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Beneath the Darkness She walks the tree-lined evening way, scattering spectres of the past subordinated to her command. The animals maintain their gaze without fear, accepting her as one of their own. She acknowledges kinship, but wishes to be left to her wounds, believing there is work to be done between them. Ready for battle should they refuse to be tamed, a peaceful resolution remains her goal. Beneath the darkness, there hides a gentle soul. His Last Return I'm waiting by the edge of wilderness, the point from whence my love has disappeared. If I must wait forever, then I must. The woodland sneaks, replete with cleft and cave. He pushed within, wee sacrificial lamb; still soldiers on, unmindful of his cares. Though I have often suffered, I am sure, as I have seen the wildness in his heart, these eyes will also witness love once more, for I am clear of motive and of mind, support him every twist and turn of his. Somewhere beyond, he weighs my words for proof. Our chimney smoke still rises high above. I stoke the flames, peel carrots, warm the stove and patiently await his last return. Lawrence Moore writes from a loft study overlooking the coastal city of Portsmouth where he lives with his husband Matt and nine mostly well behaved cats. He has poetry published at, among others, Sarasvati, Pink Plastic House, Fevers of the Mind and The Madrigal. His first collection, Aerial Sweetshop, was released by Alien Buddha Press in January 2022. @LawrenceMooreUK

Morbid curiosity compels us to do strange and awful things. I sit at the Magnolia Café tucked in the odd space between lunch and dinner, waiting. Normally clients have no interest in meeting their writers face to face. But he insisted, and for three thousand dollars I can’t say no. He arrives in plaid joggers, carrying papers while everyone else in the café grips a laptop or iPad. Only someone carrying papers would want to speak to their writer in person. See the veins in their hands. The crack of space between their lips. He slides in so close to me our arms touch. His hair is beginning to grey at the temples. His eyes are too dark to see light in them. I’m wearing a yellow sweater for him to easily recognize me. “I follow your work. It’s good,” he says. He shuffles through his stack, unearthing an obituary I wrote last month. A woman died on the train tracks. It took weeks to identify her, and the words hurt to type. With each click I felt the impact of the speeding locomotive. Obituaries are my least favorite to write. They take an emotional toll but they’re steady pay – someone’s always dying. “That’s not my best. Here.” I scroll through articles on my phone published in the last year but he shakes his head. “You’re clever at making something awful sound beautiful. The woman on the tracks, did she kill herself, or was it an accident?” His eyes flicker with embers of interest. “No idea,” I tell him. His question feels like picking a scab. “What exactly do you want?” I know the answer. I read his email, but I need to hear the words. “A suicide note.” His voice is flat. He waves to the waitress, asking for a black coffee and slice of pie. “What kind?” she coos, leaning on charm for tips. “Your favorite.” When he grins, he’s attractive. “Is this a joke?” I ask once she’s scuffled off to the next table. I don’t know what to do. Call the police? Toss my water at him? Take the job? “Nothing funny. I need to leave a note for my loved ones, to ease their suffering after I’m gone.” I nod, not because I think I can change his mind. Save him. Instead, I nod because I want to be a better writer. The writer he needs for this job. “Here.” He opens an envelope, and cash flops out. “All yours if the note fits the bill,” he adds grimly. “Unlike the obituaries, I’ll see your handiwork before I’m dead.” “Where do we begin?” I fish out a notepad and pen from my purse, retiring my phone. “You’re the journalist. I’ve never written one of these before,” he says. I think he’s lying and wonder how many times he tried to write the note before deciding to hire a professional. How many crumpled goodbyes litter his trash bin. When I don’t speak, he volunteers meaningless information. “I’m an attorney. Not the charitable kind. I work for profit, so there’s no saving that,” he says after a pause. “Wife? Children?” I ask. He wears no ring but mentioned love ones. “Neither. Four sisters, though. And a mother and grandmother.” This isn’t getting us anywhere. “Tell me a story about yourself. Let me get to know you,” I try instead. He grips the paper napkin, tugging it back and forth as if he’s fighting with himself, then drops a black leather wallet on the table. “I don’t have stories. I have clippings. Mementos.” I’m afraid to pick up the evidence. His name is in there. His address. Once I know those things, I can’t unknow them. I am an accomplice, like it or not. He’s older than I thought. Forty-two. Taller, too, because who can tell when you’re sitting with someone that they’re well over six feet. He’s saved movie tickets from the old theater downtown that still prints them like it’s 1987. He watches historical films. He’s a man who favors the past over the present. And a few barely worn credit cards, organized by color. He prefers cash. He’s neat. Orderly. Nothing screams crisis in the wallet. Tucked off in the side pocket are two pages folded up. One is from the bible. Another, a Superman comic. “Are you allowed to rip this out?” I ask him. “I don’t think comic books are sacred,” he jokes. “Both are reminders. When I was little my Dad forced me to attend church, every Sunday and sometimes during the week. I’d slip comics in my pocket to read them when no one was looking. They made more sense to me than what the priest said. When Dad caught me, he dragged me out back to the treehouse behind our house where I’d dig holes until he thought I was sorry enough for misbehaving.” “That’s terrible.” It’s only my imagination but I see dirt beneath his nails. “No, it wasn’t. He stayed to dig with me. Otherwise he was working, or away. It kept him with me just a bit longer, so I didn’t mind.” “Is he dead?” I ask. “No, just gone.” The waitress delivers his pie. She reads over my shoulder, and I can’t tell if she’s looking at the comic or the bible page. Neither hold her interest. “Is this from your father’s bible?” I ask my client. “Yes.” I’m not religious, so I can’t place the page in any larger context. I just know it’s equally as tattered as the comic. Loss has a way of gnawing at someone over time. I’m wondering how many years it took before my client stopped finding the will to unfold the pages and remember the past. I realize there is a limit to this. If I don’t start writing the suicide note, he’ll find someone else who might take the money and never bother to open his wallet. “Let’s start with the big questions, I guess. Who, what, where, when, why?” I’m traveling blindly, so I go back to the basics. The journalist’s prayer, because I’m down on my knees digging for a way out of this. For both of us. “How,” he murmurs, the first bit of melancholy escaping his lips. “The how is important. I want people to know I didn’t suffer.” “How, then?” I ask. “Sleeping pills,” he responds. “I’ll visit a nice hotel, eat a respectable meal, then sleep.” There’s no saving him, I decide, paralyzed by the resolve in his face. Just delaying him. Delaying him long enough to figure out what the fuck I should do. “Ok, who should the letter go to?” My voice cracks. “My oldest sister, Eliza.” He drops a pre-stamped envelope next to his pie. “What?” “What’s the point of going through all this? What’s the point in doing anything for another forty years? I’m just done.” His breath is even, like a pendulum swinging between us. “Where?” “The hotel. I told you already.” He sips his coffee, wincing at the heat. “Regency South. I’ve booked the honeymoon suite.” I raise my eyebrows. “It was the only suite left. I’m not a weirdo, and I refuse to die on a twin bed in the economy room,” he says. “When?” He leans in and brushes my hair away from my ear so he can whisper. “Tonight at eleven. This is confidential. I’ve paid you. You can’t warn anyone, or you’re breaking a trust.” The last question has been asked and answered, but the interview will feel unfinished if I don’t ask. “Why?” “That I’ll leave to you in the letter. You’re a writer. Come up with a reason.” For the third time he slides something across the table to me. Stationery with a name on the top. “Won’t they recognize that the handwriting is wrong?” The stationery stares up at me. “Don’t worry. My attorney will know, that I hired someone. You can’t get in trouble for this. I promise.” His eyes are dark again, narrowed towards the pen in my hand. He bows his head over the key lime pie. I imagine him in Sunday school, perched on his knees in fancy trousers, sneaking Superman from his pocket. The nuns tell him to be sorry, to tally what he’s done wrong that week. But he’s out of their reach in the make-believe world. He’s waiting for his hero, satisfied when his Dad tells him to dig in their backyard. That’s the letter I write for him. Not a suicide note, but the ending he doesn’t expect. The why evaporates. I write the story I’m capable of, and when he reads it, he stops breathing. Only for a minute. The story where his father doesn’t go. Where the holes are filled and guilt is relegated to the church or buried beneath the treehouse, not in my client’s heart because people leave and others come back. “I was wrong. You’re a shitty writer.” He takes a sip of the coffee, now cooled to the autumn breeze outdoors, once he’s read the letter. But he folds it in fours, tucking it in next to the other pages of his wallet. The envelope to Eliza sits abandoned on the table. “I can’t take the money,” I lie, keeping it firmly under my hand. “You can.” He wipes his mouth and stands, his shadow falling over the table. “The letter eased someone’s suffering. It’s all I asked.” Sarah Clayville can be found at @SarahSaysWrite and at her website SarahSaysWrite.com

I’ll have an order of Happy Family with a side of pork fried rice. —And, for me . . . General Tso’s Chicken with a side of Lo Mein—and two eggrolls, too! says Nina spryly. —Will that be all, asks Mrs. Réncí. We both nod. —Okay : One happy family, side of pork fried rice; one general tso’s chicken with lo mein noodles, and two eggrolls? she confirms, nodding and winking at Nina. —That’s correct, Nina says. Thanks, smiling. —It’ll be about fifteen minutes. —We’ll wait outside, I say. Thanks again. Mrs. Réncí nods an acknowledgment, turning toward the kitchen. Her daughter, Yù, sits at the lone table in this take-out-only-Chinese-spot, playing a game on her tablet, occasionally looking up to witness the night through the windowpane. We eyesmile and nod at the young girl as we exit. Nina takes a cigarette from her pack, grabs the lighter, lowers her mask, and is inhaling shortly after stepping out. Cigarettes, counterintuitive to the less conscientious smoker’s notion that smoking is a means by which the body calms, cause the heart to race. She’s already drunk on a chemical cocktail of neurotransmitters, bloomed in a warm wash of adrenaline, which, half an hour, or so, ago, was surging through her. A wave, now ebbing, she continues to wade in after the pre-opening-night, invitation-only dress rehearsal. There’s no need for further cardiac arousal, but—what do I, the former-smoker, know. The cast performed well tonight. Three Sisters, she, Irina. Only minor hiccups. A typical audience member won’t be wise to such negligible errs. They may experience the miscues as interpretation, but nothing more. The cast is prepared for tomorrow, opening night. I’m proud of Nina. She’s proud of herself. They are proud of themselves. The pride is well partook of. We’re all a bit giddy, for reasons both personal and shared. —Hand me your phone, I want to see the pictures you took, Nina urges. Fingers clawing the air urgently. —O, it’s a lot. I took so many. You’ll be pleased. —Good, good, good, and good and good and good—now gimme! Upon viewing the first picture, we stop to talk about it as if one of us weren’t just there and required the unphotographed details explained. A swipe or two later, stop again for reportage. Excitement is too often quite repetitive. As we’re swiping back and forth—a duet of “O, wait!” prompted by each picture, recounting what was captured, how the audience responded, critiques—I notice in my peripheral vision a silver sedan slowing, window rolled, down, with a gentleman whose rived eyes are intent on getting my attention. I look up from the phone. My smile recasts from ecstatic to inquisitive. I say : —Hey, what’s up? “You know,” he says dumblysmuglygrinning, with fever bright in his eyes, “if you take that mask off, you’ll grow some balls.” Nina hisses, exhaling. A grumbling something careens up her throat, borne of that odorous stuff in the guttural place whence venom waits, churning. I cut her off by grabbing her wrist, snugly. The silent no need. Caught off-guard, I stare the man in his riving gaze and say, peevishly : —Alright. Calm down, buddy. I turn my back, choosing to ignore him, facing Nina. Later, I’ll resent myself for this misstep, this surrendered position. He turns the corner, leaving his mark. Severance. Scene. Facing Nina, entirely turned around, her body once again makes a grumbling, discontented noise, and I say : —Don’t worry about it. Misery loves company. We’ve declined the invitation. He continues his egress out of the parking lot, onto the highway, leaving this