Search Results

My secret language is a cum scribbled code more immediate than a dream, but perhaps we can move past our cycles; reading Henry Miller. Where then? In my room smoking a mango vape, 8% beer, listening to an ambient album with a cover that looks like a Mario 64 desert level. Earlier tonight I went to a concert and I swear I can vouch for a generation. Hoping for something magical to occur. I had an awkward encounter because I didn’t press x fast enough; you told me something similar happened to you. We ran into a few people who I didn’t want to see, the universe spits them out. Up and down, at the club, up, down and around; who cares. Not like the trees, but like my perception of artwork, you asked me if I wanted to leave and the answer was no. Why stay? Lose Touch Completely is a 25 year old writer who resides in Canada. This poem is about going out.

Dictionary Definitions I took the book you gave me for my birthday, and smashed it across my skull, the Concise Oxford Dictionary. It was reassuringly heavy and full in my hands, a New Edition for the ‘90s, one thousand four hundred and sixty-four pages. It was the only thing I had to hand to slam etymologies of sense into me. No words were harmed during this violent act of self-punishment and release, they remained safe inside their hardback cover. No words escape from me either still, thirty years later, as I bludgeon my brain to find a way to express what you did to me. London’s Daughter These walled streets through which I walk, Remind me of where I’m coming from, Resign me to where I’m going to. Discreetly, concretely, I beseech thee to Let me through, I am London’s daughter. Wattle and daub, bricks and mortar. These sunken ships on which I sail, All aboard for the city. Newspapered professionals sitting pretty Self-made all in a row. Let me pass, I am here at last, where Lectricity and scalators build subterranean skyscrapers. Flesh and bone, blood and water Lead me home, I am London’s daughter. An audio version of this poem is available here: https://jpseabright.com/visual-audio/ Bio: JP Seabright (she/they) is a queer writer living in London. They have three pamphlets published: Fragments from Before the Fall: An Anthology in Post-Anthropocene Poetry by Beir Bua Press; the erotic memoir NO HOLDS BARRED by Lupercalia Press, and GenderFux, a collaborative poetry pamphlet, by Nine Pens Press. More info at https://jpseabright.com and via Twitter @errormessage.

I dress in the dark every morning for school. I don't want to wake up Lanny, who makes his own schedule for his marketing business that starts much later in the afternoon. I'm supposed to get to the high school where I work around 7:00 am every morning, but I usually wake up around 5:00 am so I can stop and get coffee and then sit in the office and try to figure out my plan for the day. Some teachers stay after school to do that sort of thing, but I prefer to be out of the house as soon as I can, before my brain can catch up to my body and recognize that I'm still here in this situation. I remember the night I moved my stuff into Lanny’s two-bedroom apartment. We sat at the table and wrote a list of all the goals we had for each other, a list of promises. It had been his idea to make the list, and we read them aloud and ate spaghetti and garlic bread he picked up from The Olive Garden. There was so much hope bursting inside of me, I almost believed it. Since I'm first to arrive at work, I flip on all the lights. I set down my things; a hot caramel macchiato with 2% milk, my two tote bags filled with binders and books, and the keys to the classroom. I hold onto my cell phone that I’ve become obsessed with lately. I read somewhere that our devices have actually become part of our human form, an extension of our bodies. I turn on the desktop that is a no-fail computer, one of the only ones in the room that is definitely connected to the printer and won’t crap out on me since I have to print today. I use a different key to open a drawer in an industrial metal grey filing cabinet and take out a stack of blank paper that I’ve hoarded. We’re not really supposed to do that, but if we run out of paper, we have to walk all the way to the front office and request more. Before I can even get anything done, Gerald walks in. Gerald is my age, twenty-seven, and a history teacher. He’s been here since he graduated college and it’s his dream to become dean of the school someday. He wears a suit every single day and has one of those beautiful leather briefcase satchels that opens like an accordion. He wears tortoiseshell Ray Bans and doesn’t take them off when he steps inside the faculty lounge. “Oh man,” he says to the room. “I don’t even know why I walked in here, I'm gonna head up to my room. You want some coffee?” Gerald might be in love with me. When he found out I was a writer, most likely from reading my bio on the school’s website, he asked if we could exchange stories. I said I wasn’t working on anything at the moment, but that he could feel free to send something my way. I was trying to be nice and I knew Gerald had big pull at the school, having gone to the school as a student himself and working his way up the ranks. He’d done his prerequisite student teaching hours on campus and finally made it to full-time staff. I thought maybe he could help me somehow, that I should try to make friends here. He had given me a story to read in a manila envelope that he had typed on his typewriter at home. The edges of the pages were crinkled, having been wet and dried, and he apologized as I looked it over, saying he liked to drink whiskey while he wrote fiction. The story was about a man who is an average man working in an office but who moonlights as a James Bond sort of character, but it wasn’t clear exactly what kind of do-gooding he did. He had weapons and a nice car and always wore stylish suits, but it seemed more like a character portrait than a story. It was unfinished, and rather than hurt his feelings, I just told him to let me read more when he was done. But I knew types like him. He wasn’t willing to do the work to revise. It was more the title, the being a writer than the act of writing itself. “Already have some, but thanks,” I say and continue to log into the computer and pull up a reading packet for The Great Gatsby. “Starbucks is shit,” he says. “I’ve got a hazelnut blend anytime you want some.” I nod and Gerald walks out. I'm alone for another forty-five minutes or so until the other teachers arrive. Most of the female teachers wear blouses printed with elephants or butterflies and a loose-fitting cargo pant with sensible shoes. I wear jeans every day and a white t-shirt tucked in with a blazer, despite the perpetual humidity in South Florida. I wear sneakers with insoles because of a slow growing genetic bunion. I staple my packets one by one for the hundred and twenty-five students I have and Jessica, the poetry teacher, reminds me that I can make the copy machine staple for me. I resent her because she got the job I applied for. I’d interviewed to be in the Creative Writing department, but ended up in AP English Language and Composition. I’d imagined days entering the room in long coats and sucking on caramel candies and talking to my students about the form and structure of poetry, the great poets and their historical context, the work my students would turn in—beautiful, original, bold. But now I make copies of packets for books I’d read and hated in high school. Now I give weekly multiple-choice tests where I can’t even get the all the answers right. Jessica is skinny and wears black leggings with combat boots and a baggy sweater. Her hair is in a messy bun and she wears too much eyeliner. I can’t even remember the last time I wore makeup. My phone buzzes in my blazer pocket and it’s Lanny asking if we’re out of cinnamon. “It’s on the counter,” I remind him, since he likes it in his drip coffee he makes at home. I leave it out for him each day, but he always forgets. I see that I have fifteen minutes until first period starts and I head over to my room on the other side of campus. Veteran teachers have their proper homerooms, but since it’s my first year I have to migrate throughout the day to a different classroom each period. My first period room belongs to a math teacher, Katy, who has posters of cats doing mathematics all over the walls and photographs of her and her long-term boyfriend all over her desk. When I step into her room she’s always upset, like my presence is a huge inconvenience to her, which it probably is. She always asks if I’ll need the white board, which is already filled with equations and notes for the day, so I shake my head no and pull down the screen for the projector. It’s easier for me to have digital presentations and my own handouts so that I never have to mess with another teacher’s room. There are no kids present yet and I awkwardly stand next to her desk until she gets up and we switch places. I log into her computer and she lingers with her coffee tumbler and cell phone. “I think Brad’s going to propose really soon,” she says. She can never go too long without talking about her very serious boyfriend, Brad. “That’s great,” I say and pull up my presentation. “I wish he’d wait until after Christmas.” “Why?” I ask, simultaneously finding a spelling error in my presentation and wondering if the students will even notice. “I just love Christmas so much and don’t want to be engaged and have it be a holiday. Like, he should just let me have Christmas and then he can propose after. But then again it might be nice to have a big shiny ring against the backdrop of our tree, you know?” “For sure.” “What about you?” She asks, and I'm not sure what the question is. “I'm Jewish,” I say. “So no tree for me.” “Silly! I meant your boyfriend, Leonard? Is he going to pop the big question anytime soon?” “Lanny,” I say, defensively. I