Prose

Inbal Gilboa

Slow Shifts at the Double Axe

It was a night of a kind in the Double Axe, which meant, as it had for the last three weeks since the shift manager walked into a snowstorm and never came back, that Pay Way and Shunpike were arguing about regionalities again.

The Double Axe was one of those little convenience stores attached to a gas station, and an individual representative of a series of Double Axes, crawling all over the state of Utah like so many lanternflies. The Double Axe wasn’t a local chain, but it was localized to the Four Corners area, in much the same way an infection is localized. They sold canned food and toiletries and cigarette lighters, postcards, t-shirts with racist slogans on them, bibles of any one denomination of dozens. When the shift manager went out the front door and into a snow storm, Pay Way made sure that the racists t-shirts were the first to get repurposed into survival supplies.

“I don’t know why you’d call it a turnpike,” Shunpike said. “You’re not turning very much, and there’s no pike.” It was their turn at the register, out of a matter of habit and ritual. The last customer who had wandered into the Double Axe, seemingly by accident, was met with a half-dozen employees who had gone fully into the reeds and had come out the other sides as feral as twitching barn cats. They’d been taking turns bathing in the sink at that point. The customer had hastened to leave without buying anything.

By way of arguing, Pay Way paid Shunpike company on their routine shift. Shunpike had been born in Utah, but Pay Way had come by way of Florida when he was fifteen on the back of a blood tide hurricane, swept in with the vagrants and the uninsured, and so knew, in his heart of hearts, that a turnpike was what you called a toll highway. He was about to say just that when, coming between the snack aisles, the sunflower seeds on one end and the Skoal on the other, Badger Hand Wallace loped past the aisles and unfolded like a dandelion curling up towards the sun. Badger Hand Wallace, raising his shaggy head to look at them, could do nothing better than he could stop a conversation in its tracks.

He smiled, hardly shifting his whiskery mustache, and said, “You guys are arguing about roads again.”

This was a thing Badger Hand Wallace did. He stated things when he meant to ask them. He liked to state things that way, like he was taking stock of everything around him, and Badger Hand Wallace was very good at taking stock. More than once, they’d send him around the back to check their depleting water stores, and he’d come back hauling more jugs of milk, more cans of crisps, more linens and soaps, than they could ever remember the shop storage carrying at once.

“Yeah, we were arguing about roads again,” said Pay Way, lifting a hand off from where he had been mopping the counter to accept in advance the little bag of pretzel bites that Badger Hand Wallace threw his way. Badger Hand Wallace, who used his dominant hand to throw things despite it being mangled for years now, was Godawful at throwing things, and you always had to anticipate the misdirection. “Thanks.”

Badger Hand Wallace smiled slowly, the way he did. He looked, if anything, a little bit like what you’d expect a sex offender to look. In Pay Way’s own comprehension, Wallace was this big white guy with an oily mustache and shoulder-length coarse hair, with pale, screwed-in eyes like a wild hog. But it was all in the living charisma of him, that was what made him attractive despite himself. The way he walked slow and talked slow and smiled slow, slow, slow. To see him move and talk felt like watching a symposium on the savoring of life.

His legal name was Wallace Wallace, Pay Way learned that on his first shift at the Double Axe, six months ago. First name. Wallace, last name Wallace. Despite this, nearly everybody called him Badger Hand Wallace on account of his fucked up hand, which he’d gotten ripped up at his first job working at a recycling plant. Without his right thumb and parts of his index and middle finger, his right hand had a rounded-off shape, like a burrowing animal.

More than anything, Badger Hand Wallace was outstandingly queer, but in the way of outstanding debt. He had made his way in the world being too straight to too many people, and now he was collecting on his investment. Just as easily as he’d come, he disappeared into the labyrinth of aisles and shelves, without a rustle of movement indicating his absence.

“Goddamn,” Pay Way said.

Shunpike said, “Can’t say I disagree.”

But that was only a few weeks after the shift manager walked into a snowstorm and left all of the employees sheltering inside of a gas station slowly running out of food, and so they had bigger and more meaningful things on their minds.

*

At that point in time, there were only six employees living in the Double Axe: Sister Expedient, Badger Hand Wallace, Shunpike, Craig, Deeds, and Pay Way himself. Once, they had a full dozen on board, but that was before the shift manager took the other half of the staff down below the convenience store into the basement, and before he walked into the snowstorm and never returned. So they don’t speak about the other six anymore.

None of them had any pets, none of them had any dependents, and if any of them had family or friends, they weren’t really talking to them much anymore. The Double Axe chain was notorious for hiring people who didn’t have a lot of options, and didn’t have very many other obligations, and if you had other obligations, the Double Axe had ways of making you shed them. The shifts were long and inconsistent. The pay was enough to keep you on and not a dime more. Not a soul among them had a car to drive home, or could afford the general upkeep of owning a car anyway. There had been a snowstorm raging outside that still left them, even then, preferring the plaster walls and spluttering heaters of the Double Axe than venturing outside. So, in lieu of trying to get, they simply - well, they just worked overtime.