moment, a hero to himself. The one-man show. This moment a triumph, a trophy. In my head, his voice replays, “if you take that mask off, you’ll grow some balls,” and immediately a post-startle emptiness begins to bloat inside me. Similar to when you haven’t eaten in so long, bowel acid distends your stomach into a lacuna of some thing, swollen acerbic, starving. Why must every decision a man comes to in his life be tantamount to a case of having manifested, or failed, his masculinity, his manhood? Since when did concern for one’s health, the health of those proximal, become conflated with the absence or abundance of testosterone? What if my thoughts have always been concerned with being beyond man? Pretentious or proactive, whatever the assessment, I could care less. Should. I pull my mask down, just off of my nose, and breathe the frayed night in. Why? Why would I do that? Pull my mask down—even if only just. I leave it partially removed for a few seconds to not draw attention to the fact that I did, in fact, do that. I return the mask to its mooring. Behind the mask, I smile, a forced smile. I laugh at her fooling about, a distracted laugh. I do my best to reciprocate. This, the etiquette of engagement. Yet, if I were asked to summarize the previous couple minutes of our conversation, I would say : uhm . . . My attention remains riven. Alright, calm down, buddy . . . What! I can’t believe myself. I cannot fathom how my wit so wavered. This is what a writer, one of the wittiestwitterlywritmen this town has ever known, retorts with? Calm down? Calmer. Sich beruhigen. Tranquilo. Calma— Nope. Not in any language would this riposte suffice. I mean, the most material, and mutual, albeit void of sadistic succor, salvo to send would have been to have said : —I hope you have a wonderful night. To you, and your family, be well. No incisiveness. No mordancy. Only decency and good will can serve as salvor to such malignant behavior. I am aware that there are plenty of examples, antediluvian lessons which dictate the fighting of fire with flame. Well, that’s akin to saying, “To respond in kind, one must choke a strangle,” and what sense does make that? Decency. Yes, decency should be allowed to serve as a relief-valve. Decompress. Though the night has surely been blanched of some of its sanguinity, she minds her cigarette, near extinguished, completing the swipe-through of a night well-received, an effort earnestly made. She breeches : —I hope you enjoyed it, Shaun, the performance, I mean. —I did. And as far as I could tell, so did the other guests. I’d say, a success! —I’m elated, excited! Elatedly excited! —I can see it all over you. I’m happy for you. (Pause.) —Hey, you know what surprised me most? —What’s that? says Nina. —I was worried, having worked night after night after night, reading and reciting with you, that the story wouldn’t resonate any longer, would fail to have the impact it did previously; the humor, you know. Before I knew so well the lines, what would occur, and how. —AND? Nina insists, feigning offense. —And I was pleasantly surprised. —Memorization isn’t the same at all, is it, her speech becoming supercilious in tone. It lacks the subtlety and vibrance of a performance. Timing, interplay. A theatrical tincture well blended, she waxes histrionically. —Rehearsal is very rote. Machine, ing, ing, ing. Per–func–tor–ee–ee–ee! I add. We share a chuckle to reward our silliness. The delight of the night has, to some degree, slowly returned. Re-arrival. Less rived. Further decompression. She looks over her shoulder, not turning, through the glass, to check the countertop for a brown paper bag. One that could have our name on it. Not yet, only the two previously there, still awaiting pick up. Yù is staring through the window, at us—past us—with those eyeswhichalwayssmile. I’m certain Yù witnessed the interaction, but how. How has Yù interpreted the previous scene? We see each other seeing the other. She returns her gaze to the game, to swipe through another level. None the wiser? And— Why didn’t I grab my phone, take a picture of his license plate as he was leaving. You never really know with people like that. That information could have been useful, if. If they can convince themselves to rupture the delicate membrane of civil decorum, acting so truculent and uncouth . . . you just never know. You should. I shouldn’t mind. —O, I still have your phone, Nina says. Here you go, extending the phone toward. I take the phone from her. A quick look at the time, almost eleven. Midnight nearing. I persist somewhat twittered. I see the two bikers in the parking lot in front of the market. I saw them before, but now I see them. The incessant americana. The bumper stickers exclaiming a ‘return to greatness’ and “god’s way is the highway.” The back of a tee-shirt which reads “ . . . the bitch fell off!” I saw them before. Now they concern me. They shouldn’t— The claustrophobic nearness, which is night, its defining attribute, it, too, has turned to concern. My appetite hungers absent. Not of my concern. Perhaps I’ll drink a beer when we get home. Maybe. In accord with the cigarette-smokers, I would be in their faulty belief that sanctuary can be found in the form of a substance. We’d coexist in a sameness defined by its differences. And yet again, “If you take that mask off, you’ll grow some balls.” —Do you really believe balls grow in mouths? This, too, a liberal return. Shine Ballard, the fainéantmanqué, uses notebooks . . . and ekes by a pencil. @shineballard

The period from November until January poem for Maria Berry is deer season. which means. it’s time. to dress up. as buildings and hide behind each other. time to cover. the lake. with sheet music. and then. watch it soak through. become itself again. but. with Shubert at the bottom. I like to say. the word. Year. over and faster until. I sound like an engine. like a spinning wilderness. the deer are. everywhere just now. at the window. in our clothes. drinking from the poems. of men in their fifties. the trick. is to be. quieter. than the letter F. to be still. as a calendar if you have. food. you should eat it. if you have. a gun. you should. load it with candy. leave it. in the grass. the ants will thank you. in their copious. halls. in their antlore. we are all houses for someone. Schubert believed. everyone. lived inside Beethoven. he was half right. half of us. only come out at night. only drink. from our own. cupped hands. the other. half. are invisible. against the trees. On Beginning to Feel It You don’t know you’re drunk until you miss something; a beat, a word, a face. Today my computer wants proof I’m not a robot. The ground falls away just a little with each step. Or you sit down too quickly. I’m trying to remember the name of my first pet. I know a man who plays blues records backwards to make his lover come home. Only a kind of innocence has returned. And an old milk cow. It’s a good idea to mark your cup with a pen, a bent straw, maybe a flower from the table. That way there’s no confusion, no red house over yonder. What secret question could you possibly ask yourself to fool an imposter? To be bathed in light is half the universe. I once loved a poet who refused to leave the house. It got so bad, I began to write, too. Dark is the night, cold is every pixel of the night. Drink ‘til you can’t tell you’re drinking, sing the chorus early. My dog’s first name was Doctor. That’s all I can bare to say. To Whom It May Disturb All these envelopes on the table, each with another one inside, we could use them to send love poems instead of money, how easy it would be. Dear Telephone Co., You are a field of blue flowers waving down the night and I am full of stars. Dear Water & Power, My heart is your lightning farm, kiss me. Dear California Gas, Do you think of me when the forest burns, because I think of you and touch my cold stove. If we were steadfast, surely someone would answer in kind. They might even come to our door, a lonely clerk or bookkeeper, whoever reads the mail, standing on the porch with flowers or a suitcase. We could watch from upstairs and cry and cry. A note from the author: I’m a poet based in Los Angeles. In addition to teaching a local high school, I’ve spent the last five years working with speech pathologists to develop poetry classes for people with Aphasia and Traumatic Brain Injuries (TBI).

The dragonflies were out in hundreds, flying erratically along invisible paths of sharp and surprising angles. She sat and watched them and the catbirds that swooped into the frenzy to eat. It had been over four years since she’d moved north and tried to a assume a new attitude, a new identity, tried to slip into a new culture as if it had always fit. It was only here, alone, perched on the uppermost step of her grandmother’s front porch that she could quietly and gracefully accept that she, and her parents, and her grandparents, and their ancestors, they were all from right here. She’d left because she was tired of men who drove barefoot and of having no choice but to see doctors who dined with her parents after Sunday service and of the summertime scream of locusts hidden in trees. She’d left to be anonymous and sophisticated, to try to put her degree to use, only she was tiring of all of that, too. The choice to stay here in her grandmother’s house was wide open to her, like the choice to peel her socks off or let her hair down. She could stay or she could sell, allowing her grandmother’s sitting room to fill with unfamiliar rocking chairs and the bathroom to clear, after decades, of the lilac smell of Everly soap. Both choices were unthinkable. She sat suspended, jerking between them like the dragonflies that pelted against the screen door before floating into the current of brackish wind. She imagined her life in her grandmother’s house. She would remember how to grow things. She would fill the birdfeeders year-round and put the crab traps away for good. She would make the guest room perfect for her niece, Norah. She would make everything perfect for Norah and for Norah’s mother and she would ask them to move in with her. She would work at the library like she did as a teenager, stretching the meager budget to fill the shelves with new books. She pretended that Norah wasn’t already enrolled in a dreamy, elite school for smart kids, that her mother wouldn’t mind throwing away two years on the waiting list to come out here and send Norah to the public school that didn’t have enough teachers or books or desks, for that matter. It was strange, seeing problems that had always been problems and not knowing how to solve them. Or rather, knowing how, but being cut off at the knees and the wrists and, if you tried too hard to push against those things that were meant to appear unsolvable, the neck. The afternoon saw her stay where she was, her elbows rested against warped plywood painted, years ago, red. The air shifted, its moisture getting dragged back out to the bay. The dragonflies followed suit. It was like sharing a secret language, like peeling her socks off, like letting her hair down. It was like closing her eyes and knowing the way. Molly Andrea-Ryan is a poet and prose writer living in Pittsburgh, PA. Her work can be found in Idle Ink, trampset, and elsewhere.

Dinner was over, the plates were collected, and the waiter asked if we wanted to see the dessert menu. I couldn’t manage another bite, but Gus Gringrott smiled and said, “Bring it over, my good man. I’m a slave to my sweet tooth!” Gus Gringrott had been like that ever since I met him a few years previous. Chocolate brownies, salted caramel ice cream, fudge cake, apple crumble…You name it. If it was covered in sugar and filled with calories, he’d eat it. Gus could go toe to toe with a truffle, he would make short work of a shortcake, pulverise a pile of pancakes, knock out a knickerbocker glory. And afterwards, he would always grin and wink, “Got to keep the sweet tooth happy!” After dessert had been devoured and the bill paid, we left the restaurant and stepped into the brisk evening night. The wind slapped my face and a chill danced over my skin. I asked Gus if he wanted to join me for a stiff drink somewhere warm, but he declined and told me he was still peckish, desiring instead to wander off in search for a snack. “But, you just had dinner and dessert?” I asked, exasperated. “You can’t still be hungry?” “I might not be, but he is,” Gus replied, his smile fading. He opened his mouth wide, and one of his canines– discoloured and mean looking– sneered at me. In a voice that sounded like rusty nails and cigarette smoke, it ordered, “Go find us an ice-cream van, or doughnut stand, you big slob!” Gus tried to reply, his jaw still wide open and his face a painting of pain and embarrassment, but all he could manage was a garbled cry of denial. The tooth, half rotted away and full of disdain, yanked at Gus’s own lip with a threat full of malice. “Don’t you forget who’s the boss around here! Now go!” Gus Gringrott closed his mouth and rubbed the tender area. “Sorry about that,” he said to me. “I’ve told you before; I’m a slave to my sweet tooth.” Samuel Edwards writes silly words and foolish stories, all in a vain attempt to be respected and adored. Please don't hold it against him. He has a Bachelor of Arts Honours Degree from the University of Leeds, and is studying for a Masters in Creative Writing. Samuel writes primarily to impress his pet cat, a feat he will never accomplish. Previously published in Vestal Review, The Birdseed and Flash Fiction Magazine, among others. Tweets at @Sam_Edwards1990.

