless.” There was a time I would have told him, via my agent, that if he didn’t like doing things the Mick O’Grady way, he could get the fuck out of the Mick O’Grady business. Those times were long over. I hadn’t had an agent in years, and I really needed this gig. Dr. Pressman’s offer came at an unbelievably welcomed time. I was in arrears rent-wise at my Orlando apartment, plus I was persona non grata at the recording studio until I settled my tab. In addition to free room and board at the museum, I received a tasty stipend that would cover my debts and allow me to finally finish the long-awaited SK!N FLÜT demo tape. Cannibal Family had a legion of fans—Relatives, they called themselves—who trekked to Saginaw as if it were Lourdes. I’d be the first to admit that, though it jump started my career, the movie wasn’t anywhere near flawless, even by genre standards. As a kid I hadn’t noticed it, but the story was kind of a mess. It was never explained why the Barkers ate people in the first place. Were we heroes or villains? Who knew? Plot holes abounded. For example, there were three separate scenes where we ordered takeout from the same restaurant and then ate the delivery guy, but somehow the restaurant never put two and two together. What did they think kept happening to their drivers? If my onscreen father, Dexter Thorne (1945-2001), was any indication, this flick was creatively fueled by amphetamines and professionally motivated by unresolved tax liens. But as for the fans, I guess my point was that, for whatever reason, Cannibal Family resonated. This was what I was telling Laszlo one night in our living quarters. When the museum closed at 6:00, he and I would disappear downstairs to the basement. We spent evenings drinking beer and shooting pool, or watching movies. Other times he ignored me to defend his flat earth theory online, leaving me to drink beer and shoot pool, or watch movies, all by myself. “Platoon took home the Oscar that year, but you don’t see a museum for Platoon, do you?” I said. “There’s the National Vietnam War Museum,” he said. “That’s not what I’m talking about.” “Nostalgia is a powerful drug, my friend.” “Haven’t you ever connected emotionally to a piece of art?” I said, and tossed my empty can in the blue recycling bin near the stairs. “Give me a fucking break.” “You’re wrong, Lasz. People love the movie.” “How could they?” he said, straining to understand. “It is shit.” “Whatever, man.” I got us fresh beers and passed him one. “What do you want to watch tonight?” “You choose. I have research to do.” * Last week, after we split a case of a boozy Belgian ale, I got around to asking him to describe his working model. His concept was elaborate: Planet Earth was platter-shaped; the sun and moon were the same size and rotated around each other above us in a kind of chaste dance; gravity was an unsupported hypothesis and shit just fell for no reason; what you and I know as Antarctica was actually an ice wall that surrounded the world and acted as a barrier to hold the oceans back. “What if the wall melts?” “The ice is frozen to absolute zero, minus 273.15 degrees Celsius. It cannot melt,” Laszlo said. “You know, I wrote a song called Absolute Zero.” “Autobiography, yes?” “Fair enough. What happens if you climb over the ice wall? You fall into space?” I asked. “There is more land on the other side. Pristine and undamaged by humans and our sickening consumption.” “Let’s pack a bag and go!” He shook his head at the impossibility of it all. “NORAD guards the border. We would be vaporized inside of two kilometers. Besides, you would never survive the ascent. You can barely make it up the basement stairs.” “How do you know all this and no one else does?” “People have a hard time accepting they’ve been lied to their whole lives.” He went into an explanation about how bureaucracy by nature limits a groups’ knowledge, so that millions of people had small parts of the picture, but not the whole thing. It took someone unafraid of difficult truths to pick up all the pieces and put them together. I stopped listening when he got on a rant about Jews controlling the weather. The thing was, I knew where he was coming from. Not the part about the Chosen People’s hurricane machine, but the confusion that leads to embracing such ideas. In my twenties I’d gone deep into my very own fringe scene—direct action for an animal liberation organization. Or eco-terrorism, according to the