Sister Expedient was mending fabrics when Pay Way joined her. Without her fellow furie helping her, as they often worked together when the convenience store was still functional, she looked much smaller.

“Shipment coming up from the basement soon. Mind if I join you?” Pay Way said, as he sat down next to her with his pot of hot water and dirty rags. She didn’t look up from her needlework, so he took it as confirmation, and sat down next to her.

Pay Way liked to clean, that was what he was good for. When they started to have to make their own survival here, he’d been the one to rig up the sleeping quarters in the cleanest, warmest corner of the store, and pushed out all the aisles to make room for a fire pit all blocked off with rocks he’d hauled in from outside in the snow. When that was done, he took over the washing up of laundry and cooking equipment, which he did by taking their biggest pot and boiling their clothes in it, then lathering it up with hand soap, which they had lots of.

All of their metalwork had been done by way of Deeds, who dismantled a broken down car someone left in the parking lot and never came back for and beat sheet metal into vague tools using a very hot charcoal fire and a big rock. She worked the longest at the Double Axe, and so she had, like, a lot of pent up anger.

Sister Expedient helped him with the cleaning up a lot, though she preferred to cook and sew.

“I think Shunpike, Craig, and Deeds are sleeping together,” she said, slowly working out her bit of yarn from one claw to the other. She was a furie from Michoacán by birth, but had moved to Utah shortly thereafter. She was the first furie Pay Way ever met, having heard about them in Florida, prowling the Arizona border, but he found that descriptions never did her twelve-foot wingspan and vulture-naked head any justice. In her kind face, her eyes were two polished black stones.

Pay Way sucked his thumb into his mouth, the corner burned from touching the boiling pot, and spoke around it to say, “I thought Craig was straight?”

Sister Expedient shrugged her shoulders, then quietly said, “Oh, fuck your mother,” to her knitting when the motion made her drop a stitch. Once she had shifted her talons to salvage neat row of loops suspended between each claw, she wondered aloud, saying, in a ponderous voice, “Craig is good. Shunpike is good. Deeds is -” she stopped to think about that last one, then said, “Deeds knows things.”

“Well, anyway, they better not be sleeping together on the blankets,” he said. “I’m not cleaning those for them. If they want to have sex, they should have sex in the storage closet like adults.”

Despite the fact that the storage closet could hardly hold all three of them, much less all three of them in flagrante, Sister Expedient gave a satisfied little huff, which he took to mean she agreed. If Sister Expedient did not agree with someone, she often told them. She was not a woman who held her tongue, though she, on occasion, deigned to hold others’ tongues, flapping severed in her claws like minnows. She got up, then, and put her sewing away to adjust her dress, making sure that her sleeves were not messing with the way her feathers lay.

“Right,” she said. “Right, right, right. We need to go to the basement, you and me.”

Pay Way let his gaze drift down to the pot of clothes, boiling away in front of him. He was rather looking forward to cleaning them, if he was being honest with himself. He always felt absolved, after he had the chance to clean something, and the basement had a way of making you feel distinctly unabsolved. Complicit in something great and horrible.

 Sister Expedient shook her head at him with a kind of grandmotherly embarrassment, and said, “It’ll only take a minute, Pay Way. Don’t be such a little duckling.”

So they went to the basement, of course, because someone ought to go down to the basement,, or else… something. They didn’t know what, exactly, but it couldn’t be good.

They always went down to the basement, and never alone, to collect the freshly-appearing boxes of frozen corndogs and beer, propane tanks and clear lollipops with dead scorpions in them. They needed to collect the boxes, because it wasn’t like they were getting much to eat and drink here otherwise, but that didn’t mean he particularly enjoyed the process by which they got them. 

Going down to the basement meant taking down the big wooden slat barging the door, it meant collecting the handmade, gasoline-soaked torch and lighting it, so that they could make their way down to the damp dark with some light to guide them by. It meant making sure the door was locked behind them, that they have a length of yarn leading them down the descending stairs, so that they could find their way back up. Or, failing that, that the creature at the bottom of the stairs wouldn’t find its way back upstairs after them.

At the bottom of the staircase, the darkness sucked up all the light, as deep and inescapable as minimum wage. Even with the gasoline torch, Pay Way could only see down and around his feet, where the soles of his shoes kept sticking to the cement floor. It smelled like petrichor down in the basement, or like a wet animal. He could hear the breathing. At first, there were no crates, and then he inched his way forward and his feet hit a square wooden shape. He did not see the creature beyond the crates, all laden with plastic bags and clinking bottles, but he knew that it was there. He could hear it, pulling at the edge of its dragging chain. He knew that it was making the supplies, somehow, just as soon as he knew that as long as it was here, there would always be a Double Axe.

When they took the crates back up the stairs, unhooked the length of yarn, locked and barred the door behind them, and went to unpack the supplies, the hungry churning of teeth in a skull did not quiet, but it got easier to ignore.

*

“Do you remember,” Shunpike asked, when they were all going to sleep that night, “Sister Benevolent?”