George Frederic Handel Hotel If you happen to be staying at the George Frederic Handel Hotel during your time in Dublin, and you’ve made the perilous decision to rent a car, spring for the GPS. While the hotel itself doesn’t have a parking lot, they will provide you with a coupon for the garage at Christchurch, which is just a quick 10 minute walk down the road. However, I advise you drive past the hotel before making your way to the parking structure in order to familiarize yourself with the location. Because, while proximity may be on your side, the George Frederic is located on a small side street called Fishamble which no Dublin local has apparently ever heard of. Ever. I mean no one. Don’t even bother asking. You’ll have better luck finding out how to locate the lost city of Brigadoon. Once you manage to amble to Fishamble, however, the hotel itself is quite quaint. The front desk is manned by a staff of friendly eastern Europeans who, once you get an ear for the accent, are a limitless source of information regarding all of the St. Patrick’s Day festivities happening in town. As a bonus, they can also point you in the direction of every secret hideout that serves up a steaming bowl of authentic kapusniak and will remind you of this each and every time you pass by, whether you ask them to or not. The room itself met all of our basic needs. It’s clean, well-kept and decently sized by EU standards. When I booked the reservation, I had requested two double beds; one for myself and one for Aldo, my cousin and travel companion. Upon entering the room, however, we were met with three twin beds, each roughly the width of a Snickers bar. Perhaps there was some confusion in the conversion from imperial to metric but, nonetheless, the extra bed is a great place to toss your baggage (both literal and emotional) and to conserve floor space. Because, trust me, you’re going to need it. Which brings us to the bathroom. If you’ve packed any electrical appliances, the luck of the Irish may not be on your side as there is exactly one outlet in the entire room and it’s located inside the closet across from the bathroom door. For those of you wishing to blow-dry your hair, here’s a tip: bring an extension cord. However, if you lack the necessary luggage space, the hotel provided dryer will work with your outlet converter and the wire is just long enough to reach the bathroom doorway…as long as you remain on your knees. But, never fear, the vanity mirror sinks just low enough that it cuts off right at the eye line (for reference, I’m 5’8”). After wrangling with this personally, I’m now convinced this very predicament is what originally birthed leprechaun lore. It’s no legend. Just a myth perpetuated by a bunch of inebriated tourists who, in trying to zazz up their coifs a bit, forgot what they were doing, got jolted out of their skins by a squat pair of eyes staring back from the mirror and returned home with stories of enchanted imps and pots of gold. If the front desk gives you a floor option, I suggest picking a third floor street-facing room. The windows are thick enough to keep out the March chill, but thin enough so as to keep you perpetually immersed in the comforting, muffled rumble from the downstairs pub intermittently punctuated by the sound of co-eds (all of them named after some flyover state capital) as they spill out onto the street. With each swing of the door Cheyenne and Topeka will invariably argue back-and-forth for twenty minutes over which one was “supposed to call the fucking Uberrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr;” their shrieks waging battle against the 586th version of “I’m Gonna Be” that some sauced karaoke hopeful convinced themself was an idea whose hilarity was only outdone by its originality. City dwellers will find the sidewalk commotion to be an endearing reminder of home while suburbanites can rest well knowing that, at the very least, the chronic cacophony works well to drown out the thunderous lager-fueled snores from Aldo in the adjacent bed. The hotel’s greatest asset is easily its location. Situated just around the corner from the entryway to the historic and popular Temple Bar district, finding your way back is effortlessly accomplished in even the most gelatinous of stupors. And, should you find yourself peckish after three hours of lying face-down on your bed praying that the world will stop spinning, there is a Subway conveniently located on the corner adjacent to the hotel’s main entrance. No, it might not be the authentic cuisine you were looking for but it’s close and, what’s more, it’s the only thing open at 11:30pm on St. Patrick’s Day without a disturbing smellscape greeting you upon entry. An additional plus to the George Frederic is its reliable wifi. Unlike most of these smaller hotels, the staff does not change the password every day. And so, every crossing of the threshold will have you reaching for your back pocket as your phone syncs up to the network and provides you with the reassuring vibration that signifies the receipt of emails, text messages or, if you’re like me, newly-minted matches on Bumble. Also, if you’re like me, you’re most probably returning from the aforementioned Subway, half-eaten sandwich in hand, to find both your bed and the mystery third bed completely ransacked while your roommate noisily inhales his mattress, recovering from what appears to have been a rather savage hookup who has since vanished. But, don’t fret. Instead, use the mixture of rage and jealously from this discovery to fuel your own search for some cross-Atlantic hanky-panky. If you don’t find the damp residue of a stranger on your bed sheets to be particularly inviting, the windowsill provides just enough of a ledge on which to sit and admire the view while you furiously swipe right on every cute guy within a five-kilometer radius. And finally, after chatting for a couple of hours with Tyler, an adorable and seemingly charismatic American traveling with a university tourist group, you can decide to stop beating around the proverbial bush and make plans to meet up. Sure, he’s not the freckled, brogueish local you were hoping to bag. Sure, it’s 2:30 in the morning and you’re about to meet an unfamiliar individual in the pitch-black darkness of a city you barely know. And, sure, you should probably tell Aldo, the only person within a thousand-mile radius who’s even aware that you exist. But, screw it, if you can’t try your luck in Dublin on Irish Christmas then your balls are purely ornamental. St. Patrick’s Cathedral When meeting a Bumble hookup in the early hours of the morning, standing in the middle of a city you don’t know, location is everything. Ideally, you should find a place that is somewhat symbolic and sprinkled with just a hint of irony. Convenience is also a major factor, especially when physical distance is impeding the sense of immediacy. Taking all of these matters into consideration, it is best to try and find a meeting point that is as close to the halfway mark between the two of your hotels, especially if your soon-to-be playmate is griping about how late it already is and how we “just need to make a decision already.” Normally, you wouldn’t put up with such puerile irritants but you’ve already lumbered back into your clothes and brushed the flecks of tuna sandwich out of your teeth, so this shit is going down. In a perfect world, this place would also be fairly well lit and sufficiently visible to the public so as to allow yourselves an opportunity to evaluate each other while simultaneously diminishing the likelihood of being thrown into the back of an unmarked van and, subsequently, your life being turned into a Lifetime movie. But, dawn approaches and anyone still on the street is likely to be either homeless or passed out, so beggars can’t be choosers. Now, it may take some persuasion to convince the other party that meeting in front of a church is not, somehow, the weirdest idea ever. It is, after all, exactly midway between yours and his hotel and the spires of the bell towers should be easy to spot even in the haze of twilight. But, once he agrees and you head out into the dewy chill, you can’t help but laugh at the inarguable humor in it all; two sinners conspiring to commit an abomination in front of the house of the Lord. It’s as if Colonel Sanders and Roy Rogers had decided to have a picnic in front of the headquarters for PETA. There’s no salvation on the menu tonight. St. Patrick’s Cathedral is an easy ten minute walk from the George Frederic Hotel and it provides just enough time for any semblance of excitement or arousal to bubble down into pure dread until it sits like acid in your stomach. You should know when you’ve arrived as your intestines will have knotted up so tightly, they’ll be unmistakable from the braided Celtic crosses that adorn the church’s façade. But, before nerves are able to send you running in the opposite direction, you stop in your tracks as a figure becomes visible. Just across the street, no more than two hundred feet away, a young man stands under gothic arches bathed in Kelly green light from ground level lanterns that make the house of holiness look like a gargantuan topiary. He’s tall. Incredibly tall. You wonder how someone could look so tall from this far away. Is he cute? Could be. Too hard to tell from here. And, just as you notice you’ve stopped breathing, your phone buzzes and knocks the wind back into you. Fumbling, you lean over and peer into the screen, cradling it in your hands so as to prevent the illumination from giving you away. There are too many answers to this question. I mean, really, where are you? Geographically, you only have the wisp of an idea and, mentally, you don’t even want to think about the actual prospect of this undertaking because the possible consequences should be more than enough to send you running into the abbey screaming “Sanctuary!” But, this isn’t Paris, you’re not Quasimodo and, oh look, the young man has cocked his head in your direction. And, as if your feet and your brain have made a tacit agreement without your counsel, you’re suddenly on the other side of the street without even the tiniest recollection of having moved. “Joe?” You’ll likely find it unbelievable that, with one word, he can make your knees buckle. He’s younger than you, sure, but in this mischievous glow, he looks to be about nineteen years old. His baby face and slender frame don’t quite match the deep and rounded voice that softly bellows from his throat as he pronounces your name in a way you’ve never heard before, a way that makes you question whether you’ve been pronouncing it correctly all these years. As he stands there swimming in a black pea coat, you pretend not to notice his shoulders relax as he scans your body from stem to stern and raises the corner of his upper lip to expose a flash of gorgeous white chompers. Another bonus to choosing St. Patrick’s is the fact that it sits as an island at the intersection of four streets. So, the sidewalk that wraps around the structure provides the perfect rounded pathway on which to muddle through the introductory chitchat as you meander along the lengthy parapets of the hallowed fortress and discreetly size each other up. The cathedral takes so long to orbit, in fact, that by the time you’ve reached your starting position Tyler has managed to divulge that he’s the middle child of divorced parents, tells you all about his deep south-frat boy-tour group roommate, and reveals that he attends a university in New Jersey a mere 45 minute drive from where you live. But, before you’re able to pause long enough to let all of this knowledge sink in, he breaks the silence. “Can I just try something?” And, with that, he’ll land two perfectly soft, pink and symmetrical lips onto yours as you’re pressed gently but firmly against the wrought iron fence. You’re not quite sure how you managed to get lifted off of the ground but you know you’d have to be in order to reach his mouth. You’re not quite sure of anything, really. Your phone number, your name, your home address all seem to have been misplaced. All you know for certain is that no one has ever kissed you like this before and you’re suddenly afraid no one else will ever again. One smirk. One trip around a cathedral. One kiss is all it took for him to quickly and efficiently Sally Rooney your giblets clean off. “Glad we got that out of the way. You wanna come back to my room?” It’s at this point that you should probably take a minute to feign indecisiveness because: A) You really have no idea where he’s taking you, B) You don’t want to seem desperate, and C) For God’s sake, Jesus is watching. But, when the Jeopardy clock has run out, you know you’re going with him because Aldo is busy sawing down trees back at your hotel and, while you may be a nature enthusiast, the sounds of lumber farming won’t quite set the mood you’re looking to create. So, here is where you allow him to take your hand (yes, people still do that) and usher you off of the emerald isle you’ve been circling. Be sure to take note of street names and landmarks when crossing the River Liffey into a part of Dublin that you’ve yet to explore. But, even if you manage to get lost as you Hansel and Gretel your way through the inevitable morning walk of shame, St. Patrick will still be there to guide you. Camden Deluxe Hotel Your stay at the Camden Deluxe Hotel was a brief but illuminating one. Located in a fairly dodgy part of Dublin, the front door is always locked, requiring guests to be buzzed in by the desk agent where they then must sign the registry every time they return. Once you get past the lobby, which is no larger than a postage stamp, a narrow stairwell leads you into the upper corridors and through a sea of beige. Beige carpeting, beige walls, beige ceilings. Color scheme by Dockers™. The intention here is to draw your focus to the long line of doorways upon which are emblazoned bright gold stars. You see, the rooms are not numbered. They are, in fact, named after famous Irish actors and personalities of past and present. Wandering down the hall, you’re likely to spot some names you recognize and others you don’t. There’s the Liam Neeson Room, the Maureen O’Sullivan Room, the Adrian Dunbar Room, et al. The idea itself is almost charming. That is, until you’re rudely reminded of the caliber of traveler that stays here. As you face your room of destination, the Brenda Fricker Room, nostalgia washes over you and images of the bird woman from Home Alone 2: Lost in New York run through your brain. But the happiness is short lived once you notice that some petulant turd has scraped off certain letters, thus renaming the suite: The B end a rick Room Poor Brenda. And poor Rick, for that matter. There’s no time for dwelling, however, as soon you’ll find yourself on the other side of the door, sitting pensively on a twin bed wrapped with sheets so flimsy and uncomfortable that the thread count must be somewhere in the negatives. Tyler eyes you from the corner as he kicks off his shoes and tosses his coat into a wall unit clearly purchased from the “As-Is” section of IKEA. He sits next to you and slowly runs his hand up your back, pulling off your winter beanie and working his fingers through your disheveled mane. “I used