recall our fight the other night. I had asked Lanny to kill a spider that was crawling above my head in bed and he refused, saying he didn’t want to disturb the natural environment of our apartment, so I used a Swiffer to kill the bug against the wall and it left a huge blood stain. I then got out cleaning supplies and tried to erase the stain from our wall and Lanny said the chemical smells were giving him a headache so he went outside to the porch and listened to a podcast and didn’t come to bed until hours later. He had woken me up when he came in. I had been dreaming that I was on a plane taking off but we couldn’t get high enough in the air and we crashed. I managed to survive and walked back to the airport and tried to find another flight. I couldn’t read any of the signs at the ticket counter and was about to ask an attendant for help when Lanny’s rustling prodded me awake. Thus, initiating another round of me reiterating that I have to be up early and him calling me selfish, until we both turned opposite ways and fell back asleep. “Oh, maybe,” I say. “Well, I'm sure he will,” Katy says. “I have a second sense about these things.” Katy leaves and I open the Facebook App in my phone. I’ve had a profile online since college but don’t really post much anymore. I mainly use it to stalk people from my past and see what everyone is up to. There’s a guy I went to elementary school with, Zak Davidson, who was my first real crush. I remember how he sucked on the Great White Shark ice pops and how his head was shaped like a big beautiful egg. I once asked him if he wanted to kiss me in first grade. He said kissing was gross and ran away, but years later and thousands of miles apart, he accepted my friend request. I scroll through pictures of his latest trip to the Cayman Islands. He’s always with his family, never a girlfriend, and I imagine myself with him on the island snorkeling and drinking Mai Tais. Students begin to arrive just minutes before the starting bell. They convene among each other and I slip my phone into my blazer pocket. I walk around the room and hand out the papers I’ve copied. The kids don’t bother to make eye contact with me or say “thank you.” They don’t ask me about my weekend and I think maybe it’s better this way. They don’t know about Lanny or my life outside of school, really. I had wanted to be one of those teachers who beamed into the room and captivated her students with charisma and knowledge, but I soon realized how impossible it was. I thought maybe I should just show up, do the work, and go home; be a cog in the wheel. But a part of me still wanted to connect with them, to get them to feel something, to realize that high school was a temporary place but their contribution to the world could, would, last forever. And then I thought, Who was I kidding? I make my way back to my desk and turn on the TV for the morning news announcements. It’s usually a bunch of bullshit; self-important kids who want to mess around each morning making dumb announcements about school dances and themed dress-up days for Homecoming. Things I probably cared about when I was that age, but now I couldn’t care less. The students stand at the end of the program for the Pledge of Allegiance and I sit, defiantly. On the first day I’d asked them if they knew what they were standing for, putting their hands over their hearts, swearing an oath to God, what for? They had no answer and I told them in my room the Pledge would be optional, but they all stand and do it anyway out of habit. * Lanny’s got his headset on and is on the phone when I get home. I stopped at the grocery store and bought boneless, skinless chicken breasts that I’ll slather in premade BBQ sauce and throw in the oven for a half hour with some shredded cheese. He’s always fine with things like that, things that come together easily and in one pan. He catches my eye and sees me fumbling with the bags. He lifts up his arms like he’s holding two invisible pizzas and then points to his headset, signaling he can’t get off the call, it’s important. I change into my after-school-and-finally-home outfit of old raggedy shorts and a big t-shirt and my glasses and get started with dinner. Lanny closes the door to his office and I'm grateful we live in the two-bedroom for this reason, that he can separate himself from me when he needs to. It’d be a nightmare if we only had one room. I’d met Lanny when we both studied creative writing in graduate school, a school that we can see from our apartment’s balcony. He’d been living in the same apartment with a friend who moved out to live with his girlfriend. It had been a time of everyone moving out to further their romantic relationships, and so Lanny must have felt the pressure of inviting me to take over for half of the lease, which still remained in his name. I Venmo’d him half the rent each month with a cute little emoji of a swan or a bucket of popcorn or something dumb to try and show passive aggressively that I wished things were different. I wished Lanny could front all the money for our bills. I wished I didn't have to work at a high school where I swore I’d never work. I wanted to see the world and travel and write. I wanted a big life, not the small life I had in the city whose name literally translated to “The Mouth of the Rat.” Lanny had treated me well, though. He had been there when my workshop pieces got reamed by the other participants. He’d driven me home from too-late nights spent at the local dive bar after our night classes. He’d helped me with my syllabus for my first class as a teaching assistant. He’d shared his textbooks with me, edited my papers, that kind of thing. He’d also been there when my older brother was struggling with drinking and my parents had to forcibly put him in rehab. Lanny’s dad was an alcoholic and he started taking me to these meetings where people stood in front of the room and told stories about their families; how their parents stole money from them to drink, how their kids ran away from home and slept in bus stations, how their husbands and wives blacked out every night and sometimes most of the days too. Lanny’s dad lived in Croatia now and had left his mom to become an evangelical pastor. Lanny’s mom was sweet though and kept to herself. She was a teacher too, so we had that in common. I end up eating dinner alone and making Lanny a plate he can warm up later. As I eat my chicken, I look at pictures of Zak Davidson online. On a whim, I message him, “Hey, it’s Annie. do you remember me?” Lanny walks out to the living room and turns on the TV. I turn my phone off and push most of the sauce off of my chicken so it creates a stagnant puddle on the side of my plate. Lanny doesn’t bother to microwave his dinner and starts eating while watching football. “Sorry about that,” he says, referring to the long work call. “This chicken is great!” * I like to physically go inside the Starbucks every morning instead of doing the drive-thru. I like for people to know I'm doing something with my life, that I need coffee because I have something to go do, somewhere to be. I head inside and wait my turn in line. I order the same caramel macchiato, a drink I had regularly in grad school because it was sweet and caffeinated and never lost flavor no matter how many times I microwaved it. I stand off to the side and wait for my name to be called and collect my drink. “That’s a nice dress,” a man says to me and I turn to see he’s wearing sunglasses inside. I'm wearing a black peplum dress with pink and orange flowers and black pumps. I'm not sure if the shoes quite match, but they’re the only heels I own and dressing in the dark isn’t easy. I’d woken up with an itch to dress up today, a feeling that maybe changing my wardrobe would change my attitude, or something. The man is balding a bit, but looks to be no older than forty-five. He’s wearing a suit and sitting down in a chair with a side table and an empty chair next to him. He motions for me to come sit down with him. “Thanks, but I have to get to work,” I say. “What do you do?” he asks. “I'm a teacher,” I say, and “Annie” is called, my drink is ready. I swipe it from the counter and smile at the man before I walk toward the door. “Come on, Annie, just talk to me for five minutes,” he says and I stop. I know he’s hitting on me, that he wants something from me that I'm not going to be able to offer him, but it feels bad to be rude to someone who complimented me. I turn to face him and notice a big, blue Alcoholics Anonymous book underneath his open cup of coffee. I look at the time on my phone, which I am now balancing underneath my hot drink. I have plenty of time to make it to school. I sit down in the open chair and put my bag on the floor. “A lady should never put her nice bag on the floor,” he says. “It’s just a shitty old tote, it’s fine,” I say. “Hey, watch the language,” he says and motions to the high school kids in their prep school uniforms ordering iced lattes and twirling their enormous car key rings around their fingers, annoyed, waiting for their lives to be over. “I'm Roger,” he says and takes off his sunglasses. He has light blue eyes, aquamarine. I remember my best friend growing up had earrings that color because it was her birthstone. I always disliked my own birthstone, ruby, and never owned any jewelry to promote my birth month. “And you’re Annie,” Roger says, “with the caramel macchiato!” “Yes, that's me. So, what do you do, Roger?” I ask, wondering if he works, if he’s rich, why he gets to hang out at Starbucks while I have to go to work. “I'm sort of in between things, but that’s why I come here every day, to market myself, to network, to see what’s up, you know?” He catches me eyeing the big, blue book. “… There’s also a meeting I go to around here,” Roger shrugs. “My brother is in AA,” I tell him. “Well, you’ve gone and broken our first rule then,” he laughs. “No,” I