They were speaking quietly to Pay Way. Not because everyone else was asleep, and it was their turn to mind the gas station over the night shift, but because it didn’t feel right, to speak about the other staff in unhushed voices. They were tucked close to Pay Way, halfway through a conversation rapidly spiraling into a bicker about the difference between tennis shoes and sneakers when Shunpike got all soft-spoken and uneasy. Shunpike didn’t have a steady role like most everyone did in the store, they did all sorts and sometimes nothing at all, but they had good instincts for when something was dangerous, so they served as something of a human smoke alarm. When Shunpike got quiet and uneasy, it always very easy to follow their quo, like an improv routine. Yes-and, yes-and.

Sister Benevolent had been the other furie that worked at the Double Axe, back when they were still a full twelve members strong, and Pay Way didn’t know her very well, not like he knew some of the other people who were taken downstairs. She was quiet, he knew, and had a sense of humor like a knife’s edge, if you were close enough to hear her. She was the one who insisted on having potted plants indoors, and liked to talk to them on her lunch breaks. She was a whole person, and she was gone now. It’s a difficult thing to grasp, the way a place could eat a person whole, root and stem.

They didn’t often talk about the six who went down the basement and never came back up. That way, they could still operate under the illusion that they weren’t really gone. There shift had simply ended, and they’d all gone home. Surely, they were all somewhere else, somewhere beyond gas stations and racist t-shirts and overtime.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I remember Sister Benevolent. How come?”

Shunpike brought their knees up to their chest, and they seemed small and young. Pay Way wanted to cover them with his hands, the way you protect a small flame from the wind. They said, “How many Double Axes do you think there are?”

Pay Way scratched his chin. “In Utah?”

“All over,” Shunpike said.

Pay Way shrugged. “Maybe a couple hundred. A thousand something, I reckon.”

Shunpike didn’t say anything in response to that, at least not at first. It seemed they didn’t want to say anything about it. Then, haltingly, they asked, “Do you think every Double Axe has a basement?”

For a while, they just watched the fire. It was easier that way.

When the silence felt older, gentler to break, Pay Way said, “Sister Expedient said you were sleeping with Deeds and Craig.”

Shunpike shrugged, but there was a little smile playing in the corner of their mouth, hidden the way an ant hides in the curve of a seashell. “Yeah, I am. I’m also dating them, I think? I mean, sex is sex, right, but they’re good. Deeds is good, Craig is good. It’s nice.”

They both turned quietly to look at the warm pile of sleeping bodies curled up in the corner, Craig’s long arms splayed out like a daisy coming up from under a heavy winter, Deeds laying halfway over Badger Hand Wallace, and Sister Expedient’s iridescent black wings thrown over all of them. She looked like a black owl, insulating her hatchlings from the chill of night.

When the night shift changed, right around the streaming, blue hours of the early dawn, Pay Way waited a minute before waking Badger Hand Wallace up, letting Shunpike go to bed with the rest of the heap. He went off to the side, where the crates they brought up earlier in the day were waiting, not yet having been fully raided. The first week they’d been there, the crates had been lavish, had been stuffed to the brim with food and warm clothing and beer. The week after that, the crates were full, but only hardly. This week, it felt that every bag they opened was half-filled with air. They were running thin, and running thinner and leaner every week that passed since the shift manager brought the six other workers to the creature downstairs.

But that was only three weeks after the shift manager left.

*

“Say, B.H.W.,” Pay Way said, while he was shoveling the snow out of the entryway the next day, “do you think the shift manager is ever coming back?”

In the mornings, Badger Hand Wallace counted stock, playing up his usual trick of finding more than previously reported, as though he could, by some magic arithmetic, make up for the dwindling supplies. This morning, he milled around in the cold storage, up to his knees in snow and wearing a formerly-racist t-shirt that had all the epithets cut out in order to make a crop top, beneath which the midriff of his thermal underwear showed through. His hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, which looked nice. He wasn’t too bad to look at, Pay Way reckoned.

Badger Hand Wallace shut the door to the storage. He didn’t shut it hard, but he shut it with an unhappiness to him, then he twisted ‘round to look at where Pay Way was, saying, “If he does come back, I’d like to see him try to get back in. I’d send him back into the snowstorm. I’d send him into the basement. I’d sent him into the storm naked up to his waist.”

“You would?” Pay Way asked. “You would, really?”

“I would,” Badger Hand Wallace said. “I worked many jobs before, since I was sixteen, I worked at theme parks and construction sites and the mouth of hell. Six times, I got fired for getting involved in union organizing, and I’ll get fired six more before I’ll even think of stopping. The only thing between managers and me is a picket line.”

Then, changing the subject with an almost bashful turn, Badger Hand Wallace kicked at the snow and said, “We better get to boiling water. I don’t trust the taps for drinking, and we don’t have many jugs left.”

Pay Way nodded. He didn’t need to ask Badger Hand Wallace what the state of things in cold storage was. If even Wallace came out of it empty handed, it meant that things were bad, proper bad. He was afraid about what would happen if they tried to leave, if they’d just walk into the storm and never come back, like the shift manager had.

