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It’s the last weekend in September, and it’s warm for a fall night in North Dakota. I’m in the backseat of a Ford Zephyr, losing my virginity. My boyfriend’s birthday is two days away. And he definitely keeps reminding me about it. If you’d like to know (and you obviously do, because you’re here, right?), it took about seven seconds. Maybe. If I’m being generous. I grew up in a small, Catholic town, and my older sister had always told me she wanted to wait until she was married (she didn’t.) I considered it. Then realized I may never want to get married, or worse—what if I don’t marry until I’m in my thirties or forties? It’s an odd thing to be thinking about as a 14-year-old, but my boyfriend was 15, about to turn 16, and was putting a lot of pressure on me to “give in.” You’re now thinking: what good parent lets their 14-year-old daughter date a boy that’s almost 16? Well, you know. Small towns. And he was a stellar athlete. And popular. And had nice parents. And was also Catholic. And… When I did finally (sorta) say yes, it’s only because he guilted me into it by saying that he was going to be turning 16, and it was some sort of goal to lose it before then (what a goal!). That all his friends were losing theirs, too (they weren’t). Anyway, here’s some things I remember about those seven seconds, and mostly, after them: Rise Against was playing in the background. “Swing Life Away” surrounded us in the car. What a good song. I’m going to listen to it now while I write this. The vanilla-colored car from the ‘70s had a maroon velvet-ish interior. I always knew my first time wouldn’t be special, but really? The backseat of a car? An old, rusty car? Parked in what my town called The Hot Spot (sort of like Make-Out Point in That ‘70s Show). Could this get any cheaper? *Cut to me in the future: it can and most certainly does.* My grandmother’s empty house was only two houses down from where we were parked. And I felt horribly guilty. She had just passed away a few months before. I felt like her ghostly head was shaking in shame while she watched me undress with some small-town boy who would grow up to be a republican. I remember lip syncing to the Rise Against song, and my boyfriend/virginity stealer asked if I had said something to him, and I quickly said no, embarrassed. For some reason, I was always feeling embarrassed around him. After we were done doing you know what, we sat awkwardly in the car, his arm draped around my shoulders. My thighs looked so fat next to his scrawny legs, and all I wanted was to put my clothes back on. Our awkward, naked, arm-draping cuddling session lasted several minutes. I’m not good at math, but that’s, like, a million times longer than the actual act itself lasted. And afterwards, he said he “had to get home” and dropped me off. I didn’t cry. A new girl had just moved to our school. She was very tall and lean and athletic, which was very important in our town, because all we really had going on for us was that we were impossible to beat in sports. She had long, beautiful blonde hair, almost down to her butt. I had just cut mine the summer before and still had short, black hair; It was in that weird in-between stage of growing out. I was also (and still am) very short, about 5’. So, as you can see, the literal complete opposite of New Girl. She was my boyfriend’s age and quickly went from New Girl in class to It Girl in school. Without even trying out for volleyball and/or basketball, she was instantly put on the varsity team. About a week later, after The Seven Second Event, there was a wedding in town. In small towns, everyone goes to the wedding, followed by the dance, whether they’re invited or not. There’s free food and beer, and who doesn’t love home-cooked meals and endless free booze? I met up with my boyfriend at the dance hall. We walked the few blocks from the wedding dance to his parents’ big, grey house on main street (which is still there, and I still drive by when I go home to see my parents). We had sex for the second time. Only this time around, he lasted considerably longer. It was about thirteen seconds. I said out loud that I should probably get on some birth control, beings as we just had sex twice in less than a week, and that was most likely setting up the premise of what our sex-life would be. I had nothing else to base this theory from, beings this was A) my first boyfriend and B) my first-time having sex. He said nothing back to the birth control statement. I