state of Florida. I was a member of the Clearwater 5 who, while attempting to rescue a bottlenose dolphin from an aquarium, torched a food pavilion. All of this happened during a dark and nebulous period in my life. When my acting career foundered in my late-teens, I was saved by a love of music and believed my destiny held rock stardom. But then my first serious band broke up due to creative differences: My bandmates wanted a chronically hot frontman, whereas I was, if casting directors were accurate, a six. With my expulsion from T.G.I. Wednesday, I felt for the first time in my life that I had no future. And like Laszlo, I tried to make sense of the senseless. * For the a.m. crowd I usually wore my blood-spattered Little League uniform, everyone’s favorite costume. But the following morning, I spilled coffee in my lap, and had no choice but to change into my blood-spattered Transformers pajamas. I was running late but still clocked in in time to see Laszlo firing the janitor. The janitor shouted, “I didn’t do nothing. I didn’t do nothing.” “Shut up, interloper.” Laszlo dragged him by the collar of his coveralls and deposited him on the lawn. Laszlo slammed the front door and called an unscheduled staff meeting. The girl who pulled double duty at the giftshop and Barker’s Bites (snack bar), Gladys the docent, and I followed him into the living room. He pointed through the window and instructed us to gaze upon our former coworker brushing grass clippings out of his hair with a look of thickening dismay on his face. “Let that be a warning,” he said, and, drawing closed the curtains, ended the meeting. “Jesus, Lasz. What’d he even do?” I said. “I have reason to believe he’s a mole from Afterburn Pictures. I intercepted him stealing my trash.” “He’s the janitor. That’s his job.” “Was.” “That’s cold.” “You could be was too, my friend. Get to work. Whatever it is you do here.” He took out his phone and scrolled through his messages. “Bad day for this shit,” he muttered. “Bad day, bad day.” It didn’t seem bad to me. Seemed like every other day. I hurried to my movie bedroom and heaved myself up to the top of the bunk bed I’d shared with my older brother Freddy Barker—Corey Samuels (1968-1992). I pulled out a stack of Topps NFL football cards from under my pillow and started flipping through them. Soon Gladys led in the first visitors. They were a middle-aged couple. It was difficult to tell how diehard they were, but they were giving off a weird vibe indicative of Relatives, that sense they were missing something in their lives and Cannibal Family was the soil they used to backfill large excavations within themselves. “Now, this husky young man has grown up quite a bit since you last saw him,” she said, pointing up at me. “Give a hand to the one and only Billy Barker.” “My name is Mick O’Grady. Billy was the character.” “Just say the line,” she said. “The family that slays together, stays together,” I said. “The other line.” She was a four-foot ten septuagenarian and I was a little scared of her. “Pleased to eat you, folks!” The couple whooped it up. I slid off the top bunk and glad-handed. The man pushed his wraparound shades to his forehead and introduced himself and his wife. I tried not staring at the charm necklace dangling betwixt her cleavage, but her face was no better a target. Her look was one I’d seen many times before, and one I always struggled to match, brought on by the awkwardness of meeting me. They detected a shadow of youthful promise in my shattered eyes and couldn’t square my current life with the one they’d projected onto me when I was but an image on a well-worn VHS tape they passed back and forth amongst their friends. “Baby, tell him how you had the biggest crush on him back in the day,” the man said. “Still do,” she said. “Buddy, you must have been just pulling in the females.” “I was in third grade,” I said. “You’re not in third grade anymore.” “This is true.” “Goddamn it!” he shouted. “What the hell happened to you?” “Oh, leave him alone,” the woman said. She pinched a few inches of my love handle, and drew me to her. “If you’re such a cannibal, how about you eat me?” “She’s not kidding,” the man said, and threw his heavy arm around my neck. “Come on, now, gang,” Gladys said. “If you’ll follow me, we’ll head to the kitchen where there’s a delightfully gruesome surprise in the refrigerator.” “Two-to-one it’s the cop’s head,” the man said. “The mayor’s head,” the