“The crates aren’t very reliable,” Pay Way said, finishing up clearing the snow and setting his shovel down. “Deeds wants to plant winter greens, but I don’t think anyone is going to deliver seeds to us out here. It’s just the road-clearing trucks now, and they barely stop to refuel before they’re back on their way. I don’t know what the manager did, with the other six, when he took them down there, but -”

“Don’t say that it worked,” Badger Hand Wallace said. He put his right hand on Pay Way’s shoulder, and it was a good hand, strong and warm. “If it takes that, it’s not working. That’s not what working is.”

“So?” he said. “So what do we do, Wallace? We just… wait for the crates to stop coming at all? See what happens to the thing in the basement when it gets desperate?”

When Badger Hand Wallace sniffed, considering this, the frayed mustache on his top lip quivered, a kind of wiry animal wisdom about him. Eventually, he set his jaw and said, “I just think that if we can destroy something by being kind to one another, then we ought to. I think we’re obligated to. Do you understand me, Pay Way?”

Pay Way thought he understood that. He thought he understood that, that he and Badger Hand Wallace had come to an understanding between them, a temporary truce between them and the situation at large, the situation above and below.

Which is to say, when they discovered that Badger Hand Wallace went down to the basement on his own the following week, Pay Way as admittedly caught a little on the back foot. Being that he went down alone, without a torch or string of yarn and hardly an intention to come back out, nobody knew that he was down there until the screaming started. All remaining five workers came to the door at once, Sister Expedient breaking the lock in her rush to lead them down.

Craig, who was five foot and three inches tall and built like a compact SUV, rushed headlong ahead of the group and streamed down the stairs. Pay Way only knew he hit the bottom because he heard him slip down the last two stairs and land hard on his knees in the wet dark, in the living dark. Without thinking of the consequences, Pay Way came down the stairs two at a time after him, the backs of his eyelids making moving shapes in the dark where nothing was there. When he came down, he noticed that the last two stairs - the ones that Craig had tripped over, were slick with some kind of warm liquid, blood or tar or gasoline. Moving sightlessly in the basement, he knocked shoulders against something much larger than himself, something hotter than an oil fire and covered all over with fur. If he had to guess, he’d say he hit against its chest, feeling the wind push out of it and over the top of his head.

Pay Way expected whatever it was to kill him, then and there, but it startled back away from him. The walls shuddered all over the room from it backing itself quickly into a corner.

He moved around in the darkness a little more, putting his hands out to feel his way until he brushed what felt like t-shirt fabric, felt a shoulder rolling and shoving against him hastily. There was no light, but he recognized Craig from the smell of human sweat and the density of muscles working hard. “Come on, come ‘round me,” Craig said, grabbing hold of Pay Way’s sleeve and nearly knocking him down in his haste to get him to come to his other side, where, Pay Way quickly figured out, he was bracing Badger Hand Wallace’s weight against his shoulder. Feeling his way from Badger Hand Wallace’s damp, cold face to his arm, he took to his other side, and they hauled him back up the stairs, where the rest of the workers took over, moving him, shifting him over and barring the door in a ten-handed mass of singular thoughts and desires.

It felt that none of them were speaking at all, but that they could all know, without words, without coherent thoughts, what needed to be done, and got it done. They got it all done.

“Make a little room,” Craig said, once he had come back up into the pallid light of convenience store lights, “He’s bleeding, but he’s still alive, I think. Make a little room for him, I’m going to put him down.”

Clearing a bedded-down nest of old torn clothes and blankets, Craig put Badger Hand Wallace down on his back. Immediately, the spot where he lay got soaked with blood, showing through bite marks on his arms and left side. There was what seemed to be a yellowing froth of saliva gathered on his face and neck, not of his own making. Pay Way ducked off to the side and into the storage closet, where he kept the clean rags and the rubbing alcohol, and he brought as much as he had at his disposal in three trips. Each time he came, Sister Expedient was halfway through another step of triage. The first, she was using hot water to clean his arms, shredding what remained of his shirt with black sickle claws. The second, she patted each bite mark with rubbing alcohol, Deeds holding Wallace’s head still while he woke up and started yelling. Third, she fed a length of handmade thread into a mean-looking needle, and began to stitch him back up into one piece.

 Not knowing how else to help, and not wanting to look too closely at the gashes at Badger Hand Wallace’s side, Pay Way soaked a rag in alcohol and used is to rub away at the yellow saliva, which formed a thick, foul-smelling rind over his face, like the yellow wax that formed over oil pumps. He rubbed at it hard, and it came away in sheets. The bite marks, when he dared to look at them, seemed almost human-like, with the square indents of molars in among the fangs.

All while Sister Expedient hunched down, shushing him and running her needle in clean lines up and down his wounded arm, Badger Hand Wallace insisted on trying to speak. When he could form coherent words, he said, “There wasn’t anything down there but the Minotaur. No bones, no nothing.”

“And what,” Pay Way snapped, “in the name of God, were you planning on doing with it?”