say. “I haven’t told you his name.” “Smart girl. What do you teach?” “Advanced Placement English Language and Composition.” “Wow! Very smart girl. Do you see yourself always teaching as a career?” “I hope not. I really just want to write.” “Oh, I think I’d have a book you’d love. I’ll bring it for you tomorrow if you’ll promise me to come here again and have coffee with me. I’ll buy.” “I do have to get to work, but it was nice meeting you. Good luck with your… networking.” “Annie, I mean it. Come back tomorrow and I’ll have that book for you.” I walk out of Starbucks and feel a pang of nausea. I hadn’t said anything to Roger about Lanny. I didn't give Roger my number, but it still feels like a trespass. I wonder if I told Roger too much, gave out too much information too soon about my brother, my job, to essentially a stranger. But I wanted to tell him even more because I knew he would listen to me, maybe even say something back, something helpful. I text Lanny to have a nice day, but he doesn’t respond until hours later. His only response is an emoji of a giraffe, and I'm not sure what it means. * “The eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg represent the eyes of God,” I say to my class. I'm in my third period room, which is meant to be a science lab, and the kids sit at tables of four on stools instead of desks. The board is cluttered with a lab assignment for the week, so I'm using the projector and showing a PowerPoint. The lights are dimmed and I walk while I talk, my feet burning in my shoes. “God is always watching over the characters, judging society as a moral wasteland. Gatsby is, in a way, his own God. Same with Daisy, and Nick Carraway is just another man, looking for a master…” “Wait, what eyes?” a student asks without raising her hand. “The eyes on the billboard,” another student says back. He looks annoyed and I sort of appreciate his protectiveness over me. “What are you, an idiot?” “Oh my God!” the girl shrieks. “You can't say that to me!” “Well, it's like,” the student says. “Pay attention. Just, do the reading, or whatever.” “I did read!” the girl shouts. “I just forgot about the eyes.” “Class,” I say and a headache starts to build. I know I need to diffuse the situation, but by some grace, the bell rings and everyone exits. I log out of the system and pack up my bags. The male student has lagged behind. “Am I in trouble?” he says, and I can’t for the life of me remember if his name is Johnny or David or Henry. “No,” I say, “It’s freedom of speech. But, probably not the kindest thing to say,” and he leaves confused, but I imagine, relieved. * I'm grading papers in my free period when Megan, one of my students from fifth hour, knocks on the glass window to the teacher’s lounge. Students are only allowed in if they are invited, and I move to the door and let her in. I know her well because she always arrives to class early and makes it a point to ask me how I'm doing. I never have any exciting things to say, but it’s usually just a segue for her to talk about herself, which is fine. She has a boyfriend who doesn’t go to our school, but she’s Christian and her parents are very strict about the time they spend together. His name is Hector and he’s very “fast,” but he loves her, deeply. They met on an app called Snapchat that Megan had to explain and show me how to use afterwards. She loves him, and I don't really see what the problem is, but she is always in the throes of an internal crisis. She has not turned in any of her work, but she promises to make it up soon. “Do you have some assignments for me?” I ask, motioning to the stack I'm currently grading, which happens to be from her period’s work. “Hector wants me to lie to my parents so I can go to his house and sleep over,” Megan says. She wears baggy jeans and has rubber bracelets in a crisscross pattern all up both her arms. “My mom let me have co-ed sleepovers in high school, but I think it was because she wanted to be my friend more than my parent.” I always hope that Megan’s obvious reverence for me is enough reason for her not to share anything we speak about in private. “Lucky. We’re not going to, like, do anything, but it would just be nice to cuddle…” “You can’t go over there if you think all he wants is to cuddle. You guys are teenagers. But if you love him, do what you think is right.” “Do you love Leonard?” Megan asks, and I pause but then realize I’ve told her about him for some reason. “There is love between us, yes.” “I can’t wait to grow up and be like you.” I want to tell Megan how depressing being an adult can be, but that the depression I had in high school was way more overwhelming than the depression I have now, which is more of a constant malaise. I look forward to days off, to seeing movies, to trying new restaurants. But nothing is really new anymore. Everything has been done. “I liked what you said about the eyes today,” Megan says. “It was comforting, knowing we’re not alone.” “The eyes are judging though. They are the universal arbiter we all fear.” “In perfect love there is no fear,” Megan says, and I give her a dollar and tell her to go get a slice of pizza and have a nice day. * I resolve to not speak to Roger the next day. But when I see him the next day at Starbucks, I walk towards him. He sticks to his promise and buys me my caramel macchiato. I had trouble deciding what to wear, more trouble than usual, and had decided on a simple silk skirt and a sweater. It was too hot for the outfit, but I wanted to look less sexual. Roger tells me he has fifteen years sober and I tell him about my brother, about Lanny, about my parents who I no longer speak to because of how they enable my brother, about how I hate my job, about everything. It pours out of me and I feel better after, but there’s still a twinge of regret, the feeling I might be cheating somehow. When it’s time to go, Roger gives me a huge workbook with the title Codependent No More.. “Ignore my writing in it,” he says, “but I think you’ll really enjoy it.” I put the book in my trunk and leave it there for a week, as if letting it rest will somehow erase the guilt I feel of having it. Also, I'm hiding it from Lanny. * That night, I dream I'm inside of a burning building. It appears to be the campus where Lanny and I attended grad school. The building is on fire and collapsing but when I run through the halls to warn everyone, no one believes me. I can’t find Lanny, and only run into my thesis chair who finally recognizes me and guides me to the window and tells me to jump. The city outside looks unfamiliar and I ask her if everything will be okay. “God no,” she says, and I wake up. Lanny isn’t in bed. I can see light coming from under the bedroom door and know he must be up late working. I grab for my phone on the nightstand and see that Zak Davidson has responded to my message with one word, “no.” * Jessica, the poetry teacher, is sobbing in the teacher’s lounge after lunch. Some of the other female teachers surround her in a circle, including Katy. From what I gather, her long-term boyfriend has broken up with her. Her eyeliner is running down her face and I wonder if she’ll quit and I can take her position. “Did he give you a good reason?” Katy asks, holding her tumbler in one hand and rubbing Jessica’s back with the other. All the women are in animal print blouses except for Jessica who wears a black crew neck sweatshirt and leggings. She looks so small, like she could be a student. “He just said it wasn’t working anymore,” Jessica says. “He doesn’t love me anymore.” “What an idiot,” Katy says. “He’ll be crawling back in a week!” “I don't know what we’re going to do about Rascal and Bandit.” “I'm sorry?” another woman asks. “Our cats,” Jessica explains. “We got them together when we were in college. It’s all a mess!” Jessica calms down a bit and begins packing up her things. I feel weird that I haven’t said anything to her, so I walk over and try to be comforting. “Do you need help with anything?” I ask. “Do you think you could cover my fourth hour? You’ve got a grading hour then, right?” “Sure. Just give me the room number and I’ll be there,” I smile. Jessica fishes in her bag and hands me a folder with a hodgepodge of papers inside. “You’re so lucky,” she says and blots her eyes with a tissue. “Your classes actually help these kids, while I'm here just reading them poetry and who knows what they even retain.” “I hope you feel better,” I say and Jessica exits into the afternoon heat. We’ve got ten minutes until class starts, so I grab the poem on top of the pile and make copies. It turns out to be a poem I’ve never read before, William Blake’s “Auguries of Innocence.” I figure it might have been something assigned in a poetry workshop in grad school that I just never read or took the time to care about. I hurry to Jessica’s room, which is her very own room decorated with famous Edgar Allen Poe lines and cut-outs of famous poet’s heads. A stuffed little black raven rests on her desk. The class files in and I explain that I’ll be subbing today. None of the kids know who I am. I have students play a game called “popcorn” where they read the poem until they get tired, so they shift their lines to another student by saying “popcorn” and the student’s name. It’s a game about paying attention and following along. I listen to them read the poem and try to make sense of it myself so I can be ready for discussion. “To see a world in a grain of sand, and a heaven in a wild flower, popcorn, Nina!” “…A robin red breast in a cage, puts all heaven in a rage, popcorn, Steven!” “…Every night and every morn, some to misery are born, popcorn, Gary!” “…God appears and God is light…” The students finish the poem and we have a discussion about the themes, the symbolism, the message. One student brings up an interesting idea of the poem as an omen, a sign of what will happen in the future. The minutes on the clock pass by