woman said. “It was the mayor’s heart.” “Was it?” “Let’s just have a looksie, shall we?” Gladys said. “Say goodbye to Billy.” “It’s Mick,” I said. “Bye, Billy,” they chanted and filed out. I took a lap around the bedroom waiting for other visitors, running my fingers over the furniture, turning up no dust. Dr. Pressman had done a phenomenal job on the house. The details were perfect. I sat on the floor and crossed my legs and stared at the large freshwater fish tank beside the hand-me-down stereo equipment, just like I did in between scenes all those years ago. Back then I’d been obsessed with the fish, to the point that my on-set tutor had made a science project out of it for me. I still remembered some of the names: Neon blue Goby, Peppered Cory Cat, Candy Cane Tetra. I’d told my movie mom, Annabelle Clifford (1950-, lives in Culver City) that I was going to be a marine biologist when I grew up. I’ll never forget the way she looked at me, smiled, riffled my hair with her hands, and said, “How dare you?” I fed the fish. They bubbled up to the surface to eat. An actor is always searching for his character’s motivation, the event from the past that shapes current decisions. I wondered if my tutor’s science project had influenced me then, instilled a well of empathy for sea life so that it was inevitable that I found myself at Good Ray’s Aquatic Center fifteen or so years later at dawn with four friends, friends I’d made after I was dumped from T.G.I. Wednesday and who I believed were as willing to die for me as I was for them. Or co-conspirators as they would soon be known. While they retrieved Cinderella, a ten-year-old bottlenose dolphin, I attached a cigarette to a pack of matches, then lit the cigarette and left it inside Neptune’s Original Fish Fry, which I had painted in $10.00 worth of unleaded. * It wasn’t much later I found out what was worrying Laszlo: a party of two, a man and a woman, claiming an appointment with Dr. Pressman and his representation, an odd request considering Dr. Pressman was never here. They didn’t look like Relatives. They looked important, like diplomats or funeral directors. Whoever they were, their arrival was a disturbance, a baying of coyotes far nearer to civilization than was comfortable. Gladys had finished her tour and was next to me in the hallway. We watched Laszlo fall all over himself greeting them. “Welcome Mr. Francis and Ms. Stein, welcome to the museum. We could not have more esteemed guests, it is not possible,” he said. “See how the little dictator act goes right out the window when someone with real juice shows up?” Gladys said. “Who are they?” I said. “Lawyers. From Afterburn Pictures.” “Is that good or bad?” She shrugged and went out back for a smoke. “Please think of this house as your own. I’m at your disposal,” Laszlo said. He grabbed the handle of the lawyer’s rolling catalogue case and began swinging his other arm in a loose circle, inviting them in. He noticed me and said, “Get over here and help.” Mr. Francis raised his hand like a traffic guard. “Not so fast. Why is he dressed like a child?” “Why, that’s Billy, of course. He’s pleased to eat you,” Laszlo said. “Billy Barker, in name and likeness, is property of Afterburn Pictures,” Mr. Francis said. “You own my likeness?” I said. “In perpetuity and throughout the universe.” I looked at the woman “How can you own my likeness? Why would you even want to?” “Merchandising,” she said. We moved to the dining room, the location of the notorious Thanksgiving scene that got Cannibal Family banned in Nova Scotia. My instinct was to leave immediately. I was wearing Transformers pjs for shit’s sake. But Laszlo said, “Help me run interference till Pressman shows up.” “I don’t know, man.” “Here’s what I know, man. If this meeting doesn’t go right, we’re all going to be was.” This was what I feared. No more museum meant no more stipend, which meant no more demo tape. I’d be on a Greyhound to Orlando, to the apartment with a popcorn ceiling and black mold in the bathroom, a mailbox jammed with menacing letters from creditors. Our meeting was off to a bad start. Mr. Francis was losing his patience. “Does your boss think our time is less valuable than his?” “No one is taking your time for granted. Dr. Pressman is en route, I assure you,” Laszlo said. Mr. Francis conferred with his colleague and made a call to his client. He agreed to wait a while longer. “So, you guys work for Afterburn?” I