Badger Hand Wallace, his limbs slack with exhaustion, lifted his namesake hand, demonstrably. To his palm, he had tied a thin square of metal, sharpened to a stabbing point, which was covered all over with darkening blood, drying into flakes already.

“It’s hungry,” he said, by way of explanation.

Then Sister Expedient folded her wings tightly to keep Badger Hand Wallace from moving, and with her massive wingspan, the tight hold could do nothing but restrain him. “Shush, shush, let me work, be good.”

Badger Hand Wallace, his breath coming in short and wheezing under the tight grasp, managed to say around tightening lungs, “It’s weak, Pay Way. It’s dying.”

It took them the better part of an hour - less than Pay Way expected, really - to get all the cuts and bite marks cleaned off, sewed shut, and bandaged. By that point, Badger Hand Wallace started flagging, his eyes dropping down and his words coming out inaudible and nonsensical, and they only managed to convince him to drink a little mineral water and eat a couple saltines to keep from keeling over before he bundled down in the few remaining unsullied blankets and nodded off. His skin, when Pay Way touched it, was cold and clammy.

“Is he going to die?” Deeds said, in a flat, even tone, like she was already trying her hardest not to care one way or the other. Deeds cared a lot, that was the thing about her. So she tried to look, preemptively, like she didn’t care at all. This was what made people so angry, as far as Pay Way could tell, when they cared so Goddamn much and nobody ever told them that was alright to do.

“Don’t know, duckling,” Sister Expedient said, “he should, they’re not deep wounds, and we treated them properly. But he was down there a while before we found him and managed to all his wounds treated, he could’ve lost a lot of blood for all we know. We’ll have to see if he goes into shock or not.”

Pay Way asked, “What can we do?”

Sister Expedient shrugged. “Keep him warm. Make sure he eats and drinks. See if he wakes up in the morning.”

And so they abandoned most other duties that night other than to keep the fire going, stoking it with the last of the charcoal, leaving them only with smokey, greasy firewood they salvaged from outside, which made everyone cough and rush to ventilate the store without letting the heat escape. They didn’t do much other than keep the fire and lay pressed up against Badger Hand Wallace in shifts, skin-to-skin to share warmth and listen to the faltering lull of his heart. Sister Expedient slept next to him first, rocking and humming a furie song nobody knew but her and maybe Sister Benevolent, once. Then Craig and Deeds took over, speaking over his body to one another in a private, intense conversation about cars or something, until Shunpike joined them and they went quiet. They didn’t sleep, but they laid all in one heap. It was an uncomfortable night, and hardly any of them closed their eyes, for fear that something else would happen just as soon as they started unwinding.

Pay Way’s early morning shift was last, and so by the time he took off his shirt and pressed up against Badger Hand Wallace’s bandaged front, he was already listing awake, half-alive and half-beyond, his eyes rolling in his skull. His greasy hair was stuck all the front of his face and in his mouth, and Pay Way wiped it off before he could try batting it away with his injured hands. Around four in the morning, when the sun wasn’t yet up but the night was blue, Badger Hand Wallace started to cry a little. Pay Way just let him, wiping at his dirty face with a damp sleeve.

It went on like that.

*

He made it through the night.

*

On the fourth week, Pay Way went to the basement door, and he lifted the wooden slab barring it from its place and put it down quietly on the floor, so quietly it didn’t make a sound at all. He unlocked the padlock and set that aside too, leaving the door open wide when he went down inside, looping the length of yarn he borrowed on the nail. Then he went down the stairs, without a torch. In the dark of the stairway, he stumbled twice, nearly losing his footing and falling headfirst, but both times catching himself on the side of the wall. The stairs were all crusted over and sticky with dried blood, but he needed both hands free.

At the bottom of the basement, the Minotaur was quiet. It did not low or churn its teeth, and for a moment, he almost thought that it starved down here. When he walked right into it and it let out a scared little low, the way cows do when you catch them alone in a field. It crouched down in the corner of the basement, its long arms curled around its hairy thighs. If he squinted his eyes hard, Pay Way could almost make it out, a dark-against-dark shape in the corner of the room, trembling. His foot clipped its hoof when he tried to step closer.

“Oh, sorry,” he said. 

Without a light, the eyes of the Minotaur did not reflect anything. He backed up a little, and it didn’t try to lunge after him or anything, it just stayed down on the ground, just coiled up, just sat there hunched around itself protectively, looking at him.

Pay Way said, “I’m not here to feed you, you know.”

The Minotaur grunted. He didn’t know if that was a sound that indicated understanding or not, or if it was just one animal in the night responding to another. He went down on the floor then, careful not to turn his back to the huddled form, and started running his hands all over the ground until they hit something metallic which made a rattling noise when he grabbed it. He tried to pick up the chain, but understandably, it was nailed down to the floor with a heavy nail the size of his forearm.

“Hey,” he said. “Hey, come here, buddy. I need a hand.”

The Minotaur grunted again, but did not move.

Pay Way tried to think of how he’d call a cow over, or maybe a big dog, and started clicking his tongue, which made the shape perk up a little. With the kind of kind decisiveness people call pets over, he said, “Come here, buddy. Come here.”