was thinking he’d have some sort of input, like, “yeah! We probably should be smart about this; we’re going to be having LOTS of sex in our long future together!” Or whatever boyfriends usually say. Anyway, I laid down beside him on his bed, and thinking that since his parents weren’t home, and we were also in his room this time (and not a car), that we’d spend more time together post-coitus. There were no streetlamps shining in on us like in the backseat, so I didn’t feel ashamed about my bigger-than-his-thighs. Except he quickly put his clothes back on and said that his parents would notice he was gone from the dance and needed to get back. I thought it all felt a little cold and emotionless. All of it. But his parents were strict and Catholic, so I didn’t argue with him. We went back to the dance hall. He made me walk in a different door than him because he didn’t want his parents to see us walking in together, knowing they’d assume we had left somewhere together. I joined my friends, tried to enjoy the dance, even though I felt terribly disconnected from them and everything going on around me. The dance was coming to an end. I hadn’t seen my boyfriend since we walked back together. At one point, I think I had even asked one of his friends if they’d seen him, who said they thought he was still around. Whatever. I’m a cool and casual girlfriend, right? I don’t NEED to know my boyfriend’s whereabouts or who he’s with. I continued to try to have a good time with my friends. None of my friends knew at the time that I had started having sex. My friends (which are just your classmates in small towns, because there’s literally no one else) were very much goody-two-shoes, and I would have rather died than let them find out. I looked around for my boyfriend later again and still didn’t find him. He had clearly left and had been gone for a couple of hours. I saw that his parents were still there at the dance. They looked pretty not concerned about their son’s whereabouts. In fact, I’m fairly certain they were very drunk. I figured he went with his friends to go drive around, as that was the thing to do in small towns— “cruising main” or “dragging main”. Only the cool kids with a car were able to do that. And he had a car. (See how cool I was? Dating someone older? With a car? So cool. So casual.) A couple more hours passed, and the main doors opened to the dance hall. The lights turned on. The dance was ending. My friends and I turned around to look at who could possibly be coming in so late. There in the full light, my boyfriend and The New Girl strolled in together, drawing more attention than the newly married couple. How small towns love to talk. They might have well had been holding hands or making out. I tried my hardest not to fully turn around and stare at them. Them. Walking in. Together. In front of our whole town. Through the same doors at the same time. Where his parents were. My mouth dried. My face got hot. Not even because I knew that they had clearly just fucked, but because everyone else saw it and also knew. I didn’t cry. Andrea Lawler is a poet, essayist, and short story writer. She holds a degree in English Language & Literature. Her poetry collection, Let Me Take You Out of This Town, debuts in February, 2023. She lives in North Dakota with her three cats.

Max drank whiskey on his porch, one bottle for him, the other upon Henry’s return. By his calendar, Project Annihilation should have been be completed weeks ago, with Henry disposing of remaining humans. Birds chirped in the distance, a summer breeze washed Max’s face, and sublime acceptance seeped into him. In a rusted out car, like something out of Mad Max, Henry speeds over the horizon. Max downed another glass while waiting. Henry stagged out of the car, sweat and blood congealed on his shirt. “Is it done?” Max asked. “Everyone’s dead.” “You sure?” He nodded. “Absolutely sure?” “The last person I saw was a bearded shut-in. We drank coffee and smoked his last pack of cigarettes.” Henry paused. “Hell of a thing being with someone during their last hours.” “Hours?” “I got to know this man.” A long pause. “Somehow all of this don’t feel right.” Max lit a stale cigarette. “Did he know who you were?” “No, just an old timer happy to see someone. His town was empty, though not by my hand.” “And?” “When we finished, he pulled out a gun, and blew his brains out.” “Just like that?” Henry took a seat next to Max. “Just like that.” “But you’re sure everyone’s dead except us?” “As sure as anyone can be,” Henry