too quickly and before I know it, the bell rings. But no one rushes out. No one had started packing, the zip of zippers zipping prematurely, the legs moving to one side of the desk to anticipate an exit. Instead, they rise slowly and thank me for the class. I pack up my things and leave the room, almost forgetting the room wasn’t my own. * At home, Lanny is working on creating a website for a client, so I sneak to my car and get the workbook from my trunk. I start reading a little bit each night and hiding it under the bed. The book is all about how to overcome codependency with exercises, mind maps, and longwinded readings. I find it insulting that Roger would think I’d enjoy such a book, that he assumes I'm codependent, that from only one time of meeting me I’d need such a book in my life to guide me, help me to find my path to a free life, free from the chains of whatever he thought I was chained to. As I push the book under my side of the bed, I drop my cell phone and move to the floor to pick it up. The phone’s screen illuminates and I see a small red box underneath Lanny’s side of the bed. I check to see if he’s still working and he is, so I crawl around to the other side and pick up the box. I know before I open it that it’s a ring, but when I pry the box open to reveal an oval shaped diamond on a gold band, I lose my breath. I wonder how long it’s been there, when he plans on asking, and a small part of me questions if it’s really for me, if I'm the one he’ll be asking. But yes, it’s for me. I'm his girlfriend. I live here. * “I want my book back,” Roger says the next morning at Starbucks. “It was a mistake to give it to you. I need it back now.” “I'm sorry. I didn't bring it with me. It’s at home. I can bring it tomorrow.” “I need it right now. Go home and bring it back. Now.” “Roger, I have to go to work.” “Don’t ever say my name again.” “What the fuck?” “My wife and I are getting back together. Just bring the book back and you’ll never see me again.” * I find myself walking to Gerald’s room. I knock and he motions for me to enter. His jacket is on the back of his chair and I smell the coffee brewing, sharp and nutty. “Well, well, well,” Gerald says and smiles. “What brings you in?” “You were right,” I say. “Starbucks is shit. Could I have a cup of coffee?” “I knew this day would come. Why are women always chasing after the wrong men? Why, why, why? But then, they always see clearly in the end…” “Gerald?” “I knew it wasn’t working with your boyfriend,” Gerald starts. “Gerald, that’s not why I'm here. I genuinely just wanted some coffee.” “Come on, Annie. You want this too. I know you do.” Gerald has been slowly moving towards me this whole time and is now only a foot away. “Lanny is going to ask me to marry him,” I blurt out. “He has a ring.” “Oh,” Gerald says and backs away. “Congratulations then, I suppose.” “Listen, I don't know why I'm here. I want coffee, but I don't know if I want to get married. I have no idea what I want. I read this book and it talked about having unconditional positive regard for myself, and I don't have that. See, I hate myself. It’s just negative thoughts, spiraling, all the fucking time. I have no idea how to be or what to do. I don't even like working here. I hate this job. I'm a writer. This is just a big joke. I feel like I need to snap my fingers or something. Gerald, can you please just…tell me what’s wrong with me?” “Why are you asking me this?” Gerald says raising his voice now. “Why don’t you just go and ask your fiancé?” I leave without coffee. * When I take out the trash that night, I put the codependency workbook inside too. Back in the apartment, I start to feel a pain in my chest. It’s a tightness hovering over my heart, and I panic. I call Lanny into the bedroom and tell him what’s wrong. He leaves and comes back with a glass of milk, tells me to drink it down in one gulp. I do what he says. He leans down beside me in bed, gently takes the phone from my hand and shuts it off, places it down. “I used to get those kinds of pains all the time as a kid,” Lanny says and takes my hand, rubs it. The pain starts to dissipate and I imagine it like little red arrows moving down and away from my heart. “…and my mom always gave me a glass of milk…” “I think it’s working,” I say. “Annie, you know I love you, right? I just…I fall short, you know? I'm not perfect, but I love you, I love our life. I don’t want anyone else.” I'm suddenly tired. Lanny senses it, kisses my forehead and shuts the light. I fall asleep and dream that I am naked swimming in a river. I am moving my arms and legs in ways I didn't know possible, my body free and liquid-like. I swim and swim and notice a waterfall ahead. I turn around and try to swim back against the current. I become aware that there are people watching from the side of the river and they point at me but don't dive in to help. I know I won’t make it, but I swim anyway, as hard and as fast as I can. * I take some of Lanny’s terrible coffee in a tumbler with our grad school’s logo on it to work. When I sign into the school computer, I have an email from the head of my department notifying me that Jessica did in fact quit and they want to know if I’ll take over her classes. I'm the only other person on staff with a creative writing degree. They say they can easily replace my AP classes, or get a sub for the time being. I accept the offer and will take my new spot on Monday. It’s a Friday and there’s another email about an assembly today, something about anti-bullying. It’ll take place in first period, right after the bell. I walk my kids over to the auditorium and let them sit wherever they want. Some teachers make their students sit in adjacent rows, but I just let them go, tell them to enjoy. I see Megan with some other students preparing to sing for the choir. I had no idea she was even a part of the choir. She waves at me and I wave back. There are so many moments that you want to give up and walk out of the room, that you want to scream, cry, make yourself seen and heard. But these moments pass and you find yourself walking down the halls again, returning to your car at the end of the day, printing papers, making copies, talking to the people who you curse in your head. Sometimes they surprise you; mostly they are disappointing. But they are your people, and you must learn to get along, somehow. The choir opens up the assembly with a song the director has made a big deal about because she wrote it herself. It’s called “On Eagles Wings,” since our school’s mascot is an eagle. “As we fly on eagles wings, we fly so high, straight and true…” the choir sings. For a moment, I am moved by their voices, the way the sound floats up and around the auditorium, how everyone is listening to them, or pretending to listen, but how we all feel the vibration of each note they sing. I get a chill and cross my arms. I rub them slowly as if someone else is doing it, comforting me, holding me tight. Brittany Ackerman is a writer from Riverdale, New York. She earned her BA in English from Indiana University and an MFA in Creative Writing from Florida Atlantic University. She has led workshops for UCLA’s Extension program, Catapult, HerStry, Write or Die Tribe, and forthcoming for Lighthouse Writers. She currently teaches writing at Vanderbilt University in the English Department. She is a 2x Pushcart Prize Nominee and her work has been featured in Electric Literature, Jewish Book Council, Lit Hub, The Los Angeles Review, No Tokens, Hobart, and more. Her first collection of essays entitled The Perpetual Motion Machine was published with Red Hen Press in 2018, and her debut novel The Brittanys is out now with Vintage. She lives in Nashville, Tennessee.

poem for the ghost of who i thought i was a man of words found hanging in the desert a song, but not the one you’re thinking of not the one your lover used to sing, but it still sounds familiar a smaller house in another town, maybe? the promise of happiness, and then the way it never arrives age of electricity, age of gold, of unlimited desires, call it what you want we still have war, still have hatred, still have famine and genocide and so maybe call it the age of enlightenment? maybe subscribe to the delusion that acknowledging evil is enough, that taking votes is the same as taking action and you have your words, yes, and you have your silence your list of suicides of forgotten ex-lovers, and my name has been written down on one of those pages, simply and without fanfare my father’s name, spelled out both backwards and forwards and a smear of coke across the mirror when i hold it up a child on fire found curled up in the middle of the street a reason seriously? the age of disbelief is a thing of the past the cashier is shot for $20, a six-pack, a carton of cigarettes for the hell of it shit happens, and was that aristotle or was it camus? the honorable j. christ maybe, right before that first spike showed him all the possibilities of suffering, and who the hell would actually build their temple on this s&m wet dream? who would choose an instrument of torture to be the symbol of their faith? fuck the future and fuck the past let the here and now be what carries us through let this moment be the only one that defines us i tell you i love you and all time stops all history is the history of failure or christ arriving at the golgotha hotel without a reservation, without any luggage or message for the faithful, and the cops have their orders the blood flows like wine there is never any better time for fear than now John Sweet sends greetings from the rural wastelands of upstate NY. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in the continuous search for an unattainable and constantly evolving absolute truth. His latest poetry collections include A FLAG ON FIRE IS A SONG OF HOPE (2019 Scars Publications) and A DEAD MAN, EITHER WAY (2020 Kung Fu Treachery Press).