The tremendous shape went back on its haunches, each segment tensing and unfolding with a slow, mountainous hesitation. It was glacial in its size and pace. It must have been kneeling the whole time it was down here, because as soon as it rose, its head clipped the ceiling and it let out an enraged bellow that made the basement tremble.

Pay Way whistled loudly, getting its attention back on him. “Hey! Hey, now, hey, relax, relax. It’s alright. I’m helping. Come here, come on.”

It took another minute for the Minotaur to calm down, nodding its head to and fro anxiously and making unsure huffs, lifting one massive hand to rub its own snout and the top of its head. Then it bent down again, and shuffled over in slow, unsure steps. When it was close that he could smell the reek of its wet, ungroomed fur, Pay Way reached up a hand for it, and it caught it, as though by instinct, one massive hand wrapping round just two of his own, like a toddler holding hands to cross the road. Pay Way tugged it down, and it was like yanking on a brick wall, but eventually, it understood, and came down to kneel beside him, its foul, hot breath landing over his face and shoulders like a damp cloud of rotting meat and old teeth.

He lifted a hand and caught it by one horn, which made it startle until he urged it down towards the nail, hooking it under where the chain was pinned. Instinctively, the Minotaur reared back to free its head, and it took it a couple tries, but eventually the nail decoupled from the chain completely, it snapping along a rusted segment, and the Minotaur leaned back and bellowed again, shaking its head so hard that it butted against Pay Way’s chest, knocking him all the way over.

“Alright, alright,” he said, winded and a little bemused. He patted the ground again until he found the remaining length of chain, and wrapped both arms around it as tightly as he could. “Alright, buddy, let’s get you out of here.”

The walk back up the stairs while gently tugging a confused Minotaur behind him took a great deal of patience, more than Pay Way himself thought he possessed. It must have taken the better part of the night, because by the time he had dragged it up, coaxed it through the basement door, and lead it to the back entrance, where the loading dock was, the sun began to peak over the horizon. The loading dock lay, all covered in untrodden snow, and it reflected the early sunlight back at them as keen as any knife.

The Minotaur snorted, one hand covering its eyes to shield itself from the light of the morning. Pay Way did not blame it, it was hard enough seeing light for the first time, much less light reflected off a truly preposterous amount of snow. 

“Yeah,” he said, remembering being fifteen and moving to Utah for the first time, midwinter, some ten years ago. “Yeah, it takes some getting used to. I’m going to let you go now, alright?”

Careful not to spook the Minotaur, he put the chain down on the snow slowly and took a step back to let it choose where it wanted to go. In the sunlight now, he could see that the Minotaur looked a bit like a Texas longhorn, mostly a rusty red color with some patches of mildewed white. It had a white blaze up its snout and face, which Pay Way thought was pretty cute, and a pink nose. Its horns were a wide, parabolic shape that crested out to the sides, and it leaned back unsteadily to put one hoof in the snow, then draw it back again. It trembled once, a full-body shudder like it was casting off flies, then took a full step into the snow, hardly sinking to its ankles in it. Then it bellowed, and started off in a kicking, ridiculous motion that Pay Way recognized as being the bouncing dance that cows did when they were let out in springtime.

He watched it for a while, dragging the chain away as it started to wander off into the parking lot and then farther than that, becoming smaller in his sightline. Just once, it turned back to look at him, and did not wave or anything, just looked at him with its black eyes before turning back around and continuing to meander away through the snow in search of something to eat, probably.

Pay Way heard a voice from behind him ask, “Do you think it’ll live long out there?” and he recognized Badger Hand Wallace’s voice easily.

“Yeah,” he said, without turning around, “it’s a meat-eater, there’s lots of deer out here, it’ll be fine.” He waited for Badger Hand Wallace to settle next to him, and only then allowed himself to look. He looked a little better than the few days before, his face less pale and sunken than it had been in the past week, but he was still making complaining noises with every step he took outside.

“Jesus Christ, it’s cold,” he said. “Why are we even out here, Pay Way?”

Pay Way said, “Thinking about what we do now, I guess.”

Badger Hand Wallace snorted, then turned his chest mostly towards Pay Way so he could fit the hollow of where his right-hand thumb once was under Pay Way’s chin, not quite touching, but near enough so that Pay Way would raise his mouth to his in a brief kiss. It was strange, kissing someone with a mustache, which Pay Way had never done before, but it wasn’t bad. It was nice.

After that, Badger Hand Wallace drew back and settled on his heels, bouncing once on them and clearing his throat. “Well,” he said, “I figured now we get to figure out what kind of people we want to be.”

They stood out in the snow for another ten or twenty minutes, until the shape of the Minotaur fully disappeared on the horizon, first becoming a red speck against a white backdrop, like a drop of blood on a pillowcase, and then it was gone completely. For a while after that, they held hands until they got too cold and their eyes started watering from the reflection of the sun against the snow. They went back inside after that, still holding hands as best they could, but that was slow shifts at the Double Axe.