said. “I mean, goddamn, I’ve been out there for what? years?” “Little over a decade.” Max handed Henry his bottle. “We’re the last humans then. Ain’t that something?” Henry admired the bottle and took a swig. “You know, I think I’ll miss this world.” Max leaned back, his whiskey almost gone. “I’ve had a weird and interesting life, but I won’t miss it.” Henry took another swig. “You never told me when this all started.” “My father looked at me with sadness. Not a sadness that I was his son, a melancholy that I was born. Not resentment. No. Something deeper. A kind of existential depression of foisting existence on a meat puppet.” He took a long drink. “As I aged, he told me he longed for extinction. His reasons made too much sense to ignore.” Max took another drink. “You never ask many questions before. Why now?” “You’re a friend. The only one I ever had. A smarter than anyone I knew. No point in questions at the time. But now I’m curious.” Max took a drag and exhaled through his nostrils. “Thank you, friend.” “Did he start the program immediately?” “Took him until I started college to perfect the formula and work out the logistics.” “Whatever happened to him?” “After he taught me how to keep it going, he went to the garage and hung himself. I think I was twenty? Maybe twenty-one? Shot my mother first.” Max paused. “He didn’t say goodbye, but his eyes leading up to his suicide didn’t lie. My mother once told me he’d long suffered bouts of anhedonia” “Anhedonia?” “He couldn’t feel pleasure.” Henry took out a cigarette, lit it, and stared off in the distance. “I’m not sure I’m ready to die.” Max put his wrinkled hand on Henry’s shoulder. “The planet’s a sentience void now. This moment we have, right here, right now? That’s it. And Henry, thank you for your friendship, and service.” Henry let the cigarette burn. “It’s been a wild ride.” “No more human misery. No more needless suffering of beings thrust into a world to suffer and die. No more cradles that become coffins. You understand the humanism behind it all, right? The compassion of saving countless future lives from this wretched world, right?” Henry inhaled, then snubbed out his cigarette. “Yeah, sure, I suppose.” “One more glass?” Henry nodded. Both downed a final glass in silence, then Max produced two cyanide tablets. “You were more than a friend. A brother.” Max said. “Thank you.” # Off the coast of California, on a derelict boat, a baby cried out as the mother finished birthing. “It’s ok,” she said. “Mommy’s here. Everything will be ok.” “It’s a miracle,” the doctor said. “You’re one of a few fertile women left. You’re a hero.” The woman looked out at a crumbling L.A, then back at her crying infant. She wept. Sebastian Vice is the Founder of Outcast Press devoted to transgressive fiction and dirty realism. He has short fiction and poetry published in Punk Noir Magazine, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Outcast Press, Terror House Magazine, Bristol Noir, and Misery Tourism. He contributed a chapter to Red Sun Magazine's forthcoming book The Hell Bound Kids (May 1st, 2022) and writes a regular column called "Notes of A Degenerate Dreamer" over at A Thin Slice of Anxiety. His flash piece "One Last Good Day"was nominated for Best of The Net 2021. His forthcoming poetry book Homo Mortalis: Meditations on Memento Mori will drop April 4th, 2022 through Anxiety Press.

*** Illegal Activity on Mayberry Street Last Tuesday, Mrs. Frobisher and her alleged lady friends broke up an illegal parade of wild turkeys down the middle of Mayberry Street by throwing poker chips at the birds. Parades are only allowed on weekends. The wild turkeys retaliated by chasing the ladies around the block and eating Mrs. Frobisher's flowers. The police, who were called by neighbors to restore order, found an illegal gambling casino in Mrs. Frobisher's basement. The police were able to arrest the ladies, but the wild turkeys scattered before the police could catch them. Policemen are still stationed at the golf course to question the wild turkeys when they fly down from the trees. However, it is doubtful the big birds will give up the identity of those involved in the parade. *** House Cleaning Company to Drops Lawsuit Against Client Darci Doolittle, president of Clean Freak Homes, Inc., contacted her attorney to start a lawsuit after her client, Joe Austin, didn't give her a 24-hour cancellation notice, and didn't pay the cancellation fee. Love Your Lawn landscaping services joined in the lawsuit. The police officer who