Aubrey was perusing the 5 for $15 underwear display when the text came through. Purple boyshorts with daring black lightning bolts, so punk, like the girls who wore arm warmers, pink briefs with a suggestive row of buttons up the front, and one virginal white lace thong that she would have to wash in the sink to keep her mother from seeing, the way she’d washed the underwear she’d nearly ruined when she first got her period back in freshman year, long after it seemed everyone else had. Have you seen this? The text read. She recognized the photo immediately, because she had taken it herself, in her room, the stuffed pink duck of her childhood moldering in the corner, a mummified relic of her past self. Even over text, with its graininess, it was unmistakably her, pale white skin and dark tangled hair. Around her a buzzing seemed to set in, the strains of American Boy by Estelle which wasn’t on the radio nearly enough falling into the background as blood rushed into her eardrums. Where did you get this? Audrey typed, clacking, then slid the pink Motorola Razr shut with a thud, like shutting it hard enough would erase the photo, erase the reality that the picture she’d sent, her body with its 17-year-old newness, clothed only in the very same kind of cheap underwear she was pawing through right now. Like she’d been caught in the act. At the scene of the crime. An underwear pervert, and if Lisa had that picture who knows how many other people had it too? She swept the phone open with her thumb and paged through her contacts for Sean, even though she’d memorized and forgotten and re-memorized the number last month when they’d broken up. Huddling in the fitting room, she hunched over her full bags from aerie, from Bebe, from Clinique. This was not the way her night was supposed to go. Surprisingly, he picked up on the first ring. “Hello?” “Sean?” “Yeah?” “Who the fuck did you send that photo to?” she hissed, her grip on the phone loosening with flop sweat, the horrors of being known, of being seen, of being perceived by so many when all along she had only intended it for him, her golden boy. “You told me you deleted it,” Aubrey stammered. “Need any help in there?” a chipper voice called out and Aubrey flashed her teeth at the clerk who backed away and pulled the curtain closed tighter. Silence echoed through the receiver. “Fuck,” he said. “Who did you send it to?” “No one. No—just. Greg asked.” Greg, the shithead son of the local pastor whose youth group passed out promise rings at Valentine’s and tiny fetal models to guilt you away from the Planned Parenthood for your Mirena insertion. “How did he know it even existed, though, Sean.” For a second she remembered his eyes on the day when he broke up with her for good, when he said they’d be friends, when he said it was better this way. Back to the way it was when he’d get her a Slurpee and it would mean nothing instead of everything, when they were all part of a big group of friends and before they became a satellite to that. His eyes had burned golden brown when he told her he’d delete the picture. Because they were friends. Because he was a good guy. Which made her what, exactly? “I’m sorry, Aubs,” he said, and the nickname burned her again, the ease and familiarity of it. “I didn’t mean for it to get out.” If Lisa had sent it to her, maybe creepy Greg had only sent it to her. Maybe, maybe, maybe.” “It’s kind of a big freaking deal,” she said “It’s my body!” She strode out of the dressing room with her bags and a fistful of underwear that she paid for in a rush at the counter to the same bewildered salesperson who’d tried to help her. Monday would be school and only then would she know the real impact, how far the photo had traveled. When she’d taken it, her hands mashing her breasts together with the camera overhead, she felt sexier than ever before, some keeper of secret carnal knowledge unlocked on their fourth date together. But on the phone she looked like any other skank on Myspace. *** When Monday morning came, two weekend days of sweating out who knew what, who saw what, who knew her, two things were immediately apparent. Most of the school had seen her semi-naked. And her debit card was missing. Aubrey wasn’t sure which was more upsetting or disorienting. All she wanted was a Frappucino to face the day and she had one wrinkled dollar bill in her purse. As she walked through the double doors of Eagle Rock High School she saw a flicker in the eyes of Billy Carter, auxiliary friend, and immediately knew. They’d seen it. So many of them had seen it. From the covered-mouth whispers of the brace-faced sophomores to the head nods from guys who’d never glanced her way before, she pulled down the two carefully-layered ribbed tanks she’d chosen as if she could cover herself in the past, go back, never take the picture. She had to find Sean, and she had to—who knows. The rage she felt towards him was electric, mixed headily with rage at herself for being that stupid, to think her friend deserved to see her, just because they were “dating”. Like that movie where the girl sets her prom on fire. She stood in gym class picturing Sean’s head bursting into flames, but even if that happened, well. The picture would still exist. Lisa sidled up to her after AP Bio. “Are you okay?” she said, anxiously, chewing the ends of her brown hair, a disgusting habit that Aubrey allowed due to loyalty. “I’m fine,” she lied. “I’m sure not that many people saw it. And it’s not like you’re totally naked.” Mr. Britt, the Stat teacher walked by her and for a second a glimmer crossed his vision. Like he’d seen it, too. Aubrey shriveled inside. “I just need to get through this week. Then APs. Then graduation. And I can fucking escape this town and these people and no one will know me at college.” “So, so true,” Lisa affirmed. “Can you come to the mall with me after school? I think I left my debit card there,” Aubrey said. She wasn’t sure why she needed emotional support to run this errand, but she had to believe the card was there or else the finely constructed shell of a life she’d put together would crumble, somehow. She was called into the vice principal’s office by the end of the day. “It seems there’s a photo of you circulating,” Mrs. Tate, neck a deep crimson red, blurted out. “That was private.” “Honey, you shouldn’t be sending things like that. It could be considered child porn.” “Well what about the person who actually sent it out?” “We can’t keep track of all that, dear,” she said. Aubrey felt the rage rising again, fire-in-the-blood, her pulse at her neck pounding as she gripped the armrests of the sad industrial chair. “Well maybe you should,” Aubrey hissed. “I hope this is a valuable learning experience for you,” Mrs. Tate said, “One time I saw something on the Internet about how fast an image could spread. It was very powerful!” Aubrey shook her head and laughed, the sound brittle and hollow, echoing out her pale throat. “Am I in trouble?” “We can’t punish students for what they do in their free time. This is more of a woman-to-woman conversation,” Mrs. Tate said. “Well is anyone going to talk Sean about sending it? A more man-to-man conversation?” she pressed. Mrs. Tate looked uncomfortable. “We can’t litigate every dispute between students.” Aubrey rose from the chair, hair on fire, and walked out of the office. *** At the mall, the scent of the hot pretzels turned Aubrey’s stomach. She felt like she might never eat again, but there was Lisa chomping away, the paper turned translucent under the power of the butter. “When did you use it last?” Lisa pressed. “I was at Charlotte Russe,” Aubrey said, headed in that direction over the smooth, polished floor, her flip flops thwacking as she strode with a purpose to the escalator. In the store, the same salesperson stood at the register, petite nose stud twinkling under the warm lighting. “Can I help you?” she asked. “I think I left my debit card here. Friday?” Aubrey pressed. “Name?” “Aubrey Schlesinger,” she said. The clerk punched in a code and the cash drawer opened with a thud. She pulled out a piece and located a small pile of colorful credit cards. “Right here,” she said, delicate french tips pulling the blue Wachovia bank card from the crop. Aubrey exhaled, at least one thing in her fucked up life fixed. “Hey, are you okay?” the clerk asked. “You seemed real upset on Friday.” “Boy trouble,” Lisa chimed in and Aubrey cut her a glare. “Sounded more complicated than that.” At the risk of having another conversation about her tits with a random woman today, Aubrey took the card and headed towards the exit. “You need to check out the last dressing room,” the clerk called over her shoulder. “The what?” “The last dressing room. In the back. But not today. Let me check, hang on.” The clerk opened a browser window and searched “Full Moon May 2008.” “Next Tuesday.” Aubrey scoffed, this weird Mall-witch telling her to come back on a full moon, like she understood. “It’s a special place,” she said. “Oh, like a coven meets here?” Aubrey said. “Just come back. It will help. I can tell you need the help.” “C’mon, Lisa,” Aubrey said. “Thanks for holding onto my card.” She pulled Lisa by the arm out of the store and past the giant planters she had once been kicked out of the mall for sitting in as a pre-teen. “What was that about?” “Who fucking knows. Mall weirdo,” Aubrey said, headed towards the exit and the last few weeks of shouldering a world where so many people had seen her boobs. *** By the next Tuesday the situation had fluctuated from bad to worse. Sean not speaking to her, random guys from her class she never spoke to trying to touch her in the hallway, girls hissing “Skank” under their breath as she walked by. When she found out Jenn Untley was also going to Providence with her, dashing her hopes of escaping the situation fully she cried in the last stall of the girls locker room, bitter tears that lit down her cheeks and left her telescoping mascara pooled under her eyes. She caught a flash of Sean leaving out the band hallway where he thought no one would see him. “Sean!” she yelled out and he turned, a man caught by his executioner. “What do you want?” he asked, and his response gutted her, a fishhook slid cleanly into her guts and turning them out onto the worn tile of the floor. “Maybe a fucking apology for ruining my life?” she said, words that turned into sobs. Somehow, on some planet, her parents hadn’t found out yet, but she was sure they would and the final nail would slide neatly into her coffin, sealing her promised senior summer shut. “Don’t be so dramatic, Aubrey, no one cares about you.” He turned and headed for his car and the familiar flicker danced in her belly where her guts once lived. She headed for her car in the other parking lot. She headed for the mall. *** The same clerk was there, folding a t-shirt that read “Blonde But Bright” in lacy gold script, so impossibly flimsy the fabric shone through already, pre-washing and wearing. “You’re back,” she said. Aubrey nodded her assent, her freckled knees knocking. What was she doing here? Why had she come? “It’s a little early but it should still work,” the clerk said, leading her to the dressing rooms. A girl from school lingered near