to style my hair this way,” he breathes, resting your right ear in the crook of his thumb and index finger. His gaze is unsettling. Icy gray eyes command your attention in a determined stare that completely unmakes you. At once you are nervous, lucid, nauseous, confused, guarded, weak, shaken, resolute, hungry and aroused. Until now, you never knew you could be all of those things at the same time. But there you are. And, there he is, slowly letting you fall into his hand as he lays your body out with a smooth flourish. Straddling your chest, he slowly undoes the buttons of his shirt, exposing a silver cross that dangles against a backdrop of smooth flesh so wholesome and pale you’re sure it must be pasteurized. Then it’s your turn. Button by button, he runs his fingers down the center of your chest and slides the panels apart, leaving you so exposed it’s not certain whether it was your shirt or your ribcage that was just torn open. “OK, yea, I can definitely tell you used to be a swimmer.” You don’t recall telling him you were a swimmer. “I love your body.” And, that’s where it begins. The systematic undoing of every emotional guard, firewall and booby trap that you’ve meticulously set after years of insecurity and over-analysis made way for failure after epic failure in your love life. Every lie, every text that went unreturned, every guy that used you for a couple of nights and then tossed you aside had stacked up like blocks in a game of Jenga until the top of the tower was so high it was no longer visible. But, as anyone who’s played the game knows, it only takes the removal of a few carefully chosen blocks to bring the entire structure tumbling down. And, little do you know the demolition man is already hard at work. One block down. Over the next couple hours, clothes, words and decency will become scarce as you come to feel more and more at home at this shoddy hotel, exploring a foreign body in a foreign land. The clinking radiator that had been a nuisance when you walked in will become your metronome, tapping out a rhythm as you sate and fellate while it simultaneously wags its finger at you in disapproval. However, you’ll be too caught up in the moment for that to even register. Somehow, you’ve convinced yourself that, by taking this risk, by spitting in the face of danger, you’re doing something completely unlike yourself and, thus, perhaps it’s not you at all. And, if it’s not you, then all bets are off and the rules no longer apply. But fate knows no time zones and destiny never has to pay for oversized baggage. And, as you lay there, all skin and sweat and carbon dioxide, he gives you your lips back and takes you by surprise. “Can I please see you when we get back home?” Two blocks down. He wants to see you. He’s asking to see you. This is not supposed to happen. Vacation hookups are supposed to be like hotel beds, used at night and left in the morning for someone else to take care of. What happens in Vegas, right? But you’ve never been that person, and you’ve never really liked Vegas and it doesn’t even matter because there’s a noise at the door and you’re suddenly on your feet frantically trying to pull your pants up while Tyler throws on his shirt and throws down instructions. “You’re a friend from home, OK? We ran into each other at the bar and came here to shoot the shit and catch up.” It’s here that you’ll want to smile and nod but don’t even bother thinking about trying to find a way out because, within minutes, you’re shaking the hand of Cash, an inordinately plowed 20 year-old from Kennesaw, Georgia who is offering you a swig from the bottle of Jameson he swiped from the pub. He buys Tyler’s introduction of you without even batting an eye and proceeds to regale you with the debauched tales of his day through an accent that would make Ouiser from Steel Magnolias feel like a Yankee. Not once does he seem to notice or question why his bed is freshly made and Tyler’s has been torn apart nor is he phased by the fact that you have a thick clump of hair matted to your forehead and that your belt remains unfastened. He just wants to know what pubs you’ve hit. He listens to you intently as you answer his questions, all the while peeling every piece of clothing off of himself until he’s down to his underwear at which time he belly flops onto his comforter and begins to snore. At this point, you’ll want to look at the clock because it’s nearly five AM and you’re supposed to check out and be on the road to Cork by eight. But, as you begin to gather your things, Tyler interjects. “Why walk all the way back tonight? Just stay here and leave in the morning.” “Yeah man, stay here,” says Cash, smacking his lips and immediately going back to devouring his pillow. “Stay,” Tyler mouths silently, sliding back under the sheets but never taking his eyes off of you. Three blocks down. You’re teetering. And, so you stay. You settle back against his body and allow him to cradle you in his arms until you match his breathing and fall quickly away, waking only to the chirp of your phone as Aldo harangues you via text message a mere two hours later. Not wanting to cause any further disturbance, you slink from the boy’s sleepy embrace and feel around for your jacket and hat, taking great care to avoid mirrors. Once you’ve collected yourself, or at least whatever semblance of yourself can be found as you wipe the morning film from your eyes, you begin to make for the door but not before something tugs at the cuff of your jeans. You don’t want to turn around because you know, if you do, it’ll be the end of you. “This is the part where you give me your number.” You turn. Those eyes. JENGA, Beau Ridge Apartments – Unit 407 Most second dates tend to take place at a restaurant, bar or movie theatre. And, while they may eventually end up at one of the participant’s domiciles, they certainly don’t often begin there. Not unless this is 1955 and Jim-Bob is picking you up to go get a milkshake at the corner drug store. But, there are exceptions to every rule and, in this particular case, your date is a college boy who couldn’t be more excited about the fact that you have your own place. Really, all you had to do was mention it and he did the rest of the work. He’s actually coming. Despite your rampant cynicism and belief that, within the week between your European union and the proposed domestic assembly he would likely lose interest, he has not. He wants to see you. So much so, in fact that, rather than share you with the world, he wants you all to himself. Alone. Are you terrified yet? Of course not. Because you’re not paying attention. Because your defenses are down. Because you’ve spent the last few years going on dates only to wake up the following morning feeling completely ambivalent and not caring if you ever heard from that person again. Because boys did this to you. Because spending the majority of your twenties as a wide-eyed idealist allowed you to get habitually taken advantage of. Because repeatedly opening the same wound has formed a hardened tissue around your heart. Because you didn’t think you actually had the capacity to feel anything for anyone anymore. Because you feel something now. All of this should be completely unnerving but you’re far too busy fluffing up pillows, washing your towels and windexing things that should never be windexed. When did you become your mother? You even scrubbed the shower. Why did you scrub the shower? Who the hell showers together on the second date? Calm your tits, Blanche Devereaux, you don’t even know if he’s staying. He’s probably staying, though. So, the night before, you sleep on a mattress pad and lay out fresh sheets in the morning to make it look like no one has ever slept there. Your cozy lived-in condo now resembles one of those eerily pristine model homes that strangers come to look at but never actually buy. In this case, though, what you’re selling is not a home. You’re selling an idea; the idea that you have your shit together. Never mind the fact that having your shit together is terrifying to a college guy. They want to see clothes on the floor. They want to see rumpled bedding. Disheveled implies complaisance. Stability is serious. And, boys don’t do serious. Not at 21. But, pay no mind to these suggestions. You just go and plug in more of those Glade Automatic Room Fresheners™. When he arrives, Tyler is every bit as handsome and magnetic as you remember him. More so, even. Seeing him on your couch, though, summons a feeling you can’t quite capture. Something about this whole thing doesn’t seem real. He’s ethereal in a way. For those first few days after you met, you weren’t totally convinced that the whole interaction hadn’t been a drunken hallucination. That’s why, now, you keep finding excuses to brush up against him to remind yourself that he’s actually there. “So, I was looking at your profile again today. Are you really 29?” Uh oh. “Yeah. Why?” “No, nothing. I just didn’t even realize. You don’t look it. But, it’s totally cool, I don’t have a problem with it.” CHANGE. THE. SUBJECT. NOW. He slides his hand over and slips one of his digits in between your index and middle finger, running it up and down and giving you the look that guys give. The look that has spawned a thousand Taylor Swift singles. And, off you go. The next few hours are spent with the television on, but not watching very much of it. At some point you take a break to pour through your drawer of takeout menus, indecisiveness leading you to order every single appetizer from the local diner. And somewhere between the nachos and mozzarella sticks, you find yourself sitting with his head in your lap, watching him breathing big, satisfied breaths. How long you spend looking at him you’re not sure but, eventually, he looks up and meets your gaze with eyes that you would happily drown in. “Bed time?” he smiles. You nod. Lights out. Upstairs. Being naked in front of another person has never been a comfortable experience for you. On the occasions when it does happen, you prefer to hide in the darkness. Everyone is equal in the darkness. But, in this situation, you leave the lights on. Not because it feels right to, but because it feels so incredibly wrong to miss out on a single glimpse of him. You barely notice him undress you because you’re far too busy unwrapping him like it’s Christmas morning. And, that’s the last thing you remember actively doing before you he pushes you onto your back and lowers his face to within an inch of yours, his hair brushing your forehead and breath warming your cheeks. “You’re different tonight. You were so hesitant the night we met.” “I just didn’t want to seem needy.” He cranes his neck back and laughs at your headboard. “There’s nothing needy about wanting to get fucked.” Isn’t there? It takes just about a minute for him to begin. At first he just leans back and scans every inch of you, but not to observe. It’s as if he’s working something out, feverishly searching for some clue; the key to a map. He runs the pads of his fingertips softly along your arm, up to your shoulder and down the side of your chest until he reaches the point where your abdomen meets your hips and a visible chill betrays you. His eyes widen. He’s found what he was looking for. And, from that point on, he spends the rest of the night taking you apart. You are Cavity Sam and this is Operation. All you can do is lie there as he moves with the precision of a skilled surgeon, systematically traveling from region to region, taking out your broken heart, wish bone and the butterflies in your stomach, purposely brushing the sides to set off your buzzer. The last thing you can remember before you flatline is the overwhelmingly satisfying feeling of there being absolutely nothing left of you. But what lurks after nightfall has nowhere to hide come the morning. So, as your eyelids part somewhere around the nine o’clock hour, you sneakily slip into the bathroom to fix your hair and brush your teeth, trying to maintain some illusion of effortless polish. There’s no going back to sleep once you’re back under the covers, not with this boy next to you. In any other case you’d already be formulating ways to get out of breakfast and, more importantly, ways to get this person out of your house. But this morning is not like the others. This morning you will spend hours studying his face. You will look at him longer than you looked at “Starry Night” when it came to the MoMA. You will get lost in a forest of long eyelashes and the sinew of tumescent lips. And, all the while, you’ll desperately search for what it is about this boy that makes him so different. What is it about him that makes you want more? What is it about him that makes you wish you never met him while, at the same time, has you questioning how on earth you ever got along before you did? Your phone pings. It’s 11:30am. Oh, good God, the cemetery. You promised your Mom you’d go to the cemetery with her today and this kid is still sleeping! By your calculations you’ve got no more than forty minutes before she’s on your doorstep. Shit. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. You look at your phone, then at the boy. Back to the phone. Back to the boy. Phone. Boy. Phone. Boy. Furiously you begin to tap away at the screen, trying to bang out anything that would sound even remotely believable. Liar. Ping! Ouch. You just turned down your own mother for the possibility of a morning quickie. There’s a sudden shift in the air as every Italian matron in your long ancestral line rolls over in their graves and reaches for a rolling pin. But, it’s too late. You’ve made your choice. And, how easy was that? How terribly, scarily easy? You’ll have plenty of time to feel guilty later, though. As for right now, turn back. Turn back to that sleeping boy. Turn back to Ireland. In his face you can almost hear it. When I wake up, well I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who wakes up next to you… But, just before you’re about to start walking 500 miles, he stirs. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Tyler rolls over and reaches for his phone on the floor. “Oh, fuck.” He bolts out from under the covers, nearly losing his footing in the process. “Fuck, it’s so late,” he says, scrambling into his underwear and skidding into the bathroom. “I’m supposed to be at my Mom’s for early Easter brunch.” “It’s Saturday, though.” “Yea, but I have to be at my Dad’s tomorrow.” There’s really nothing more to add here. So, you prop yourself up on your elbows and watch incredulously as he brushes his teeth, palms the sex out of his hair and finishes dressing. It all happens so quickly you’re not sure what to do or where to look. Mostly because he’s not looking at you. He’s looking everywhere but at you. At this moment, he is a toddler jumping from couch-to-couch and you are the floor. You are hot lava. Clothes on and bag in hand he begins to work his way down the stairs and you quickly scuttle after him. You hit the landing as he begins to unlock and open your front door. Say something! “So, umm…” He pauses and shifts his head so that you’re in his peripheral, but that’s the most he’ll give you. “Hmm?” “Can I see you again?” “Oh…yeah. Definitely. Text me.” And, he’s out the door. Stepping to the glass, you witness him jumping into his driver’s seat and tossing his bag in the back of the car. As he backs out of the space in front of unit 407, his eyes swing toward the rear-view mirror but mistakenly land on you. He flinches, gives a half-wave, and drives quietly out of sight. There are about a million questions running through your head as you stand in the doorway. But of all the things not to know, of all the matters currently obscured, there is one thing you’ve never been more certain of: Tyler is never coming back. Holy Cross Cemetery Holy Cross Cemetery is one of those unpleasant places to visit, but not for the reasons you’d expect. While visiting the dead isn’t exactly the kind of weekend activity that puts a spring in your step, some cemeteries can be quite beautiful. At the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Hudson County, NY you can wander under lush butterscotch treetops and marvel at grand pewter monuments that mark the final resting places of literary legends and American royalty like Washington Irving, Elizabeth Arden and William Rockefeller. In Los Angeles, you can lay out a blanket at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery and enjoy a screening of “The Shining” as you lie among the spirits and munch on Jiffy Pop. But, the Holy Cross Cemetery in northern New Jersey is, at its best, a car dealership. It’s the kind of place where it’s impossible to get to your loved one without passing by the sales office that sits just inside the entryway to the mausoleum. If you’re looking to feel incredibly bad about your Catholic upbringing, feel free to walk by their always-open door where you can surely catch a snippet of a purchasing pitch as the manager attempts to bilk some bereft, weepy-eyed widow out of money she probably doesn’t have. “No, ma’am, unfortunately we don’t allow real flowers here. However, you’re in luck as we’ve extended our ‘Bereave It or Not’ sale and, for the low, low price of $350, we will affix an urn on your husband’s stone where, every three months will be placed a beautiful new bouquet of acrylic flora. This change-out service does, of course, come at the additional yearly fee of $250.” Ok, maybe it doesn’t go quite like that, but it’s not far off. And, God does it make you cringe. In the Grimm version of Godfather Death, the reaper appears to a mortal man and introduces himself, saying: “I am Death, who makes everyone equal.” Well, the Grimm brothers clearly never visited Newark because here you can maintain your earthly status post-departure, for a price, of course. Yes, much like some of our thriving metropolitan areas, here at Holy Cross you can wander past the low-rent district where cremains are kept neatly tucked into tiny wooden cubbies. But, turn a corner and you’ll instantly find yourself standing in the Beverly Hills of the afterlife, where the iron gates of the communities that once housed you can now keep the very same riff raff out of your five hundred thousand dollar family crypt. Quel grand luxe! The irony, though, is lost on you today as you trudge through the hallways having just broken every speed limit twice-over in a mad dash to beat your mother here. Every bit of your energy is funneled into your legs in a desperate attempt to stay erect under an air so weighted it may as well be made of the very marble as the mammoth slabs that go sliding past. You’ve been here before. You know the way. You’ve come here at least a dozen or so times over the last couple years and stood in front of the same stone and grieved your soft griefs while your mother cried. But now, at least for the moment, you are alone. And, as you take your seat on the same side of the same bench and raise your eyes to your father’s headstone, your entire world caves in. Today you will cry as you’ve never cried before. It does not come on gradually, but instantly, involuntarily, and violently at that. You will sob loudly for every sob you’ve ever quietly suppressed. Your body will heave and shake and turn in on itself like a doodle bug. You will mourn for the man who worked every day so that you could have a better life. You will mourn for the man who let you sit on his lap and drive the car into the garage each time he would come home. You will mourn for the man who retired one day and got cancer the next. You will mourn for the man who never sweat the small stuff, or even the big stuff, for that matter. You will mourn for the man who, sitting in a doctor’s office during the last weeks of his life, would turn to you and say “Don’t worry. When he comes in, he’s gonna make it sound a lot worse than it is.” You will mourn for a man who never once asked you to be anything other than what you are. You will mourn for a man you were ready to bail on just hours before for a boy who would turn and bail on you not minutes later. You will mourn. You will mourn. You will mourn until, that is, an older gentleman drags his feet across the carpet of your emotional enclave and plants himself directly behind you, not to visit a friend or relative, but simply to disrupt your cathartic moment by standing in front of the statue of Mother Cabrini, mumbling a prayer under his breath. At first, you put up with it. You remain hunched over, biting your arm and trying to muffle your cries. But, it’s around the fifth bead of whatever rosary he’s reciting that anguish turns to aggression. Can’t this dude see that you’re just trying to have a single god damn private moment? Just one brief window where you can simply exist as the exposed nerve you are without worrying about who’s watching. Can no one interpret social cues? You’ve been shaken up. Your lid has been removed. And, much as you’d like to try, there’s no putting the top back on the bottle once it’s been popped. It has to empty. You have to empty. And, so you do. “CAN YOU NOT SEE I’M HAVING A FUCKING MOMENT HERE?!” And, off he scoots, much faster than he entered. You’ve always been good at making people leave. It’s a sick gift, really, because it’s never the people you want to go. But, try as you might, you’ve never understood the why or the how. And, it doesn’t discriminate. Boys, friends, family members, the people you most expect to stick around; they all leave. No one is immune. No one is permanent. So, after hapless attempts at trying to get to the root of the issue, at some point you decided to fight fire with fire. You decided to be the one to leave first. So, you started keeping people at a distance. You started going on eight million first dates and zero seconds. You started to detach. Better to be hollow and sincere than emotional and soft. And, for a while, it worked. But you can’t stay backed up forever. Try as you might to stuff rag after rag into the sink drain, the water’s just going to bubble up into your bathtub and, if not there, the toilet and, if not there, the walls until the damage gets harder and harder to fix. In your case, though, sadness churned into anger. Anger at the person who sits next to you on the bus when you just wanted to be alone. Anger at the idiot who stops the elevator door from closing. Anger at all of these people who don’t deserve your anger because, really, you’re just angry at yourself. For missing your Dad’s last good years while you were “having a life” in Florida. For making the same mistake again and again. For all the times you said you were going to learn and you didn’t. For foolishly letting a Trojan horse into your own house and acting surprised when history repeated itself. For making this all about you. For everything that Stephen Sondheim wrote about curses and reverses. Just…no more. Right now, though, in this moment you’re just going to feel. Feel without cutting it short. Allow yourself to. Give yourself permission. Sanction your own humanity. Even when Mom arrives and, surprisingly, doesn’t cry this time but, instead, places her hand on your shoulder and sits silently. And, when you find the strength to stand up, walk to the bathroom. Splash some cold water on your face. Look at yourself in the mirror. Really look. Observe the redness in your eyes. Watch the droplets of water as they cascade down your cheek, off your chin and into the bowl, one-by-one. Adjust your collar to hide the giant hickey on your neck. Laugh about it. Or, at least smile. Let him go. Let the fury go. No more, please. Just…no more. Joseph Lezza is a writer in New York, NY. Holding an MFA in creative writing from The University of Texas at El Paso, his work has been featured in, among others, Variant Literature, The Hopper, Stoneboat Literary Journal, West Trade Review, and Santa Fe Writers Project. His debut memoir in essays, "I'm Never Fine," is due out February 2023 from Vine Leaves Press. When he’s not writing, he spends his time worrying about why he’s not writing. His website is www.josephlezza.com and you can find him on the socials @lezzdoothis.

the deadly mixture of green and black bile swamped the poor ailing liver in dark humours doing the damage bringing fear and death it was not for lack of meditation nor of devil may caring nor of gaiety and cult value nor of pop notoriety his friends remembered how he wandered the midwestern prairie how he sang how he went naked how the guys down at the sunoco station cracked jokes when he used the payphone calling home and the lover he missed his clothes fitting badly always the pants forever slipping down old button down shirts left over from his straight days he later sported a garland of skull shaped flowers set off by a necklace of diamond teeth and he could sing a long song now a dying art to sing while dying having had it all to have had it all and still be dying hey like a fool like an old singer hey ho the crowd of old friends he loved to join yes and his intimates to whom he listened groveling in deep gossip wishing things could be otherwise and the press loved him to him they were kind it is said he might speak of dharma and drop a happy sutra or share a bit of doggerel careful to keep his clothes on in the studio even when tripping bullets speaking often of kindness in the depths of karma hoping always for another party where he might unbutton but with never a tattoo never a piercing never having lived to see the hated war forgotten even by both sides now in a frame of new necessities who can now be kind and to what end the sunny plateau rolls ever on kissed by the feet of the questing fauna grasslands shimmering in the eyes of birds now the domain of the banks and the manifest destiny of debt the blood of violence has slaked these lands as we approach the thirsty suburbs of wichita w v sutra was born in Africa and raised in Southeast Asia and the Middle East, borne hither and thither on the surging tides of cold war and soft power. He has been at various times a rock musician, a public health professional, and an educator. He began writing poetry during the Covid-19 lockdown. His work can be found in various online journals and at wvsutra.com . He lives and works on a horse farm on the shoulders of the Holston Mountains in East Tennessee.

I saw him again, looking as creepy as ever. Dark brown silhouette and protruding antennae that towered his large eyes. He crawled with multiple legs, turning up like a bad penny every afternoon. What did he want now? Neighbors told me a spray helped in clearing off pesky old unwanted guests. But no! He was resistant to it. It made me wonder if he had sought the boon of immortality from God. And then I'd smack my head for giving room to such absurd thoughts. I was baking a cake that afternoon. He peered out of the kitchen sink, which made me drop my spoon in haste and rush out of the room. I screamed loudly enough for the neighbors to call for the fire engines thinking that was probably one in my kitchen. "There she goes again," they would say. "All this hullaballoo for a small roach.” I don't recall why I was petrified of them. Probably after a horrifying episode of flying roaches I encountered during my childhood. That time when I was home alone. It was raining, and a bunch of them hovered above my head in my living room. Unfazed by my screams. They reminded me of witches flying on broomsticks. Probably waiting to cast a spell that would send me to a hundred years of slumber. He would turn up again every afternoon when the clock struck three, just at that moment when my cake batter was coming out nicely. And every time, I'd drop my spoon and make a mess of it before the batter could convert into a delicious walnut cake. Why me? I thought in despair. Why couldn't this annoying fellow trouble someone else? Did he want a share of my cake? I looked at the garden outside. Roses danced in the wind while the creepers protectively surrounded them. I wish I had a creeper to protect me from that little monster. And one fine day, he didn't show up. When the clock struck three, I half expected to see that pair of antennae sticking out. I set the cake in the oven, and the aroma wafted into my nostrils. Even when the clock struck four, he was nowhere to be seen. I poured myself a cup of tea and sat down. The kitchen, for once, was devoid of mess. The marble floor sparkled in the afternoon sun, and the shelves looked as though they had just been polished. I looked at the spotless sink and wondered what happened to my regular visitor. Relieved and nervous at the same time, I hoped he wouldn't turn up at an unexpectedly, causing me to run helter-skelter. My husband and daughter were expected soon. For once, I was glad they wouldn't have to see a dirty kitchen and a hysterical woman. After all, it's just a pesky roach, my husband would say. When the doorbell rang, my husband and nine-year-old daughter greeted me. "Ah, so you finally managed to fight your enemy," my husband quipped. "What are you talking about?" I asked, puzzled. He pointed to a spot near my doorstep. I knew that snarky pair of antennae so well. He lay there limp and lifeless. I was relieved and did a little jig of joy only to succumb to a tiny nagging voice that pricked my conscience. Was it fair to dance at someone's death? How did he die? I wondered. Two weeks have elapsed. I continued my baking sessions. Smooth, peaceful, and serene. I almost began to miss my troublesome visitor. Was it the chaos and excitement he caused in my otherwise dull life? Was he so conspicuous by his absence that I began to miss him? Over cups of tea and slices of cake, I mulled over the mysterious disappearance of the unwanted guest. Just then I noticed a sudden movement. My sharp eyes noted a dark brown silhouette creeping from the front door into my kitchen. I blinked and dropped my bowl of batter. Earth-shattering screams reverberated in my hall and the entire neighborhood. The clock struck three. Author of ‘A Turbulent Mind-My Journey to Ironman 70.3’, Swetha Amit is currently pursuing her MFA at University of San Francisco. She is one of the contest winners of Beyond words literary magazine, her piece upcoming in November. She published her works in Atticus Review, Oranges Journal, Gastropoda Lit, Amphora magazine, Grande Dame literary journal, Black Moon Magazine, Fauxmoir lit mag, and has upcoming pieces in Poets Choice anthology, Drunk Monkeys, Agapanthus Collective, and Full house literary. Also, alumni of Tin House Winter Workshop 2022 and the Kenyon Review Writers’ workshop 2022.