delivered the summons found Joe dead on the floor. Because Mr. Austin had nothing valuable except a cranky old cat, Ms. Doolittle decided not to pursue acquiring Joe's assets to make up for the loss of income, as she is allergic. She plans to contact her state senator to draft legislation requiring people to notify everyone before they die unexpectedly. *** Deadly Grizzly A grizzly wandered into a lodge restaurant kitchen this weekend, looking for food. Restaurant workers evacuated the building before they became lunch. The grizzly ate all the pizzas, lumbered outside, and began rolling on the ground in pain. Park rangers subdued the bear long enough to pour a bottle of antacids down its throat. The bear immediately farted, knocking down several trees. Everybody within a mile radius of the fart fainted and had to be airlifted out. The cook surmised that the grizzly wasn't Italian, and couldn't bear the pizza sauce, garlic, cheese, and pepperoni. *** Serial Killer Caught on Camera An unknown dog in a mask and cape was caught after hours on a pet store camera ferociously shaking a stuffed animal. White puffs of fluff flew from the victim until it expired. When the manager opened the store the next morning, she found all the toy bins emptied, and unstuffed animal carcasses littering the floor. Several employees spent over an hour cleaning up the grisly scene and filling the bins with new stuffed toys. By the time police reviewed the camera footage, the murderer was no longer in the building. They are on the lookout for this dangerous criminal. Keep your doors and windows locked. *** Wife Drives Husband to Drink That's right. Marge Castle, our own town gossip, drove her husband to the bar yesterday. Maybe she just wanted to show off her new used Mazda. But will she pick him up? Harry Castle isn't sure. *** Man Taken to ER after Lawn Mowing Accident Kenneth Bailey, unhappy with his neighbor, Devon Patel’s, choice of political candidate, attempted to run down a sign that was close to the boundary of their adjacent yards. The lawn mower ejected a wooden shard into Mr. Bailey’s leg. Mr. Patel drove Mr. Bailey to seek medical help. *** Death Completes Time Management Course Death was just plain tired of responding to every unimportant and non-urgent prank death call. Now she carries a planner to prioritize her appointments. Her new phone number is unlisted so that she can focus on increasing productivity. Not to worry. She'll show up when it's your time. You're important. Nolcha has written all her life, starting with poop and crayons on the walls. That led to a long career in technical writing. She retired into creative writing. Her poems have been published in WyoPoets News, Duck Head Journal, Ancient Paths, Dark Entries, The Red Lemon Review, Agape Review, Bullshit Literary Magazine, and Storyteller’s Refrain.

We thought you’d remember us. Trisha dreamt her kid tumbled down the stairs and opened the flesh below his knees. She’d woken up, sweating, trembling, and his sharp cries ringing in her ears. The next afternoon, as they left the local mall, the memory like a framed photograph still nailed to the insides of her skull, she recognized the bobbing head of her kid hopping down the white stone steps. Trisha leapt in an attempt to grab him but knocked him over, and there he was, wailing, blood everywhere. Soon, the neighbour’s dog was squelched under a mini-van. Angry wasps attacked an old woman who’d poked the hive with a stick—she was dead and it made the local news. Trisha dropped a kitchen knife on her foot while chopping carrots. A Russel’s viper bit the gardener of their countryside house in India, left him foaming from the mouth under the scorching sun. Her twenty-year-old nephew was mugged, beaten, stabbed, and left to die by a couple of gin-soaked thugs in the wet and dingy streets of East London. Trisha didn’t want to sleep. She was terrified more of her nightmares would manifest. She would lie awake for as long as she could beside her snoring and oblivious husband. But then she’d fall asleep, and dream. We thought you’d remember us. We remember you. # Trisha dreamt again. Vivid as always. But this was good. Her husband was on top, and he wasn’t the lifeless machine she was used to. His muscles shifted under his smooth sweaty skin while he fucked her, smiling, breathing heavily, the scent of his favourite musky cologne lingering in the room. Trisha didn’t want him to stop. She squirmed in her sleep, moaning, her cotton panties wet. He grabbed her breasts, her