the chandelier earrings, her fingers brushing the beads without breaking eye contact with Aubrey. “Just through here. Press hard,” the clerk said. Aubrey closed the curtain behind her again. The scuffed beige wall and tilted mirror, cleverly askew and leading the girls to believe they were taller, thinner, better, taunted her. Her raccoon eyes and tangled hair were a disaster. Her life was worse. Aubrey pressed on the shared wall, then the mirror, leaving sweaty marks. Then she turned and saw the faint grubby outline of other handprints on the back wall and placed hers there. A chill ran down her warmed neck as she stood in one spot. Bleeding Love remixed played loudly as she just stood there, waiting. And then it came. That same fire, the one that had marked her for the past few weeks, made her wily and raw and red-hot to the touch, to the sight, coursed through her. Like it was coming from the wall but also meeting her somewhere in her belly. Her forearms edging out from her shrug sweater took on a reddish cast as her skin began to transform. Scales, delicate reds and yellows and oranges, the colors of a firebird, of a fire bonding her, began to form over her arms. She felt an instant of pain as her tongue, the same one she’d kissed Sean’s stupid face with, split at the end into a muscular, forked entity. But that was the only pain she felt. For as she became a monster what she mostly felt was relief. To be divorced of her human body, her human heart. And also the comfort of knowing that there were other monstrous girls before her. Somehow she knew she couldn’t bare the mirror, so she remained with her back to it as the transformation proceeded. The same clerk’s voice rang out, the same chipper “Everything okay in there?” Aubrey laughed, a pleasingly deep rumble from the rib cage that now contained her terrible monstrous heart. She ran her new tongue over her new teeth, the pointy tips a delightful prick to her senses. “Take this,” the girl called out, tossing an XL hoodie that read “California Dreamin” across the chest. As Aubrey turned she caught a glimpse of her eyes, the irises a deeply unsettling, wolfish yellow. But there was something else in them that had been gone for weeks. There was life. She pulled the hoodie over her new body, delighted with her disappeared breasts, her smoothed out belly. She wished for a devil’s tail but felt that was probably going too far. And where would she go to next? To Sean’s. Aubrey slid into her tiny Honda Civic, her new skin flashing out of the sleeves of the oversized hoodie. The sun had set while she was in the mall and she drove to his house by memory, back roads to the little neighborhood with the big houses. But how to conceal her face, her new self, from him long enough to get close? The dark would enclose her if she could wait another half hour. She texted him. I’m sorry for everything. Can we meet up and talk? Alone? For as surely as the Gregs and Seans of the world closed ranks around one another, the promise of a female body could sometimes break that pact. She promised it once again, like she’d done in his car, like she’d done with the photo. She shed her clothes, her skin for him. And now she was new once more. The Wendy’s Drive-Thru lit up the night and as she sucked down a large fountain Dr. Pepper, cooling some of the fire the mall dressing room had imbued in her, she pondered her next move. Sean’s name flashed across the screen of her pink phone. She swallowed and slid it open. Nah That same deep, inhuman rumble echoed out of her. He didn’t have time for her. But she had time for him. She had all the time in the world. Sean was taking shots on the basketball hoop outside his house when Aubrey pulled the car up and cut the lights. He was alone. Yes, he was totally alone. Even the porchlight was dark as the late spring shadows wrapped her up like one last gift to him. She had already given him so much. “Sean?” she called out, deliberately throwing her voice into a delicate, more womanly, more human form. She did not know what she was, but she was no longer just a girl. “Fuck,” he muttered, and shot one last shot, a bad one that banked off and thudded into the soft, wooded area next to the house. “Can we go for a walk?” Aubrey asked. Isn’t that how it had started? In the woods, among the remainders of parties they weren’t cool enough to be invited to marked by the pine needles, empty beer cans and dead blunts that he’d sweep away for her to lay back. She glanced at her face in the mirror and knew that only her eyes had changed, that the scales on her arms and chest hadn’t reached her cheeks or brow. Sean rolled his eyes and shrugged. “What’s there to talk about?” “I wanted to apologize,” she said, careful to avoid s-sounds that would reveal the parting of her tongue, the glorious change. The moon loomed high above them, round and full and maybe just a little bit red. Red like her. “For what?” he asked. “Making a big deal of things.” Isn’t that why they’d broken up? Her emotions? Too sensitive, needs too much, too, too, too. Too everything. “C’mon,” she said, wishing she could unzip the unwieldy hoodie to show him some skin, except that she was no longer in possession of the same breasts he had once loved so much. She slunk off into the woods and listened for his footsteps behind her. Sure enough, they came. Her ballet flats slipped among the dead leaves as she pulled the sleeves of the sweatshirt over her scaled hands. In a few steps, he caught up to her. “Further,” she said, leading him. Her third eyelid slid over her eyes for a second and she was innately aware of every other living, breathing thing in the woods with them. The owls, the bats, the clouds of mayflies she walked serenely through without swatting. Finally they reached the clearing with the party detritus. “Is there anything you want to say to me?” she said, still with her back to him. She cursed the moon for revealing her secrets as much as she wanted to thank it for giving her the gifts. “No, I don’t know why you brought me here,” he said, a whine in his voice. His stupid, whiny voice. That he would take to UCLA next year and get new pictures of beautiful, naked, clueless girls like her. And send them along to new, even worse versions of creepy Greg. He didn’t care. He wouldn’t stop. Unless she stopped him. “Are you sure about that?” she asked. She turned slowly, feeling like her curls would turn into Medusa’s snakes, feeling that her brand new acrylic tips would fall from her glorious curved talons, feeling like the fire she’d felt for the past two weeks would leap out of her throat and consume him. “What the FUCK??” Sean called out. And then she knew for the first time that he was truly seeing her for the woman she had become. The rumble came from within her chest as she reached out and tackled him to the soft, spring-sodden earth. She reared her head back, incisors bared to the moon that made her, and sunk her teeth into his neck. The primal scream that echoed out of him gave her life, gave her power, made her somehow whole again. The taste of blood was honey on her lips, sweet and oozing. He pushed her off him and scrambled to his feet. In his eyes was almost the same look as the first time he saw her naked, a fear and agony in it. “Don’t fuck with me, Sean Cartwright,” Aubrey said, smearing the blood across her chapped lips. She fake-pounced and he whimper-screamed, turning on his heel. She pushed the sleeves of the sweatshirt up and saw her skin beginning to return to her pale peach hue, the scales receding under the fine blonde hairs she would shave during swim season. Maybe it was better this way. To be a girl, vulnerable and talked about and hated and loved and loathed most of the time, with the power to drink blood when it really mattered. She owed that Charlotte Russe clerk a thank you. The blood wouldn’t come out of the hoodie, though. She pulled it against herself, the chill of the evening settling in. She walked out of the woods and back to her car. She headed to the mall. A word from the author: Inspired by an adolescence in suburban New Jersey and the feeling that the only true justice in the world can come at the price of sacrificing our humanity for something darker...in a mall dressing room. I am a writer, librarian, and parent located in northern New Jersey.

I am in a plane trying to let go. Talked too long, made it about me again. We are over the piece of country where farm fields turn to foothills. There is nothing to write except rights are being gutted. Lately I distrust pretty language, how tidy it tries to be. I can see where frozen lakes thaw halfway in, ice so thin you’d fall through. Somewhere down there, someone has. Farm hills to foot fields. Farm feet to field hills. Hills of feet, fielding. A farm where, there too, rights are being gutted. We fly by a chemtrail and for a moment it’s easy to believe in chemtrails. In the villain and the villain’s plot, people toiling, no choice really but to breathe. Going home? asks the woman in the middle seat. Sorry? I say, and she gestures: never mind. No one is in the mood. The truth? I never cared much. Saw myself sitting stoic as the plane plummeted through empty sky. Hand pressed to my still-hollow center, I can feel the cut of my own lie. Of course I’m in love with being alive. Kelsi Lindus is a writer and filmmaker living in the Puget Sound. Her work has appeared in, or is forthcoming from, X-R-A-Y, Lost Balloon, Rejection Letters, Brave Voices, and elsewhere. She can be found online @kelsijayne or kelsilindus.com.

He’s chewing on my ankle bones. They split his teeth down to the narrow of it, sharp things that now have jagged edges. He curses me, I think, as the pain shoots through the roots of his jaw. It’s his fault for gnawing on things that he doesn’t own- you never know how tough somebody is until you cut them open. I think of that as a universal truth. Someday I’ll be going into med school, or just college in general. I want to see how tough everybody is. My job is to cut them open. My job will someday be to see exactly where they split. He’s carving up my rotator cuff. He says that it’ll be pretty one day. Swirls and stars, hollowing it out until the light shines through. He never really was a sculptor. Never really was much of anything. He thinks that his point in life is to cut people open. He still doesn’t understand how tough they are, he never bothers looking. I hope that in being split the dead can finally be known. He has no hopes. When the dead fall apart under his thumb, he lets himself feel nothing for a while. He’s going after my scapula with a hammer. There’s a certain point where everything falls apart. You just have to find it. Everything can fracture with enough force and the correct placement. My sibling knows that better than I do. I drop glasses and they break, lying in wait when I’m too tired to pick up all the shards. Later I wonder where the nicks in my soles come from. Does he wonder what happened to cause that sluggishly bleeding cut? Or has he stopped seeing me at all? Riley Renwick is a young queer author based out of California. This piece is based on their hopes of becoming a medical examiner, and on their fears of what it means when someone kills you.