Inbal Gilboa is a Jewish immigrant writer based in Arizona. In 2019 Gilboa’s short story “The Yearlong Lighthouse” was honored with the 1st Place in Fiction by the Glendon and Kathryn Swarthout Awards in Writing. She is an MFA candidate at Northern Arizona University where Gilboa continues to study and analyze Victorian-era literature from a postcolonial perspective. Gilboa was on the editorial staff of Thin Air Magazine, and her work has been previously published in the journal Punt Volat.

Moses Hubbard

To the

"You have to listen carefully, I'll only tell it once." 

"I'm listening."

"Ok." Hekla cleared her throat. "A woman is alone in her home. She goes upstairs, turns off a light, comes back downstairs, and falls asleep. She wakes up the next morning and looks out the window. When she sees what's outside, she throws herself out the window and dies. What happened?" 

Mariam and Hekla were sitting on a cluster of rocks at the top of a hill, wrapped in blankets, staring out at the Mediterranean. It was night and little pins of light swayed in the darkness. Around the horizon, it was difficult to tell which lights were boats and which were buildings or cars in the city on the Turkish side of the water. On clear evenings like this one the sky was full of stars, which made it even harder to tell where one plot of lights ended and the other began.

Their hill sloped down to a small clearing at the edge of a ring of cliffs, which dropped sharply into the sea. There was an old stone house on the promontory and, at the outermost point, a large beacon that winked on and off through the night. The shore around the cliffs was littered with jagged rocks and piles of life-vests and shredded rubber pontoons. 

When boats of refugees began coming across from Turkey, many of them headed straight for the big flashing light, thinking it was a signal from the rescue crews in Greece. After some bad crashes, volunteers had started monitoring the promontory, trying to keep people away from the rocks. Their job was to radio in boats that might be heading towards the lighthouse, or do whatever they could if they weren't able to stop them. Now that it was winter, though, hardly any boats were coming across. 

Mariam took a set of night-vision binoculars out of its case, turned the device on, and held it up to her eyes.  "I'm allowed to ask questions, right?" 

The binoculars had three different settings - infrared, negative, and polychrome, which was Mariam's favorite. Depending on the intensity of the heat coming off whatever she was focusing on, it would register on the screen as red, yellow, or blue, so when she looked through the binoculars the blackness was transformed into intricate neon forms, little red bodies of the rescue crews and border police, yellow bulbs from the city on the opposite coast, waves showing blue for a second as they crested.  The water heats up slightly when it breaks, she thought. 

"Sure," Hekla nodded.  

Mariam aimed the binoculars at the house at the bottom of the hill. She could clearly make out the figures of the two Belgian doctors sleeping in a tent against the outer wall, where there was less wind. One man was lying on his back, his arms out; the other was curled in towards him, and his head seemed to be resting on his shoulder. Inside the house, Moses and Vasilis, a pair of volunteers from the anarchist camp, were tending a fire. It was harder to see what they were doing because the fire had warmed the stone walls and made it difficult to distinguish the structure from their bodies. 

"The woman's in her own home?" Mariam asked.

"I already said that." 

"Is it a house?"

"No."

Something shivered on the top of the screen, and Mariam trained the binoculars back on the horizon. There did appear to be something out there, a small yellow blur below the line of lights, but she couldn't tell if it was coming in their direction. She handed the binoculars to Hekla.

"I think I might've seen something." She pointed to the place where she had seen the light.

Hekla focused on the spot. "Yeah, I see it." She paused. "It's a boat. It looks like it's moving east. I'll radio Seawatch and see if they've picked it up." 

An alarm on Mariam's phone went off while Hekla was still on the radio, which meant that it was time for the anarchists to start their shift. Mariam picked up the binoculars again and looked down at the house, but she still couldn't see what Vasilis and Moses were up to. She adjusted the view again to look for the boat. It had started moving to the west. It might have gotten a bit closer, too, but it was hard to tell from this distance. 

Hekla put down the walkie-talkie. "Seawatch says it's probably a police boat based on how it's moving. Another lookout called in a couple of boats down the coast, so they headed that way to find if they can help." 

They sat in silence for several minutes, waiting for Vasilis and Moses. Mariam let Hekla's riddle roll around in her head, hoping it would snag on something. When she had first gotten to Lesvos, there were boats coming in every few minutes, and there was always something to do, always a place that needed help. Now that boats were arriving less frequently, the volunteers had gotten a bit restless. Seawatch was probably competing with four other crews to save those boats.

Finally Hekla tossed the radio down. "Fucking anarchists."

"Here," Mariam stood and brushed off the back of her jeans. "I'll get them. Can I bring anything down?" 

"Don't worry about it." 

Mariam grabbed a flashlight and started making her way down the hill. She crossed the clearing and went around the far side of the house, where she pulled down her pants and squatted against the wall, looking out over the cliff. The flashing beacon periodically threw the scene below into relief. Scattered among the reefs of orange vests and rubber pontoons, there were several boats impaled on the rocks at odd angles. One had been turned almost completely over. She tried to imagine what it would be like to have come so far only to drown here, looking at the coast.  Of course, even getting all this way didn't mean you wouldn't die in some idiotic way farther along; people were collapsing on highways in Austria, starving on the Macedonian border. 