said to Ms. Stein. “Afterburn Pictures Corporation dissolved over twenty years ago. We represent its successors and assignees.” “I don’t know what that means.” “It’s boring. Tell me about yourself. Do you still act?” “Not so much. Music is my passion nowadays.” “Seriously?” she said, and frowned. “When you think about it, music is really the soundtrack of our lives.” She reminded me of Heather Woods, my former criminal lawyer who, only eight months after being admitted to the Florida Bar, took me to trial. Her defense was humiliating but had the added bonus of being unsuccessful. She had a psychologist testify that my brain was prone to bad influence because of my untraditional upbringing. My parents had been poor guardians, the doctor said, letting their child fend for himself in an adult business. Playacting during crucial developmental years had left me unable to discern reality from fantasy. I’d been indoctrinated into cannibalism, the last great taboo. I didn’t understand a lot of the doctor’s professional jargon, but I got the gist: I was a weak man, corruptible. Heather said, “If not exculpatory, my client’s immaturity is a mitigating factor.” Verdict came back guilty. I served twenty months, followed by supervised probation, mandatory counselling, and 1,200 hours of community service, nothing involving animals. Dr. Pressman still wasn’t here. Mr. Francis was incensed. “Does your boss not understand what is personally at stake for him?” “I assure you, he’s coming,” Laszlo said. “You keep saying that.” “Because it’s true, you silly little man.” I turned to Ms. Stein, hoping to distance myself from the rising conflict. “My band has a song called She’s So Precocious. It’s about my old lawyer. This one’s got a power-pop feel, A minor, F, C, G.” I went into my falsetto. “She’s So Precocious/ Out on the streets she’s ferocious/ Best believe she know this.” When I stopped singing and opened my eyes, she was writing on a legal pad. Half the page was filled. “What are you doing?” “I’m taking contemporaneous notes.” “What for?” “In case I have to depose you.” “I wouldn’t mind seeing you again either.” She smiled weakly, jotted more. I hoped to god Dr. Pressman showed up soon. The meeting was unraveling. “If he were serious about a settlement he wouldn’t have left us here with his henchman and a washed-up child actor,” Mr. Francis said. “Who are you talking to like that, my friend?” Laszlo said. “Lasz, take it easy,” I said. “I will not be degraded.” Laszlo stood up so quickly he overturned his chair. It looked as if he were about to storm out of the dining room, but he leaped across the table at Mr. Francis and, in the most literal case of life imitating art I’d ever seen, grabbed his head by his ears and bit his face. Ms. Stein flipped to a new page and scribbled furiously. * If you didn’t know better, you’d think Dr. Dale Pressman was just an average old white guy. He crept down the basement stairs, wearing a striped golf shirt tucked into pleated chino shorts, the collar standing up and brushing his long earlobes, boat shoes with no socks. His thin white hair was unkempt on his head, his face and throat a browned from the sun, his arms and legs bluish-white. I was on my fifth beer. “Well, hello there, Billy,” he said. “Not that it really matters, but Billy was the character. I’m Mick O’Grady.” “You certainly are.” “I guess you heard?” He let out a low whistle and nodded his head. “What happened here today, I hope you don’t think it reflects badly on you in any way.” “Why would I think that?” “That’s the spirit.” He opened the fridge and stared with his hands on his knees. “Mind if I help myself?” “You paid for them.” He chuckled and cracked open a can, walked to the pool table and sent the cue ball caroming off the rails. He sat with one buttock on the corner pocket and made a sound with his mouth like he was blowing bubbles. “What’s going to happen now?” I said. “Party’s over.” It really broke my heart when he said that. I couldn’t begin thinking about going home to fearless palmetto bugs the size of cigar butts that scuttled over my face while I failed to sleep. I couldn’t imagine walking by the recording studio and not being allowed inside, when I knew I was so close to finishing my demo tape. “Don’t say that, Dr. Pressman. Nothing’s over yet. You probably need a new administrator, though. Laszlo bit off that guy’s nose.” “He sure did.” He drained the beer in one long sip, then