Juncture Paper napkins over water glasses, scarf-draped lamp hey presto flourish, quick wrist-reveal: a cage of birds that start to sing the sky to sunrise, goldfish in a bowl. The plot twists, ultimately turns like the worm—saw it coming said with dry satisfaction of the detective show, mystery novel. Puzzle piece snicking into place. Revelation. Pale horse in dawn light. Rider in shadow, lost. Fields show themselves, stubble-jawed, scratchy morning breath of fog, stumbling punch-drunk day. Inheritance My father made us breakfast each weekday morning. Cereal pre-poured into bowls the night before, paper napkins atop. He’d scowl if they fluttered off on a gust as one of us hurried past. Sugared loops with milk, and soft-boiled eggs that he scooped into blue melmac mugs for us. One slice of toast with jam, orange juice poured into small glasses, their heart and diamond patterns faded from red to a peachy pink. Our meals regimented, the way he wanted us to be. Wanted our mother to be. A gruff for chrissake if I loaded the dishwasher wrong, or my sister left a drawer in disarray, rolls of saran, tinfoil and wax paper jumbled, edges flapping and ragged. Do I bog down in details, let the reels of a childhood, of a parent’s legacy unspool? I don’t need a memory palace, no pat mnemonic, to situate my father’s pride in responsibility, his rags-to-business-suit story, his tall stance in topcoat, that brown fedora with a pinch-front crown. The military made him, gave him his upright bearing. Spine always held straight thanks to 5BX Plan exercises each day. At the lake, he’d float board-rigid on water, sporting hat and sunglasses. Or stretch out full length on my quilt alongside small me, cross ankles as he read a bedtime story. Later, he built basement rooms for my sister and me. My space, a refuge where I sank into the chaos and comfort of books. I would read past sleep time, bedside lamp burning. Overhead, floorboards creaked. I heard Dad’s noctambulant pacings, hard soles of his leather slippers slapping on lino, on hardwood as he turned off lights, lowered the thermostat, readied the kitchen for morning. The percussion of his movements alerted me to put my hand on my own lamp’s chain, ready to switch it off when his tread approached the top of the basement stairs where he might see its glow. If I mistimed or, lost to reading, forgot to listen, his voice would ring out, deep and cross: lights out! When footsteps finally passed above me, along the upstairs hallway to my parents’ room, then halted, I’d snake out an arm, turn my light back on. Fingers chilled, coverlet to chin, I would hold the book, circumventing his control, and read until my eyes ached. In my teens, I felt the chafe of rules even more, saw him as inflexible, mean. Home from party or pub, I’d slink by the chalk board posted for us to record the time of our return. And from the TV room’s open door, he’d call me in to where he sat, broadside me with questions. My traitorous dog sniffing at my breath. And, caught out but aggrieved, I squared shoulders, set my jaw like his. He had no heirlooms to leave me, but my stance now echoes his. Softened, I hope, enough to bend. Airplane A man wants an airplane to like him; he brings it things. It hums and thrums, he thinks, with pleasure at his offerings, useless as they are—toffee, feather boas, a coffee table. He tries all the endearments he can think of: liebchen, petit chou, dah-ling. But the plane doesn’t hear him over the jet whine. It loves the sky, it yearns for wing-room, for clouds. It doesn’t have space for liking, that watered-down emotion. It loves, it loves. Frances Boyle is a Canadian writer, living in Ottawa. Her most recent book, Openwork and Limestone, is forthcoming in fall 2022. In addition to two earlier books of poetry, she is also the author of a Rapunzel-infused novella and an award-winning short story collection. Places her work has appeared recently or is forthcoming include Rust and Moth, The Literary Review of Canada, Paris Lit Up, and Resurrection Magazine. For more, please visit www.francesboyle.com .

Germit Honely lopes out of jail into the sun, ready to leave the place in his rear-view for good this time. He side-eyes the squat brick buildings and fences topped with barbed wire as they slide behind, then continues down the road past a small patch of pine woods without another glance. At the intersection he turns toward town. The unaccustomed sun is bearing down hard; Germit slows his pace. The road is four-laned and busy. Vehicles whoosh unnervingly close. A figure in front of him by the length of a football field is strolling along the same sidewalk and gawping around at nothing, like a tourist. Germit glances back and there’s another loser shuffling along behind him. The three of them out-processing at the same time today. Three dipshits on the way to nowhere clutching clear plastic garbage bags – the mark of the inmate. Germit’s bag holds a pair of flip-flops, two pairs of boxer shorts, five formerly white tube socks, an unread bible, a toothbrush and a dead cell phone, minus the charger. He thinks about ditching the bag but doesn’t want to cram his pockets with the stuff, even if he is wearing cargo shorts. In his cell, he had a copy of Ashleigh, Bashfully, a romance novel which he hadn’t read, but liked the cover due to Ashleigh’s ample cleavage. It had come from the jail library, really a bunch of donated paperbacks dumped on a table in an interview room. He’d stuffed it under his mattress before he left, for the next guy to enjoy. Another intersection, a bigger highway, and a McDonald’s on the corner. He’s worked up a sweat now and would like a Coke, despite the decimation it will do to his already suspect teeth. Something he learned from a magazine article. A problem is that he has the same amount of money he went into jail with. None. Zero dollars. Zero cents. He’s thinking he can go in and ask for a cup of water. Sometimes they’ll do that for you. And maybe find a big cup someone left around and fill it with Coke and ice. It would help his walk on this sweltering day. The jail was always too cold inside and he didn’t go outside long enough to realize summer was truly here. Now he’s finding out. The shirt is stuck to his back with sweat. When he worked at the car wash he always had some change in his pockets. Despite the fact they never split the money from the tip box fairly at the end of the day. Germit suspected the car wash lifers had the system rigged so they’d get a bigger percentage. And since he only worked there a few weeks he got the shitty end of the tip stick. But he had his own system. He made a few dollars of his own each day pocketing the spare change he found in the cup holders, under the mats, under the seat, in those little nooks that took the place of ashtrays in the newer cars. When someone complained he would say the vacuum guys must have sucked it up. Until some sneaky customer had one of those dash cams facing into, not out of, the car. It was a shitty job anyway. He crosses the parking lot and is about to enter when a security guard, an old bulky guy in a gray uniform with a wide black leather belt cinching in his gut, steps outside and gives him the eye. Like he’s been watching Germit approach from inside, noted the clear bag, and came out into the heat to warn him off. Heading off jailbird trouble at the pass. Germit alters his angle slightly, and without making eye contact, continues through the parking lot like he was just passing through, cutting the corner on his way to somewhere better. Maybe Arby’s. Once he’s off McDonald’s property and can’t feel the eyes of security on his back, Germit waits for traffic to ebb and runs across the road, a little awkwardly because he hasn’t run in a while. On the other side he cuts back to the direction he intended to take, towards town. The McDonald’s detour threw him off track. Tandy is standing in her front yard cooling down after a six mile run. She’s finished the water from the bottle she’d set on the porch before she left and is taking the opportunity to survey the plant bed. It needs weeding and maybe more. She’s never planted a garden; this one came with the house. With a little research she can figure out what to do with it; what to plant, what to weed out. How to adjust to normality? Do normal things is one suggestion. A garden is about as normal as it gets. She’s about to go inside to shower when there’s a voice behind her. She knows without turning it’s the kid she passed a half mile back. Walking apparently aimlessly, clutching a plastic bag, sweating like her. “Hey,” he says, almost gently. Not aggressive. She turns. He’s standing in the street. Not too close, like he knows to keep his distance. “You got a charger?” She glances back at her truck in the driveway, about to say something smart like she doesn’t drive muscle cars but he’s digging in his bag and emerges with a phone. Cracked glass face, seen better days. “Not for that type. No.” He looks up the street a little, then back at her. “Another one of those?” He nods at her empty water bottle. “It’s pretty hot.” She debates being rude and saying no, but it seems uncalled for. He’s not really young, early twenties. Skinny, undernourished. Like one of those kids who miss a lot a school and always seem to be just getting over head lice. When she comes out of the house with two bottles he’s sitting on her steps. She knows she shouldn’t be buying plastic but can’t bring herself to trust tap water yet. She hands him one and sits down, a step above and not too close. “You lived here long?” he asks after gulping half the water. “About four months.” He finishes the rest quickly. “Do you live around here?” “I did,” he says. “My Aunt still does.” He nods up the street. “I’m gonna go see her and try to stay there for a while.” That’s when she guesses he’s come from the county jail. The bag that’s obviously not from a store. His pale skin. A passive demeanor she associates with certain prisoners. It’s about a two mile walk but she knows where the jail is. “What’s your name?” he asks, looking back at her for the first time. She tells him without correcting when he mishears. “I knew a girl named Candy in third grade,” he says. “Maybe fourth.” “Wasn’t me,” Tandy says. He examines her as if he doesn’t believe her, not getting the straight-faced joke. “I’m about thirty years older than you,” exaggerating a bit. She hopes the age difference will convince him she’s not rape-worthy, if that’s his intent. She doesn’t think so, but you can never tell for sure. He looks around, like he’s wondering why he’s sitting here talking to this older woman. “Hey, can I use your bathroom?” Tandy thinks again about saying no, but decides to err on the side of trust. She’s spent time in close quarters with a lot worse than this kid. Her father would advise against taking unnecessary chances, that sometimes no is a good choice, but his voice is fading with time. She leads him inside and he stops in the hall to look at the framed photos on the wall. The ones she doesn’t want in the bedroom or the living room. Small groups of men and women in dusty camo and rough weather gear posing in front of squat structures with snow-capped mountains looming behind. She simultaneously holds the faces in her mind and pushes them away. “Were you in the Army?” “More of a civilian advisor,” she says. It still pains a deep part of her to look at the photos, but when she moved into this house she felt the need to put them up. To not forget. “Most of those people are gone now,” she says. He doesn’t seem to understand. “I knew a guy that went to Iraq as a cook for some big company. Made a ton of money. He came back and blew it on meth and a motorcycle.” “This was Afghanistan. Excuse me for a moment,” she says and moves into the bathroom. She locks the door, stands at the sink, and looks at her face in the mirror. If she hadn’t disappeared inside to send an e-mail announcing that their day-late and potentially Grade AAA+ source had arrived she would have been one of the dead in the photo. The dusty red Subaru finally eased through the barricades and she ducked through the door to spread the good news when the explosion pushed her to the floor. She washes her face and realizes she left a stranger alone in her house. A criminal. When she steps into the kitchen one hand is in her purse and the other grips one of her new kitchen knives. One of the big ones. The knife drawer is half open. He looks at her like a kid caught, terror mixed with defiance on his face. Then he raises the knife. Tandy steadies her breathing. She stands ten feet away and wills her mind to swing into the present. It takes a second. This can be dealt with. She has faced rage-fueled people. This is not one of them. “What’s your name?” she says. “What?” he says, doing some adjusting of his own, not as adept. “Your name.” “Germit,” he says, confused. He looks at his hands, one still in the purse, the other with the knife, like he’s wondering how that happened. Jesus, she thinks. Germit. What a handle. He’d barely have a chance in life. She’d bet a retirement check the neighborhood kids called him Germ growing up. On the base they used to bet on anything. Which gate guards would actually show up for work that day. When the fresh eggs would run out. Which high value target would be found first. The payoff was in cups of coffee. You lost, and over the next days you brought the winner however many cups of coffee you had wagered. The coffee was free in any case. The wager was in the serving, the care it took to make it to their specifications and deliver the coffee to your colleague. Tandy would bet right now that Germit has never tasted a good Irish whiskey, or any Irish whiskey. She feels the need for action, and taking advantage of his confusion, takes a chance and moves away from him to the little overpriced bar cart she found in an antique store up the road. “Want a drink?” she says, holding up an unopened bottle of Bushmills, the only spirit her father kept in his house. Germit looks at her like his mind is somewhere else, like running out the door with her wallet. But he shifts into the present and sees what’s in front of him. “What is it?” he says. Bingo. That would have been a ten-cup wager, two days’ worth. She’s already removed two heavy Waterford glasses from the second shelf of the cart. She twists the cap and feels the snap of the seal breaking, letting him see her movements, and pours about three shots into each glass. No ice or water. She takes one and eases into a chair without turning her back on him. “Good whiskey,” she says. She takes a sip without trying to sell it further and concentrates on not letting her hand shake. After some time he sidles to the cart, curious about the arrangement. A bit of luxury he hasn’t experienced before. He takes the glass and sits awkwardly on the sofa opposite her. She’s not going to mention the purse, still on the kitchen counter, or the knife, now lying next to his leg. Like it