tiny, pointy… those weren’t her breasts! Trisha looked around frantically. She didn’t recognize the stained green wallpapers or the red neon lights bleeding through the shabby white lace curtains or the soft hum and the occasional clunk from the air conditioner. She was horrified, but he continued to fuck her as if he never noticed—smiling, breathing heavily. We thought you’d remember us. We remember you. We remember the sight of your muscles shifting under your smooth sweaty skin while you fucked her, after you’d finger-fucked her whilst twisting her perky little titties, making her feel things she’d never felt before. We know she breathed in the scent of your musky cologne determined to remember it. We know she ignored her usual amusements: the nasty green wall, the stupid red neon lights outside the shabby white lace curtains, the barely-functioning air conditioner. We know she’d fuck you every day had she not been pimped out to the fat bald uglies that grunted like breathless pigs as they emptied themselves inside her in less than thirty seconds. Trisha sat up, shaking. Her husband was about to cheat on her the next evening, fuck a small-breasted woman like he’d never fucked her—with heat and love. She glared at the back of his sleep-enveloped head and fumed. Then she smiled. She used to stand before the bathroom mirror and stare at the dark green woven into her hazel irises, unsure where that green came from. Dr Barnes was a tad confused. He tested her eyes, and suggested she get thoroughly checked, but she was fit as a fiddle. Then came the dreams, the vivid nightmares, haunting her, chasing her into dark corners and rattraps. She hated the dreams, hated herself, and when she suspected her new set of corneas could be responsible for the sudden clairvoyance, she cursed the donor and wanted to gauge her eyes out. But now, she could catch her husband in the act, and she smiled. We thought you’d remember us. We remember you. You adored us, said we were the most beautiful things you’d ever seen, that we reminded you of oases in the Sahara; you said we looked sad and it broke your heart, that you’d love her and fuck her every night if you could… just to see us laugh over and over again. # “Surprise, darling! I brought you your favourite sandwiches,” said Trisha, swinging open the glass doors at her husband’s office and prancing in like she belonged. He was shocked for a split second and his secretary was amused. Trisha left after lunch, having noted the small breasts on the red-head. She lurked outside the building all day while the kid stayed with the sitter, but her husband and his lover took different routes. He returned to the house and headed straight to his study, unaware that Trisha wasn’t home, unaware that she crept in twenty minutes after he did while he was crouched before his laptop, typing away. We thought you’d remember us… You didn’t. Trisha felt invisible. She wept and screamed silently in the shower. He was about to fuck his secretary that night, yet there he was, calm… typing, typing, typing. # The detective raised an eyebrow. “What?” Last night, your wife read The Wonderful Wizard of Oz to the boy and put him to sleep. She doesn’t know… she doesn’t know… her boy only scraped his knee at school, the neighbour’s dog is still yapping away in another house, the wasps chasing the old woman was a cartoon illustration on Facebook, her foot was never sliced open, the gardener died of a sun-stroke, and her nephew was an extra on TV in a police procedural. Last night, we watched your pretty face contort in confusion and anger as she accused you of fucking your small-tittied secretary. And we liked it… “The woman says the flying monkeys from Oz are after her—” We tried. We tried so hard. We baffled Dr Barnes. We thought you’d remember us, but you didn’t recognize the little dark greens peeking through your wife’s hazel irises, part of the same deep green that you claimed reminded you of oases in the Sahara. “She the one that killed her husband with a meat tenderizer because she caught him cheating, uh… in the future?” We thought you’d remember us… Tejaswinee Roychowdhury is a Bengali-Indian lawyer, writer, poet, and occasional artist. Her fiction has been/will be published in Muse India, The Unconventional Courier, Misery Tourism, Alphabet Box, Borderless Journal, Kitaab, and Active Muse, among others. Currently, she's a fiction/screen/stage editor for The Storyteller's Refrain. Find her tweeting at @TejaswineeRC and her list of works at linktr.ee/tejaswinee.