Lily is a flower and a girl’s name, but my Lily was a water moccasin and a grizzly bear sniffing for fresh meat. When I bragged about my outdoorsmanship, Lily saw me for who I was—a city boy playing at hiking in a busted pair of sneakers, bumbling unprepared into the wilderness without food or water, not even something obvious like a PowerBar. Lily said I shouldn’t be alive. She took me camping but first took me to REI. Made me buy a grownup backpack, boots and a jacket rated to withstand blizzards in the alpine tundra. When the clerk rang it up, I wondered how anybody could even afford to go outside. Lily took me up North Bird Mountain. A cold day, and damp, and my legs ached from switchbacks, and I sweated under my expensive jacket and soon was shivering and miserable. Meanwhile Lily radiated delight. Isn’t everything beautiful? She told me she was a red-tailed hawk. She told me she was a mouse in a field, scampering among stalks of dry grass. I’d planned on bringing beer, but Lily advised it was too heavy. Instead of drinking we made conversation. She asked if I had any useful skills for after the collapse of civilization. I told her I could catch fish. With your hands? she asked. No, I said. With a pole. Lily said I was useless. Well, right about then I was kicking myself for leaving behind that six-pack, weight allowance be damned. Lily said she was a rainbow trout spawned in the Hiwassee River. She was a diamondback rattler sleeping in the sun, and one day she bit a man and didn’t feel sorry, even after he died. We passed a clear creek where she had been a salamander and happy and would have remained one forever except she burned so hot she feared she’d become a wildfire. In the afternoon before making camp, I followed her to a waterfall in a grotto that smelled damp like mud and watercress. She stuck her hand in the water despite the cold. Lily was wind and ice. She invited me to touch the water, and when I hesitated she grabbed my hand and held it under. Coldest thing I ever felt. It set my knees buckling and my pale hand aching down in the bones. I guess it’s no surprise me and Lily didn’t last. Irreconcilable differences, and all that. But on chilly evenings I sometimes find myself lingering on the porch, where I’ll light a joint and remember the good times—which I guess was just that night in the tent. Lily was a wildcat and she-wolf and I swear at least part octopus. Whiskers of smoke swoop and twist, and I’ll wonder what Lily is now, wonder if she is the smoke—roiling, drifting higher, out of reach, out of sight, eager to become whatever she will be. Alex Miller is the author of the novel "White People on Vacation" (Malarkey Books, 2022). His fiction has appeared in Pidgeonholes, Maudlin House and Back Patio. He lives in Denver.

Findley Lake I have lived long enough to know to stay out of the water. Bug guts a crushed red berry beside me. If there’s poison off the dock– weeds in everlasting web, I have a lot of gnats to catch along the muddy path around the pond of singing birds and bullfrogs leading the way to Destiny’s house. Khruangbin Concert, 2022 In the inner sanctum of throbbing bodies, I groove hard beyond slow walk of long-haired superstars, headlight-eyed, mumbling inside microphones amplified starward. Diving deep into this band the first time– an alien soundscape of guitar echo and half-familiar nostalgia for when we could live forever, tapping wine bottles with drumsticks to the rhythmic thrum of how our lives were going, no interruptions, propellor hats attached and forever flying, no batteries included, unnecessary. My Mind’s Forbidden Animals I am feeling dictatoresque having already killed a spider tonight inching down my bedroom wall I crushed him with a white paper towel as I barked praise for keeping more insects out of my house but you can’t show your face around here James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet who works in film production. He has three chapbooks: Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022), Our Past Leaves (Kelsay Books, 2021), and The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights, 2017). He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, PA. (jamescroaljackson.com)

Anna exhaled her ten-hour day and reached for the doorknob. The wobbly chair she expected to encounter, the one Papa Sol insisted Ettie prop up against the inside of the door when he worked late, was not there. Instead, the slat-backed barrier between his only child and the evil eye was tucked under the table at the other end of the tiny tenement apartment. Without warning, Anna’s easy step over the threshold turned into a clumsy leap forward. Anna used her arms and the protruding black belly of the stove in front of her to break the fall. Anna jerked her arms back and braced herself for another blow. Her fingertips tingled. She searched her hands for what she was sure would be a new crop of blisters and burns. Nothing. Only the old blisters and burns. Anna tapped her index finger against the lip of the rusting stove. It was cold with hunger, same as everyone else she knew. The sting of ice and the burn of heat must know each other. “I’m home,” Anna called out. Home. She swirled the word around in her mouth. It still tasted funny. “Anna,” Ettie responded from behind the clothes that dangled from the rope strung above the sink. Ettie’s almost translucent complexion framed by her red hair glowed behind the threadbare fabric on the line. It reminded Anna of the vast nighttime skies she stood below a long time ago. She thought about crisp air and falling stars. “Door,” Anna gestured behind Ettie. “Door, er, rrrr,” Ettie repeated like the babushkas in Anna’s English classes at the Union Hall. The long drawn-out emphasis on the R sound did to Anna’s ears what the cold metal did to her sallow, sun-starved hands. Anna wondered if her friend placed the accent on the wrong syllable on purpose but pushed away the thought. Anna promised herself that she would not argue about the importance of learning English with the kind people who took her in. She understood Papa Sol’s desire to keep his daughter away from the grief that roamed the streets of the Lower East Side. If only Papa Sol could also see that life behind a closed door, especially one protected by decaying furniture, was hardly a life at all. But it didn’t matter anymore. Ettie’s time inside the apartment was coming to an end. Anna and Papa Sol’s wages were not enough to maintain the trio’s barely fed and sometimes warm status. Next week Ettie becomes a factory girl. Back pain, propositions, unpaid overtime, foremen, and English would become part of her life whether her father wanted it to or not. “Door,” Anna again declared, this time with a deliberate monosyllabic thump. With their shoulders pressed up against the door, the pair pushed until it clicked into place, or at least a more secure place. “Chair, er,” Ettie declared with the same hideous pronunciation. Anna’s clenched jaw throbbed as she dragged the old chair from the table and placed it in front of the door. She knew Ettie hated the screech of the legs against the floorboards. But ten straight hours at the pressing machine meant lifting the chair was as much a fantasy as getting paid for the 12 extra hours she worked this week or, for that matter, having tea and poppy seed rolls with the man on the moon. The noise also was part protest against the fact that her 15-year-old sister-like friend and roommate had turned door and chair into a three-syllable word before Anna even had the chance to sit down. If Anna held her tongue she surely didn’t need to hold the chair. “Annala, fix my shoulders?” Ettie asked before Anna even sat down. The young widow shook her head at the request and at the fact that Ettie had switched back to Yiddish. Ettie and Sol clung to the foolish language like a ragdoll they should have outgrown a long time ago. Anna untied the scarf from under her chin and glared at the cold stove. Yes, a cup of tea on the moon sounded appealing. Two sugar cubes, please. Alas, with no money in her pocket and no streetcar to ride to the heavens, Anna turned her attention to a destination she could reach: the cot wedged between the stove and wall. Anna rolled toward the wall to avoid her friend’s green eyes. The glint was too much for her to absorb at this hour of the day. She took her pinky and traced the cracks in the wall the way she did at night when sleep taunted her. Every touch morphed into a thread. Blue, black, brown, white, and rose red filled the plaster wrinkles. And with each thread she felt her heartbeat steady, her fists unfurl. When one line ended she knotted the thread and began a new one, putting down perfectly spaced invisible stitches one after another. Lines, half-circles, swirls, shapes, and sharp angles appeared through the simple action of her touch. The motion of her finger calmed her eyes and her brain. It stopped her tears. It stopped the loop in her head. It stopped the pain. This was the only kind of sewing she did not hate. “Get up,” Ettie hovered above the cot where she slept head-to-toe with Anna. Anna ignored the request and continued to patch the wall back together. Paint particles rained on her face with each loop. Anna wondered what it would be like to live a life without cracks to fill. “Please, fix my shoulders,” Ettie pleaded. Before Anna finished the seam with her fingertip, Ettie swooped down on top of her like a feral cat. The weight of her hands and knees landing on the thin mattress collapsed the rusted back legs to the ground. Anna’s head lurched back offering a new view of the water stains on the ceiling. Anna