didn’t happen. There’s no reason to trigger his guilt or shame or whatever it is he’s burdened with. He’s takes a sip and makes a scrunchy face at the burn. She sips, but not as much as she lets on, to encourage him. Get him a little loose. That could go either way of course. He takes a bigger sip, getting used to it now, and looks at her. Maybe she should have added water to make it more palatable, but it seems to be going down okay. “This isn’t bad after the first one,” he says. She fake sips, holding the glass with both hands. “Listen, Candy,” he says, a coming-clean moment. “I just got out of jail. It’s my second time as an adult. I tend to screw up a lot.” She sips for real this time, to avoid pointing out that he’s done it again. “I just did six months for grabbing a tourist’s purse downtown,” he says. “I snatched it and ran. The lady’s husband was behind me calling me a little shit and yelling that he was going to kill me. I looked back at him and when I turned around again there was a police horse blocking the sidewalk and I ran face-first into it. The public defender told me I was lucky to get six months and luckier I didn’t get stomped.” She watches Germit and lets him talk. “My mom was in rehab. They got one of my Aunts to come to my sentencing and tell the judge that I hadn’t been right in the head since I was born.” He drinks a little more, the glass almost empty now, and she thinks he’s closed his eyes for a second. She could run for the door but considers another course, keeping her hands around the glass so he won’t notice how much is left. “Are you hungry?” she says when the gap between words gets too long. “I’m starving after that run.” “I didn’t eat breakfast,” he says. “I was too nervous about getting out.” And I’m nervous about the opposite, she thinks. The knife is still next to his leg. “You want a pizza?” He’s a little loose now, some chow would be good. “Sure. Meat lovers.” Her phone is on the table where she left it before the run. She puts the glass down, partially concealed by a candle. She presses 911 and waits for the answer. “Hey,” he says, watching her. “You didn’t hit enough numbers.” “Speed-dial,” she says. “I call them all the time.” She can’t remember the last time she ordered a pizza. Five years? Six? The dispatcher answers and after a pause is quick on the uptake as she asks for a pizza and gives the address. Are you in trouble? “Yes.” Is it someone you know? “No.” Are they in your house now? “Yes.” Is it one person? “Yes.” “Candy,” Germit says. “Why all the questions?” “She’s going through the toppings. Do you want pepperoni?” “Just get the meat lovers. All of it,” he says. “And ask if they have any job openings.” Candy is kinda cool, Germit thinks. A soft touch. Like an aunt. Maybe she’ll let him stay here for a while. She has enough room. He could cut the grass or something. Of course he’d have to smooth over any bad feelings she has about the knife. He doesn’t know why he even pulled it out of the drawer. One of those things that seemed like a good idea at the time. He thought he was going to rob her but after a drink or two he doesn’t feel like it. She’ll understand. She seems like one of those teachers who know to let things roll of their backs, like if you call them a twat because they fail you, then next year act like it never happened when you’re sitting in eleventh grade English Lit again and you’re nineteen years old. True story. He thinks he hears her mention the word knife but he must have nodded off for a second and can’t be sure. He didn’t sleep much last night because he was getting out today and kept having dreams about the guards refusing to release him for some bullshit reason no one ever would explain. She puts the phone on the chair next to her and tells him they’ll be here with the pizza in a few minutes. “Thanks Candy. That’s real nice of you,” he says. “Sorry about the knife and all. It’s just that nothing seems to be going my way for the last year or so and sometimes I don’t know what to do.” She let the snake into the henhouse. Not a fox, the other, the one in the Subaru was a fox. Sneaky and lethal. This is like a baby snake, dangerous in its cluelessness. “You’ll feel better after they get here,” she says. She’s staring outside now, must be hungrier than him. “What are you looking at?” She turns to Germit as if she’s forgotten he’s here. The look on her face is so blank for a second that it almost scares him. He’s seen that expression on the guys you avoided in jail. “What did you say you did over in Iraq?” She doesn’t answer. She’ll remain Candy who worked in Iraq to him. Suddenly, she’s hungry for real. It seems crazy, but she’s starving. A serious hankering for something familiar. Improbably, there’s a restaurant downtown run by Afghans. She’s been there twice. “I’m going to order something else,” she says and picks up the phone without worrying about his reaction. Germit doesn’t move and just listens as she orders a Chapli Kabab, gives her address, and puts the phone down. He seems unconcerned. He’s watching her. “What were you talking? Iraqi? I’ve heard enough Spanish to know it wasn’t that.” Not accusing. He seems to have placed some trust in Tandy now, either due to the whiskey, his nature, or a combination of the two. She almost feels bad about calling the police now. Almost. “What? I just ordered food,” she says. “Yeah, in not English.” She’d switched languages without conscious effort. That was a first. A stress reaction. “Pashto, she says. “Sorry.” “You must be hungry,” he says. “Pizza and whatever else you just ordered.” “The pizza’s for you,” Tandy says, and looks out the window for a minute. “Here they are,” she says brightly. “I’ll go pay,” and she’s up and out the door before he can say her purse is on the counter and still has the money he didn’t take. He gets up, knife and drink forgotten, stumbles a bit and reaches for the purse to bring it to her when two cops slide in the door with their pistols trained on his chest and a mean look in their eyes. He drops the purse and gets on the floor like they tell him. Resisting is not his thing. Another shitty day. He wants to cry. “You could have helped me Candy,” he says loudly, accompanied by flying spittle as he’s being led out the door with his hands cuffed behind his back. The cop standing next to her cocks his head at the Candy and checks his notepad. “It’s Tandy. He wanted to hear Candy,” she says. “So that’s what he heard.” “It’s a way of life with these guys,” the officer says. “Hear what they want and ignore the rest.” He’s appraising her now, almost visibly wondering about the seeming coolness with which she handled the situation. For occupation she’d merely answered retired. “You didn’t have to turn me in,” Germit yells while being escorted across the front yard. “I’m sorry,” before the back door of the cruiser closes on him. Tandy and the officer trade a look. She hands him the clear plastic bag. “This is his.” “That’s convenient,” he says. “They won’t have to give him another.” She watches as the officer’s attention turns to a car pulling up. “You expecting someone?” he says. “I almost forgot.” She walks into the house and comes back with her wallet, found on the floor. She goes to the car, hands over a twenty, exchanges thanks with the driver, and returns to the officer with a take-out bag. “Did you order that before?” he asks. Tandy displays something related to embarrassment. “During.” She smiles for the first time. He shakes his head and looses a burst of a laugh. “That’s a new one.” The officer looks at her as he’s leaving. “I suppose you know this could have turned out a lot worse if you hadn’t kept your head,” he says, with a ghost of a smile. “Yes,” is all she says. She wants to eat before it gets cold. Germit slumps on the hard back seat of the patrol car. The cop turns his head slightly. “Looks like you picked the wrong house today brother. That woman took you down without lifting a finger.” “Candy’s a badass,” Germit says. “I think we could’ve been kinda friends if I hadn’t fucked it up.” Tandy lay on the cold gritty floor for what was probably a few seconds, ears ringing, dirt dusting down around her, instantly knowing that it was the end of so much. She pushed herself up to her knees to crawl outside and see what she could do.

Content warnings for eating disorders, body dysmorphia, and body shaming DAY 18: 168 lbs Dear Bobby, I can’t believe it took me 18 days to realize. If I had realized earlier, I would have started on March 1 like you. Just like how I grew my hair out and bleached it blond to match yours. I’m pretending to do calculus, which I’m sure you were blissfully spared from. I mean, you married at 18. From prison! If only I was good with girls like you. Adrianne hasn’t spoken a word to me—at least not any I want to remember—since eighth grade when Mr. Feagley forced her to dance with me in Phys Ed. Once I drop a few more pounds, once I’m no longer the fat kid she snickered at, then she’ll notice me. I’ve gotten down to 168 lbs so far. It’s not great but it’s better than 203. I bet Geraldine adored you. Best, Laurence DAY 20: 165 lbs Dear Bobby, I should have done calculus instead of pretending because now my mother is yelling about my C+. I wonder what you were like in school. If you and Geraldine were the popular steadies or the quiet kids falling in love from the back desks. I wonder what you thought you wanted before the Provisional IRA. You made the right choice though. I can’t imagine you as a doctor or factory worker or whatnot. You fit one image and that’s the boy in a blazing gunfight with the police. The man who refused to wear a prison uniform or break under torture and finally, to eat. You always fought with utmost courage and perseverance. I wonder what your mother thought when they caught you with the guns and gave you five years. When they gave you fourteen the second time around. I bet she was real proud in the end. Best, Laurence DAY 24: 161 lbs Dear Bobby, Sometimes I get away by saying I have homework to do, but as dinner’s the only time we see Dad, Mom’s pretty adamant about it. I take a few bites and fake the rest. I hide food in a napkin when I can or smear it onto the plate so it looks like I ate and left residue. Sometimes it’d be easier to eat, and sometimes I’m hungry enough to, but each calorie adds to my weight and nullifies my progress. The temporary comfort of food isn’t worth what it takes to get rid of it. Even “healthy” foods are calorie-laden. Take an apple for example. It’s 95 calories which at a basal metabolic rate takes your body two hours to burn. Two hours your body will not shed fat. Today, I gazed at Adrianne too long and she whispered to her friends and they all wrinkled their noses at me. I didn’t even mean to stare. I glanced at her for a moment, and before I knew it, my mind blanked and ten minutes passed. Ceecee says they told everyone what a creep I am. I bet they wouldn’t say that if I were hot—if I were skinny. I decided to take my school’s advice on self-care and treated myself to as many laps around the school as I could. It was only one lap. It worries me. Once, I could do two and still have energy left. Best, Laurence DAY 28: 158 lbs Dear Bobby, Ceecee and I turned eighteen today. Dad took a day off to celebrate, and Mom pulled out all stops making us red velvet cupcakes and meringues, Ceecee’s favorite. I should appreciate her hard work. Before, I would have, but now I know what sugar does to my weight. One taste when Mom prodded the cupcake toward me and nausea overcame me. I ate so she wouldn’t suspect anything and immediately regretted it. One of those things contains 250 calories. 5 hours of basal metabolic rate. I gave the meringues (80 calories, 1.6 hours) to Ceecee, who dug into them gratefully. My sister’s lucky, getting to eat whatever she wants whenever she wants. But I remember there’s no point in envy when you got where you are by not eating. “I need to work on the history project.” “Honey, it’s your birthday,” Mom said. “Homework doesn’t stop for birthdays,” I replied. I needed to get to the bathroom before my body absorbed the cupcake. “Please, Mom?” “Let the kid go,” Dad said. I have never been so grateful to him in my life. I went to the bathroom and vomited three times, just to be sure I got everything out. The scale showed 158 lbs after that. I jogged until I lost so much breath my ribs caved in on each other, a reminder that I’m still too heavy to run properly. You could run, Armalite rifle slung over your shoulder as you rushed headlong into the shootout. Best, Laurence DAY 31: 156 lbs Dear Bobby, I’m pretty sure I’m the only student who read books and old newspapers instead of Encyclopaedia Britannica. Maybe I try too hard, but I’m always meticulous with history, especially if it involves you. It paid off today when Mrs. Simmons reviewed my project notes and said she looked forward to the final product. I grinned at her all class, never mind that Adrianne rolled her eyes at me, telling another girl that I was a “complete suck-up.” That is a direct quote. Xander came over for dinner today, which was great cover. I’m too polite to eat while listening to my sister’s boyfriend, who might also be my only friend even though he’s a year younger. Even if it was mostly Ceecee jabbering about researching this year’s local candidates. “It’s an off-year,” she said, “but, like, I still want to vote, you know? And I want it to matter." She looked at me. “You should do some research, too, Laurence.” I wish I was in Fermanagh and South Tyrone in 1981 so I could vote for you. In America, we only have middle-aged businessmen with too much free time. And how can they compare to the young freedom fighter who coordinated the hunger strike, epitomized the revolution? Best, Laurence DAY 35: 153 lbs Dear Bobby, I’ve had to catch up on calculus, and each problem takes hours at a time because of my stupid headaches. At least I have a valid excuse not to go to dinner now. When Mom brings me food, I toss it out once she leaves. The downside: I can’t escape the smell. It drives me dizzy with the constant reminder of what I am, the fat kid who everybody called an apple bobbing in the swimming pool and who disgusts Adrianne. The guilt is inevitable, but I remember your words: if I die, God will understand. Between bites of calculus and your autobiography, I beam at my project. I love the timeline of your life from your birth to the Provisional IRA to the Maze Prison and the hunger strike. I love the newspaper clippings, the audio bites from the BBC coverage of your strike. When I’m really delirious, I picture Adrianne watching my presentation with eyes enraptured and mouth agape, dropping her pencil as she concentrates on nothing but me. She’ll reconsider everything she ever thought of me. She’ll see me as erudite and charming, no longer the fat kid. Which won’t happen because Adrianne’s not the type of girl to like this kind of thing and even if I am erudite and charming, I am still the fat kid. I’m