Pearl Mussel Do not tell me to heal. I want no poems that call the wild geese home, or command me, behold the winter sunset, or, consider the fox frozen in river-ice. I want no poems that tell me how to mend, or how to mourn all the world’s little losses, and little gifts, I know what we are giving up. Do not tell me, make peace and grieve. The lifespan of anger is long in the wild, and if left alone, it will become a living relic, rooted and sightless in the deep. If left alone, its small, dark life will outlast by far this brief season. Is that not reason enough to let it live? Untitled “GOD HATES —” (A sonnet) If I believed in God, I would use Him The way He has been used against me. Those who have condemned me, I would condemn From my high pulpit, and rain hellfire down On what I deem hypocrisy. If I had faith, I would wield it like a flail, barbed-wire tails, A velvet grip, soft only to the hand That holds it. This is all to say, I know I am no better than my enemies. I know the human heart to be a sponge— When squeezed, it oozes whatever substance It has been soaked in. If mine believed, I would Seep the same pap as I’ve been fed, I would Suck up this lake of poison and call it Love. Hesse Phillips lives in Madrid, Spain. Their poetry and prose have appeared in The Bridport Review, the époque press é-zine, Embark: A Literary Journal for Novelists, and is forthcoming in Emerge Literary Journal and other publications. They were a 2022 finalist in the Irish Writers Centre Novel Fair.

Awake Raindrops hurl to the pavement, pooling, streaming, Seeking inlets in which to rest. I lie in bed hearing the swoosh of tires as cars glide by, Infrequently, at four in the morning. Too early for all but the most industrious commuters, Too late for revelers, passed out in beds. I listen, so I don’t start to think. Those thoughts that come in the dark of night Those streams of questions coursing through my mind, Demanding answers. I choose instead to listen. The rhythmic breathing of my partner, at times punctuated by a snore of surprise. The dreams of the dog, defending us. Brave, even in slumber. The shush of the rain, cleansing us, quenching us, so that we can rise, Glistening in the light of a new day. The One Who Never Leaves How quick the return. A harsh comment A look of disgust A threat to leave Brings him back to you. That weak-kneed little boy Standing so small Deep inside your soul. Eyes brimming with tears Voice shaking, whispering, “I’m so scared”. You thought you dealt with this, In years of therapy. You held him Heard him out Told him he was safe now. Then you moved on Got tough, grew a pair More polished than a brand-new pair of shoes. At least you thought so. Oh, how vulnerable we are. How thin the veneer How fragile the shell How deep the wound, That never Truly Heals. Brian Christopher Giddens (he/him) is a writer of fiction and poetry. Brian’s writing has been featured in Silver Rose, On the Run Fiction, Glass Gates Collective, Flash Fiction Online (pending publication), and Hyacinth Review (pending publication). Brian is a native of Seattle, Washington, where he lives with his husband, and Jasper the dog. Brian can be contacted at BrianChristopherGiddens@outlook.com, and his photo haikus can be found on Instagram @giddens394.

Every Tuesday night the guy in the red baseball hat sits alone at a table for two in the café area of the bookstore, focused on the hardcover in his hands—and every Tuesday night Jane promises herself this will be the night she asks him what he’s reading. Lori Cramer’s short prose has appeared in Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine, Funny Pearls, MoonPark Review, Sledgehammer Lit, Truffle Magazine, and elsewhere. Her work has been nominated for Best Microfiction. Links to her writing can be found at https://loricramerfiction.wordpress.com. Twitter: @LCramer29.

My dreams were served with Cabernet – seduction by commercial taste, peeling vanity off the apple’s core, taking away unwanted skin, marketing by genome. My first bite into liberty, left me naked as a peach; the vigour of a romance, supple breast the waves caress, the fragrance sells itself. Cereal competes for calories, a promise in each crunch - the body awakening to Adonis, brands flexing muscle, a grain-built fantasy. Steak breeds success, the money is in the meat; a raw ambition, grilled to potential, seared in vision, relishing wealth - a job well done. Fondant into luxury, a flavour of the elite, a spoonful of temptation, the suit, the heels, the liquid status; a tongue-seducing product. A different world – a sense of the exotic; spices awakening adventure, open streets– stir it, fry it, buy it; piercing the mundane, perfect holiday is a scent away. The last bite – the perfect placement; mouth-watering potential, taste the subliminal violence; sales are up, reproduction is down, nutrition is not our biggest seller. A word from the author: Poem is a speculative satire playing around with the ideas of consumerism and genetics

We saw each other at the grocery store – then a few hours later, at the same cafe. Riding the bus home, there she was again. She sat next to me, smiling wildly. Her face was joy, and tired as the summer heat. She turned her head to me and said, “Hi I’m Josie. I want to take a walk with you and maybe make out in a park.” “Sounds great,” I said, “Let's go.” It was as if we had known each other for a thousand years, walking down the street holding hands. Everything was easy. We talked as reunited lovers talk, of things past and forgotten, of intimacies and secrets. In the park I lay on the ground, my head in her lap, like we had always done this. I looked up and gently pushed some stray blond hairs behind her ears. I had no idea about the malignancy beneath her ribs. We knew each other for an afternoon. I might even call it love. She died two months later in bed and I was broken all over for a while.