wanted to say something stern but before any phrases, Yiddish, English, or otherwise came to her, the rest of the frame gave out. Anna sneezed twice as she hit the ground. Ettie was tickling the bottom of her nose with the braid. Then she felt her shove the ends of her braid into Anna’s nostrils. Anna had no choice this time. She laughed. Hard. She laughed and laughed and laughed some more. From the broken cot on the floor, Anna listened to the happy noise she offered up. She was relieved she still could produce such sounds. “Please, do my shoulders, Annala,” Anna looked up at Ettie still on all fours above her. Her hair still in her nose. “If you fix my shoulders now, I promise I’ll fix the cot in time for bed. Come on, I want to wear it next week.” “You and your shoulders,” Anna kept giggling as she used her bent knees to move Ettie off and away. “Get me your father’s shears, you crazy bird cat of a girl.” Anna wouldn’t dare handle Papa Sol’s tailor shears with giggles in her mouth. She savored a final guffaw and sat down at the table with her factory face on. Eyes down, mouth closed, thoughts gone. Then, and only then, could the velvet-lined leather box be opened. The weight of the metal tool made her want to crawl back to the cot. It felt heavier than the chair and holier than the press iron. She squinted and searched for the first stitch she knew an anonymous seamstress hid below the collar and above the neckline. “There you are,” Anna smiled and snipped the prize with the sharp point of the tailor’s tool. After that, it was just a matter of using her pinky finger to pull out the stitches before she folded fabric and sewed it closed. A simple trick that gave Ettie the illusion of being even when in reality it made the garment uneven. “All done,” Anna lifted her head and tossed Ettie the remade garment. Ettie immediately tried on the blouse. Anna heard the single pane of glass in the window rattle as her friend leapt up and down with joy. Ettie’s dead mother’s candlesticks clinked together every time the daughter whose birth killed her landed on the ground. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Ettie sang. “Keep jumping in here and you’ll drop clear through the floor into horrible Mr. Rubinstein’s apartment,” Anna stood up and grabbed the candlesticks before they tumbled to the ground. “Then he’ll make you pick the crumbs out of his beard and sleep next to him every night.” Ettie’s eyes, the color of the sea the morning after a violent storm, zeroed in on Anna. Anna stared back making her mouth as straight as a yardstick. Ettie smiled mischievously as she held her end of Anna’s gaze. The corners of her mouth climbed up toward her eyes and her smile widened until it hit the perimeter of her round face. “Oh, Mr. Rubinstein,” Anna bent down and knocked on the floor. “My friend Ettie wants to pickle your herring and have your babies.” Ettie stopped jumping. She walked over to Anna and pushed her to the ground. “Not without you,” Ettie cackled. “Oh, Smelly Mr. Rubinstein I have a present for you. Come get my friend Anna. She wants to be your wife.” Ettie froze before her words reached her friend. “I’m sorry, Anna, didn’t mean…” Her voice trailed off. Anna wanted to go back to drawing on the wall with her finger, she wanted to go back to the night her husband stopped breathing on the boat, she wanted to go back to being a child. But there was no going back. Her passage was always one way. Anna looked her friend right in her eyes and started stomping her feet. She grabbed Ettie’s hand and soon the two were jumping up and down. The ground vibrated with such intensity that Anna thought the two of them might actually fall through the floor into Mr. Rubinstein’s apartment. And, Anna didn’t care. The two young women giggled like safe little girls. Anna felt something different yet familiar. Had she laughed like this before? She was almost certain she had. Perhaps it was when she was fifteen. Anna wasn’t ready to give up the moment, the feeling, but Ettie stilled her body. “Oh, Annala, I love you,” Ettie took her circle of a face and brought her lips to Anna’s forehead. Anna then watched as Ettie stood up, dusted off her newly fixed shoulders, and walked past Anna who still was sitting on the ground. Anna watched as she once more became a silhouette behind the clothes hanging from the line above the sink. Then on the perpetually dirty but regularly scrubbed floor, Anna thought about shoulders and seams and Ettie. She wondered what it would be like to be an uneven 15-year-old with rooster-colored hair and not a 22-year-old garment worker with dulled eyes. For the first time in her life, Anna wondered what other things around her could be fixed. And, she wondered if she might be the one to fix them. Then she put her head on the ground, stretched her tired body out on the floor, and laughed. *************************************** Beth Kanter’s fiction and creative non-fiction have appeared in a variety of publications including McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Bright Flash Literary Review, Idle Ink, The Writer, the Chicago Tribune, and This Is What America Looks Like: The Washington Writers Publishing House Anthology. Beth won a James Kirkwood Literary Prize for her novel-in-progress, Paved With Gold, and was the winner of the 2020 Lilith magazine fiction contest. You can read more of her work at bethkanter.com.

We journeyed for three days and nights, o’er land and sea to the distant island of Crete, ignoring our parents’ concerns. We could have flown directly from Dublin but it was the ‘90s and we had more time than money and more money than sense. Crete, home of Knossos Palace, where legend says King Minos kept his minotaur son, half-bull, half-human, in a labyrinth and where loud-shirted tourists now snap up china bulls and ornate pots of knock-off perfume from the gift shop. As students, more interested in the living than the dead and thirstier for Ouzo than knowledge, it took us months more to reach the 7,000-year-old palace ruins. We followed the thread of the honey-sweet tour guide and her paying customers through the maze, where we walked in the footsteps of Daedalus, a master inventor and the creator of the labyrinth. Imprisoned by the King with his hapless son Icarus when the maze was complete, the father and son escaped using wax wings of Daedalus’ design. The tour guide spotted us and shooed us away before she finished the story. I assume they escaped successfully. Without her words, the palace was just a pile of old rubble. That Autumn we flew home on scorched, but fully formed wings, to a hero’s welcome.

prissing quietly mother's hair frizzing around own jawline—curse your nose unhooked as glasses slip down. you have been asked to watch your roommate's candle and heart. bat skulls down your drain and the second child goes with them. moving in the first thing hung is the straw cross above the doorway. you make potato soup for two and eat it alone. this lonely place your grandsomethings despised is your six week home & you feel strange sporting their flag at your only graduation, remembering them bullet-bled & constellation covered at the post office. are you what they remember? are you what you remember? things would be easier in two-tone, you think; green and yellow, or green and rust. it is tattooed on your forearm and your genome. maybe GABC doesn’t make you hate black and tan but you curse the name and drink still. anyways, you’re coming to terms with your genetics, that you burn and freckle instead of tan & need to be a little buzzed to like your family, and that you feel incurably out of place here, alone, reviled. you work in a factory like your ancestors post-famine. and as you trip through cobbled streets, cursing the name of every aristocrat and crowned conqueror of this ill-gotten place, you still feel guilty because you don’t want to go home. i live alone in a first-floor flat in kensington. the construction workers work twelve-hour shifts outside and yell at each other in a brogue so deep it doesn’t seem like my language at all. i am afraid of being caught so I am from cork now and struggle not to say it to people who know me. i am a perfect loner packaged overflowing in a pair of stockings. i didn’t bring my overcoat on the plane so now I am naked and alone. I hurt in a deep secret place and I swelter on the sidewalk. I am afraid to show my mother my camera roll. I do not want to leave this place with rushing trains and buses and the sea an hour away. i cannot write. the art museum is blurry. i wish i could read braille. the cane sticks out and people make way on the thoroughfare. i miss marx’s tomb and didn’t piss on margaret thatcher’s. i fear i am fake. i spend my money and sometimes my father’s. i am alone at a gay bar reading a book about the IRA. i wonder if I actually like whiskey or if I’m just used to it. I am too cowardly to be a vegetarian. i miss my cereal. I wonder half-nothings waiting for the subway delayed too long. the only time i feel anything is at a tattoo parlor. i don’t know if my mother loves me anymore. Shelby Rice is trying to contact you regarding your car's extended warranty. They read for Oxford University Press and won the Montaine Award for Creative Nonfiction in 2020. They have been published or have work forthcoming in The Foundationalist, American Literary Review, Rejection Letters, Longleaf Review, Okay Donkey and more. Originally from Dayton, Ohio and legally blind (two things unrelated, they think), they recently acquired a cane with a sword inside, and will tell anyone who will listen. You can follow them on twitter at @orcmischief (if you dare).