far from where I started at 203 lbs but it’s not enough. Best, Laurence DAY 38: 150 lbs Dear Bobby, Everyone looked at me weird during my presentation today, especially Adrianne. I guess I did take twenty-five minutes and gulp and stutter a lot. I blame my swaying legs. My head careens when I stand, and it takes me a moment to reorient. “Thanks for that,” Xander whispered when I sat back down. “We’ll spend another day at least on presentations.” Mrs. Simmons called me over at the end of class. “You were wonderful,” she told me. I got the strange sensation that a cruel taffy maker was pulling my brain out of my skull. I rubbed my temples as hard as I could. “Obviously, you worked hard on this. Would you like to pursue this further? I know of plenty of summer opportunities.” I nodded, digging my knuckles deeper into my temples. Strange how one pain can distract you from another. “Laurence, are you alright?” I nodded. “Xander’s waiting for me,” I said, because he was. “Are you alright?” Xander said as we walked to our next class, the dreaded calculus. “You look way different than, like, two months ago.” I didn’t think so. I check my appearance every morning along with my weight. It’s frustrating, how despite my losses, nobody can see it. “Of course,” I told Xander. “Laurence, you’re wearing a winter coat in April. You’re sure there’s nothing wrong?” “Yeah. I’m just cold.” If only I did look different. Then I’d know I accomplished something. But I’m sure there were days when you wondered if you made any difference or if you strived in vain. Yet you persevered and starved for 66 whole days. Jiang / Dear Bobby Sands / 9 Best, Laurence DAY 39: 149 lbs Dear Bobby, Xander can’t keep his mouth shut, can he? I’m chilling (literally, it’s been so cold!), thumbing through your autobiography, when Ceecee bursts into my bedroom. “Laurence, what are you doing?” she snapped, marching to my desk with her hands on her hips. “Reading.” “No shit. Look, Laurence. Xander says you throw away your lunch. Like, all of it.” “I always eat too much for breakfast.” “Stop lying. You haven’t been buying anything.” Ceecee’s mouth adopted a disapproving tilt. “And now that I look at you… Laurence, you look so different.” Why does everyone keep telling me that? “I’m fine. Just not so hungry anymore.” Which is the truth. I have to stop myself from tossing away the entire lunch box. I hate opening it. The mere sight of food evokes memories: Adrianne and her friends, the endless stream of side eyes and snickers, how I found out in the worst possible way that while I loved her, my body ensured she thought the exact opposite of me. “Look, I don’t know how long this has been going on, but…” Ceecee shook her head again. I disgust her, too. “Ceecee, I have to work.” Mrs. Simmons introduced me to a journal that publishes historical research essays by high school students, and I need to get something about you in there. I think I’ll write about how you radicalized the Irish Republican movement. I hoped Ceecee would drop the subject, but at dinner, Mom wouldn’t stop staring as I pressed peas under my fork and smeared them around my plate. She pulled me aside after Dad volunteered to wash the dishes. She noticed I didn’t eat dinner, and that Ceecee told her I didn’t eat lunch or breakfast either. She said now that she thought about it, I was thinner than before. I reminded her that I am not thin. “That does not mean you cannot eat, Laurence,” she snapped. “You are not anorexic. I will not have you pretending you are.” A caustic laugh exploded out of me. I know exactly what I am—I’ve done the research. Some might call it a disease, some might call it shameful, but if you did it, I can’t see why it’s anything but good. I tried to escape to work on my essay, but Mom dragged me bodily to the dinner table and shoved a slice of bread (110 calories, 2.2 hours) in my face. “Eat,” she ordered. I needed to appease her, but looking at that piece of bread, I couldn’t. The thought of all those calories brought tears to my eyes, and I knew that even if I did shove the bread into my mouth, I’d want to spit it out. It hurt so much to gulp it down as quickly as possible. I went to the bathroom and hollowed everything out. Nobody can ruin my perfect streak. Not Xander, not Ceecee, not Mom, not Dad. Best, Laurence DAY 41: 148 lbs Dear Bobby, Every morning, Ceecee watches me get into line at the cafeteria and purchase a donut (240 calories, 4.8 hours) and eat the whole thing. I tear it into small pieces and chew like a sloth so the first period bell will ring and I have an excuse to dash to the bathroom. Then, just in case, I skip first period to jog. First period’s my study hall, which I need because not even a miracle can save my calc grade, but this is more important. Same goes for lunch. Xander makes sure I open the lunch box and scarf its contents. Ceecee drops by even though this isn’t her lunch period. “I’m not hungry” will trigger her alarm mode, so I never say it. I lick my lips as if I relish the yogurt and the apple slices with peanut butter (435 calories, 8.7 hours). I hate Mom for it. It hurts. It hurts so much to put those calories into my body. It hurts to swallow. Everything but water hurts my throat and stomach. At least I can trust my middle finger. I know where to press because, like lock and key, there’s a bruise in my throat and a matching one on my finger. In the Maze Prison, they called you leader. In Fermanagh and South Tyrone, they elected you their MP. In Belfast, they adorn walls with your face and name. All around the world, they christen streets after you. A little more, and Adrianne will notice me. Best, Laurence DAY 44: 146 lbs Dear Bobby, I’ve started to wear two shirts and a hoodie and winter coat. I think it’s the coldest April mwe’ve had. I had to lean against the railing to catch my breath halfway up the stairs to history. Adrianne and her friends sauntered up to me. “It’s like middle school, isn’t it? The fat kid can’t get up the stairs.” They snickered and finished the steps. I’d like to point out that I had no trouble getting up the stairs in middle school. I huffed a bit, sure, but I always got up. I arrived five minutes late to class, but Mrs. Simmons didn’t utter a word. Either that or I didn’t hear. Adrianne’s words echoed louder than bullets, drowning out Mrs. Simmons’ lecture. Once the cold lets up, I’ll shed my layers and she’ll see the real me. When Ulster loyalists terrorized your family, you didn’t cower. You fought back. You joined the Provisional IRA and took up a gun. Getting locked in the Maze Prison didn’t stop you. You kept fighting, kept giving the middle finger to your oppressors, this time by refusing to eat. I will, too. Best, Laurence DAY 48: 143 lbs Dear Bobby, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Mrs. Simmons was lecturing about you—you!—and even mentioned my presentation, but I was so cold and dizzy, I didn’t catch a word. Xander snapped his fingers in my face. “If calc keeps you up that late, I’ll do it for you.” I shrugged. “She’s talking Bobby Sands. How are you, of all people, zoning out?” Then he frowned and said, “You alright, Laurence? You’re looking worse for wear.” “It’s just senioritis.” I glared at Mrs. Simmons for the rest of class. I cannot have Xander ratting me out again. Not when I am so close. You starved yourself for 66 days. My gut tells me that if I follow in your footsteps, everything will turn out alright. You starved because you loved Ireland. I love Adrianne. Best, Laurence DAY 49: 142 lbs Dear Bobby, This time, Mom burst into my room while I reread your autobiography. “The school called today,” she said. “They have received multiple reports that you’ve exhibited a concerning weight loss. So, Laurence, would you care to explain?” Xander ratted me out. “I thought you were getting better!” Mom threw up her hands, her face twisted with distress. “You were eating! And now they’re recommending professional treatment.” Which is a fancy way of saying they’ll tie me to a hospital bed and track my every movement. I can’t have that, not with my essay, not with exams coming up, not with me so close to 66. “I will not have any child of mine confined in a mental hospital,” Mom went on. She rocked herself with her head in hands. “You’re not sick. You’re not sick. My son is not sick.” When you refused to wear a prison uniform, they confiscated your bedsheets so you couldn’t clothe yourself with them. You sat naked in a cold, cramped cell for 22 days rather than capitulate. “From now on, you stay home.” Mom fixed her unblinking eyes on me. “We can’t have the school forcing me to hospitalize you.” I don’t care what they do to me, I won’t stop. I will keep fighting like you. Once, I thought it was cool to share a name with Laurence McKeown, your fellow striker, but now I wish I didn’t. There is no glory in quitting. Best, Laurence DAY 53: 139 lbs Dear Bobby, After I ate the small dinner (370 calories, 7.4 hours) Mom set out for me last night, I went to the bathroom, as usual. But this time, Dad yanked the door open—I will always regret that we have no locks—to find me bent over the toilet with my fingers stuck in my throat. Now they won’t let me go to the bathroom within an hour of eating. I tried to get sick in the shower today, and I did, but I don’t think it made any difference. When Mom and Dad are at work, I run laps around the house, and when they think I’m copying Xander’s notes, I pace my bedroom. I can never keep it up for long, not with my limbs trembling like jelly or the cold cutting to my bones. You survived beatings and torture. You persevered, and in return, 30,000 elected you to Parliament, 10,000 rioted in your name, and 100,000 attended your funeral. I’ll fight, too, until people see I’m more than the fat kid. Best, Laurence DAY 59: 131 lbs Dear Bobby, I pushed the bookcase and bed against the door. It’s the only way to fix it. I brought everything I need to last the week. A case of water (0 calories and ingesting water speeds up metabolism by 30% for the next hour, or about 15 additional calories. Besides, you starved, not dehydrated). My laptop so I can email Mrs. Simmons for assignments. And of course, your autobiography and this notebook to keep me company. You’re the only one who understands. I wrap myself in blankets like you did before they got confiscated, except I actually have clothes underneath. I’m so cold as I shuffle across the room, counting laps through chapped lips. If you could go 22 days naked, I can go 7 like this. Best, Laurence DAY 60: 130 lbs Dear Bobby, Someone—I think Dad—is pounding on my door, shouting at me to let him in. It hurts my ears, so I press my head into the pillow. It helps for a bit, but now Ceecee’s wailing like a banshee. “Laurence, please! Please! Open up, please!” It shreds against my ears, and if I had any strength left in my sour throat, I would scream. But I only shake and shiver and bleed my soul onto these pages. DAY 60 It took nearly everything I had in me to stuff my shirts into the door to muffle the yelling. Not that it means much now. The shouting and banging stopped an hour ago. I didn’t consider that I can’t avoid the mirror, and thus, my fat self. While I wait for Mrs. Simmons’ email, I pull the thing off the wall and smash it in my closet. I ache all over. Bruises cover my limbs though I can’t remember anything that might have done that. My eyelids droop, and I write through the narrow slit I can keep open. Tiocfaidh ár lá. Our day will come. The last thing you wrote, the motto of the revolution. Tiocfaidh ár lá. Tiocfaidh ár lá. Tiocfaidh ár lá. Best, Laurence DAY 63: ??? lbs Dear Bobby, They finally let me have the paper and pen. I’ve sat here for ten minutes tapping the pen against the plastic desk. Because what can I say? I failed. I’m in a hospital gown I can’t refuse in a bed I’m not allowed to leave (you once refused to leave your cell but I don’t think that applies here). They started by pumping glucose into my blood. I spent the night doing the math and it’s 200 calories per liter. Two hundred fucking calories. 4 full hours of basal metabolic rate. I had spotted the ambulance parked on our driveway, red and white and blue lights blaring, so I knew to fight when they unhinged the door. They had to hold me down, all four paramedics, to load me into the stretcher. Is this how you felt after you fought your hardest but got arrested anyway? When you found yourself in prison again after less than a year free? They diagnosed me with anorexia nervosa and body dysmorphic disorder. You protested because you refused to be degraded into a common criminal. I wish I could do the same but I don’t know how. After the first night, they said I couldn’t stay on the glucose drip forever, so I’d eat or get force-fed. It was my choice, but the thought of a tube shoved up my nose scared me into agreeing. The nurse gave me tomato soup and a sandwich. It made me so bloated it hurt and I told her so but she still made me finish. She refused to tell me the calories. I’m like you in the Maze Prison except I have no fight left. Best, Laurence DAY 66: ??? lbs Dear Bobby, Today should have been the day, but it isn’t. I should have received an end to Adrianne’s ridicule, to all of it. Instead, I got my parents in tears. They apologized, saying they’d noticed how thin I had become, but they hadn’t wanted to believe I was sick. They showed me a photo of myself in the hospital bed. I wonder if I resemble you in your last moments. “Please cooperate with them,” Dad said. “We almost lost you, Laurence.” He pressed his forehead to my hand. “They said any further would have ruined your heart.” At least now I can see what difference I have made. Best, Laurence One year later Dear Bobby, I spent five months in the hospital and took a gap year because of that. Ceecee switched her college choice last minute so she could stay close to me. I’m headed to the same college this September alongside Xander. I gotta say, I’m the luckiest guy in the world to have him and Ceecee. I said the hospital felt like prison, but I’m glad I went through it. Though it’s difficult to eat so much again, I’m doing my best to maintain a healthy weight. The discomfort has subsided over time, though, so hopefully, I won’t need surgery. Mom and Dad allowed Ceecee and me to take a trip to the Emerald Isle. If you were right about anything, you were right to love your home. It is, truly, the most beautiful place on earth. So here I kneel at your grave. I offer hardy fuchsia, the green-and-orange flag, and this last letter. I give you the blessing of your people: May the road rise to meet you, may the wind be always at your back, may the sun shine warm upon your face, the rains fall soft on your fields. It is the least a martyr deserves. I give you Bono’s words: Fuck the revolution. Where’s the glory? Because maybe you became the martyr, the hero, the face on the banners, but what about the wife and son, the parents and siblings you so recklessly left behind? Goodbye, Laurence