In walks a Van Gogh salesman, and not the sunflower kind. “No starry nights neither,” he winks at Jen and me as we sit there. Like always. Like Thursdays. Usual coffee and scones. . The barista, a parenthesis of a girl, hunchy and tall, leans across the counter. “Espressos for everyone!” the salesman sings and lines up his prints against the curvy glass of the sandwich case. It’s a gallery of wheat fields and empty rooms. The salesman stands back and nods in approval. He is all bowtie and red-haired bangs. Pen clipped on to his shirt pocket. “He’s cute,” Jen says. And here we go. “You just broke up with Larry,” I say. “You saw how he winked at us,” she says, and then, again, “he’s cute.” There are only two other tables. A guy with a laptop and headphones, the other a mother feeding a cookie into a stroller. The barista has lined up five espressos. “That’s twenty bucks,” she says, “ten for renting the space.” The salesman puffs and releases a loud sigh, starts to gather up his prints. “Change of plans,” he says, looking around. “Not much of a customer base,” he shrugs at me and Jen. The baby in the stroller has started crying. The laptop guy is staring into his screen. “See that?” I say to Jen. “Poof! Gone.” She crumples her napkin and tosses it on her plate. I know she isn’t listening. Out walks the Van Gogh Salesman. The barista is shaking her parenthesis head. Through the window, we can see the salesman arranging his framed prints around his legs. He is looking in every possible direction. Jen stands up and goes over to the window. That’s when he turns and smiles at us, at her. She looks back at him and stands there, watching him for a moment like a giant sunflower eye.

It was no surprise to Dharti that the pedicure would go awry. Being made of solid earth created a habit of clogging drains. Ankle deep in mud, the aesthetician would feverishly rinse her legs with clean water from a hand-held spigot and apologize profusely. It only made matters worse. Dharti knew it wasn't her fault; she was born this way, a bog maiden. There would be no beautification here today. She extracted her brown limbs from the thick silt with an embarrassingly loud sucking noise and watched as the two dark holes filled themselves with pudding-consistency mud. Dharti tracked footprints as she made her way through the salon. Past the desert-warm air of the nail dryers, past the gel-tinted fingernails of gossiping ladies looking up but avoiding catching her eye. Lumps of mud slid down her legs and plopped gently on the floor. The salon owner quickly mopped up behind her, murmuring unveiled criticisms regarding her lack of cleanliness. The heat of embarrassment was a fire kiln that hardened Dharti's flesh again, and she closed the door behind her with a hard push. Its gentle regress into the door frame with the soft, welcoming bell tinkle was infuriating. Her eyes flashed, and her mouth set into a stony grimace. She was trying; she wanted to scream. Dharti strode down the street. The small town was bustling with morning shoppers, bags hanging from elbows, cheeks kissed, lattes in hand, children in tow. She looked down at bare arms composed of long withered roots and thought lonely thoughts. Was she doomed to the periphery, never fitting in? Hugging herself for warmth, her loamy skin soft and inviting, she walked away from the crowd. Perhaps she should just mulch herself amongst the impatiens or get lost in the marshlands. She found herself in the town's park with its memorial gazebo amidst the trim, well-kept lawn, wind whipping an American flag into a frenzy. She could smell salt in the air and caught the faint scent of lavender. She remembered why she rose from her native soil, the dry, harsh environs of her youth, to move where it was green and lush. Where rain danced on asphalt and winds chimed from porches. Where neighbors brought you pie and asked about your landscaping. She'd close them out with polite thanks, fearful of friendship she assumed would inevitably wilt. Awkwardly tried to adapt to her new environs solo but failed to thrive like a neglected orchid. Suddenly it dawned on her that