stood up and rocked back and forth on his heels with his hands in his pockets, jingling change. “And don’t forget, you’ve got me, Mick O’Grady. I’m not going anywhere.” The situation was bad, but not hopeless. Well, it might have been hopeless for a regular guy, or someone less than a regular guy, someone like me. But I assumed Dr. Pressman knew how to maneuver out of a jam. He was filthy rich, after all. “Remember the line, what my dad told me? ‘The family that slays together, stays together.’” “I’m not sure I follow, but I like your energy. How about we take this conversation upstairs? I’m getting claustrophobic down here.” In the kitchen, a team of men prowled around us, dousing the house in gasoline. “What’s going on?” I said. Pressman mimed striking a match and tossing it over his shoulder. “Whoosh!” “Shit,” I said. “Yes, sir.” “Just because those successors and assignees were here today doesn’t mean you have to knuckle under.” “What are you going on about?” “Lasz said—” “Laszlo ate a man’s face. I wouldn’t put too much stock in anything he says.” I watched his goons dump gas over the fruit basket wallpaper, the linoleum tile squares, the brown refrigerator with alphabet magnets on the door. “But I thought you were…a fan?” I said. Dr. Pressman said that Cannibal Family was one of his all-time favorites. The museum, though, was nothing more than a money laundering scam. He’d paid 400 percent of what the house was worth at auction. The renovation and restoration were invoiced at exponentially more than it had really cost. From the start he’d been buying time until the museum got shut down. And now he would cash out with a sizable insurance claim. Why was he telling me this? Because it didn’t matter if I knew. “Here’s an interesting fact,” he said, “You’re a convicted arsonist. What you probably aren’t aware of yet is that you will be held responsible for burning down my museum, which is a protected historic landmark. Why you would do this to me, after all I’ve done to help you, is a question that only you can answer.” “I’m a fucking idiot.” I felt like crying. “Now, Billy, don’t start throwing dirt on yourself.” “My name is Mick O’Grady.” “It’s not your fault you’re a snapdragon.” “A what?” “An early bloomer. Some of us peak early, some late. You were what, seven, in Cannibal Family?” “Eight.” “A command performance. One for the ages. You should be proud.” I felt dizzy and lurched for the kitchen sink, splashing cold water onto my face. “If you don’t mind an observation on my part, you don’t look well,” Dr. Pressman said. Of course, I didn’t. I straightened up and wiped water out of my eyes. He laid a hand on my shoulder, fixed his eyes on mine. “I’ve got to take a shit,” he said. “So, in conclusion: It’s been real, Bill. Good luck with everything.” He squeezed my shoulder and walked away. I stood there in the kitchen, where once as a boy I’d gnawed on latex replicas of human femurs with wild delight, and came to the stunning realization that this present moment felt no more like real life than the one that took place thirty years earlier. Then I ran into the purple bruise of dusk, completely unprepared for what Dr. Pressman had thrown at me. My timing was such that it seemed as if my momentum was turning on the streetlights as I raced past them down the sidewalk. I hadn’t gotten far when I smelled smoke. I wasn’t running to anywhere but away from everything. I wanted to run until I couldn’t be found, not by police or Relatives or lawyers who owned my likeness. I ran like I could outrun my past. My breath burned in my throat and beer sloshed in my gut. I ran for my life, knowing I had no place to go. And yet knowing that I was running to nowhere didn’t stop me because a destination came to mind at last. I ran like I was within sprinting distance of the ice wall and then I was only one giant climb away from that virginal land on the other side that Laszlo revered. I would stake a claim, declare myself sovereign, and guard over the animals that flourished there, a gregarious ruler who would one day be mythologized by future citizens. I had always wanted to be gregarious. Aaron Jacobs is the author of the novel The Abundant Life. Aaron’s second novel, Time Will Break the World, will be published in 2023. Other writing has appeared in Tin House, Alaska Quarterly Review, JMWW, Atticus Review, and elsewhere. Aaron mostly lives in the Catskills. Check out his website: aaronjacobswrites.com