she was no potted plant. Her containment was all her own making. Her toes dug into the soil below the clipped greens, rooting themselves to the town, absorbing its history and role in her life thus far. Vines crept up each leg, leaves opening across her abdomen and whirling around her arms, giving her courage and strength. She opened her palms, and morning glories erupted, unfurling their trumpet-shaped flora with silent fanfare. Their violent purple adorned each finger. She basked in that moment of earthly beautification, decorated in nature. Manifesting her skill with the local flora, a gift she could share with others. She walked back to the nearest Starbucks, ordered a half-caf latte with no sugar and almond milk, and smiled when the barista remembered her name. She sat facing the window to soak up the sun, to be noticed, releasing tendrils of hope that someone would come and join her. This time, she would let relationships grow and friendships blossom. Nina Miller is an Indian-American physician, fencer, and writer. Her work can be found in TL;DR Press's, Mosaic: The Best of the 1,000 Word Herd Flash Fiction Competition 2022, Bright Flash Literary Review, Five South, Five Minutes and more. Find her on Twitter @NinaMD1 or www.ninamillerwrites.com.

It will be dead soon. Poached slowly in sun warmed plastic, steam droplets suspended inches above the waterline, like chandelier pendants on an egg timer of mortality. I lift the bag to my face and confront dull, bulging eyes and a tiny mouth puckering in desperate kisses, little round Os getting faster, losing rhythm; jarring as a badly dubbed film. I copy the movements, my own eyes staring through the pliant barrier, equally unblinking, my lips flapping impotently in reply. I didn’t want the fish, but my reticence was smothered by his peacocked posturing. His validation coming, not from me but from the stall holder, a girl mere years older than myself who pulled strings of pale pink bubble gum from her sticky mouth. As the cheap plastic balls sailed ever closer to their target, a cloud of foreboding settled heavy on my shoulders, boring down to meet the anxiety rising from my belly. With a pop and exaggerated fist pump, my fate was sealed with excited squeals from the girl. She reached behind her and passed the prize to my father, who in turn bestowed it on me. This life, this sentient being, that I would have the privilege to watch die. I cast my eyes around and note how much is discarded at the fair ground. Popcorn kernels, only half eaten, rattle within boxes, trampled by oblivious feet. Thin wooden sticks lie scattered, pink fronds of candy floss hardening darkly on their surface, clinging fast in an onslaught of regimental ants. Disposable joy, temporary, just like me and the fish. He is talking now to another girl, he flicks his dyed hair, basking in his athletic prowess. I stand shuffling beside him, frustration building as hope slips like ether, into the charcoaled nutty fug. He looks in my direction and with feigned benevolence, pushes ride tokens into my free hand until it’s overflowing. The tokens thud onto the dusty ground and I have to crouch down and retrieve them while he rolls his eyes to the girl, giggling at my expense. I look at the creature beside me with resolve and approach the big wheel. I’ve always been afraid of heights but I will put that aside for the fish; now listing on its side. The kisses are slower and wider as I step into the swinging carriage, and with a grasping hand find the seat. Within moments we are rising over buildings, and with trembling hands, I hold the fish aloft. In the distance, golden rays bounce like lightning off the frothing sea. A glimpse of home before death. Within moments the fish swings onto its back, kisses stopped, lips a pinhole. As the wheel descends, I look over to a clearing and the faded blue house on the hill. I picture her crouched low in the garden, tenderly digging the beds. Love spills salt from my eyes as I approach the ground, leaving fish and my mum in the sky. About the author: Marie-Louise is an Irish writer who enjoys writing from a sensory perspective.