She pulled her pants back up and walked around the far side of the house, pushing aside the heavy rubber tarp that covered the doorframe. Halfway through the frame, she heard shouting behind her. She stuck her head back out the door and looked towards the hill, where a flashlight beam was jotting wildly down the incline. 

"Fuck!" Hekla yelled. "Fuck! Everyone up! We've got a boat!" 

By the time they had gotten down to the beach, the boat had already turned around and begun knocking against a shelf of rock several meters off the shore. It was a small fishing boat, meant for maybe five people, but there were easily twice that many just on the deck. Three men had jumped into the water and were trying to pull the boat towards the beach. Hekla and Vasilis struck out into the water, each carrying cables to pull the vessel in.  Mariam balanced on a rock in the low water, waving a glowstick; Moses was behind her, setting up floodlights to indicate the path up the cliffs.

"Stay in the boat!" Hekla shouted. "Don't try to swim!" 

The deck of the boat was almost level with the water.  As Hekla reached the vessel, a woman held out a small boy, trying to hand him to her. Hekla waved her arms, trying to tell the woman to put the child back on the deck, but a wave crashed over her head and into the boat. The boy disappeared. Several people fell off the deck and the woman slipped backwards, screaming. 

Hekla surfaced when the wave pulled away but immediately dived back underneath the water. The wave had lifted the boat onto a shelf of rocks closer to shore, and the people who had fallen out began to stand up, realizing they could now walk the rest of the way to land. They had to move quickly though, another wave could come at any moment. 

The men who had jumped out were the first to get to the rock where Mariam was standing. The first had no shoes and his feet were bleeding into the sand. The next two came out of the water together, one dragging the other by the elbow. People were pouring out of the boat now, jumping off two or three at a time, scrambling in the water, and there seemed to be bodies staggering up the beach in every direction. Mariam pointed her glowstick towards the path, trying to get them to form a line, while also looking around for Hekla. Finally she saw her emerging from behind the boat, carrying the boy in her arms.  The child seemed to be in shock, but he was alive.  Hekla jogged along the beach, shouting for the doctors who were waiting above.

Next came an old man with three girls and a woman carrying a suitcase that she took care to hold high above the water, even though it was only calf-deep. They were followed by a young man who couldn't have been much older than eighteen, wearing a drenched t-shirt, track pants, and a pair of flip-flops. Three more men came after him, also carrying nothing but their clothes. Behind them, an older woman and a younger one were dragging an old man between them, supporting him on their shoulders.  Mariam saw that he had a deep wound above his ankle, as if a hole had been punched through the skin and bone. Six squat men who all seemed to know one another hopped off the deck in pairs, talking excitedly among themselves and smiling at Mariam as they clambered towards the shore. Then there was a small girl and a woman holding a baby who was slapping the woman's cheek absently and seemed unaware of anything going on around it. Following them was a teenage boy, also carrying a baby, and a younger boy behind him, clinging to an exhausted looking woman who was trying to gather her dress in her hands. 

The last group on the boat also seemed to be a family. There was an older couple, two middle-aged men, a woman, and young girl, all huddled near to one another in the cabin. Every one of them had injuries of one kind or another. The older woman couldn't walk, she was leaning on the two younger men, one of whom had a large bandage around his head. The other had no left arm and a cast around his left foot. The woman and the girl didn't have any apparent damage, but neither of them seemed to able to move. When Mariam held out her arm to the woman to help her down, she coughed, and blood peppered Mariam's jacket. 

As the procession of bodies began to make its way up the cliff, Mariam studied the boat they had just left behind, which was now bobbing against the rocks. Before long, another wave would come in and smash it on the shore, but at that moment it might have been any other boat, waiting for a pair of fishermen before the sun came up. Above, the outline of the old stone house was flickering in the dark, which meant that someone had started a fire to keep people warm.  They would have to put the flames out soon, though - the voices and light might bring another boat.

About an hour's drive from the promontory, just on the edge of the water, was a bath house on top of a hot spring. It was closed in the winter, but the anarchists had figured out how to get inside, and sometimes volunteers at the lighthouse went to the spring at the end of an overnight watch. There was a pool around the mouth of the spring, with smooth round stones forming a floor and a ceiling studded with holes to allow steam to escape. There were no windows, so the only light came from the morning sun, which entered through the holes and reflected off the surface of the water.  

Mariam lay in the water, the back of her head resting against the lip of the pool.  It felt as though she had been cold for so long that her body had forgotten what it was like to be warm.  Hekla sat next to her, picking up stones and dropping them back into the water.  

"I know what happened. I mean, I know - I know how it happened. I was watching the boat, and it was moving back and forth, and I had this feeling about it but I wasn't sure. So I called Seawatch again, but they weren't nearby, and then I called the other lookout and they said it looked like the police. And then the boat was right there."

"I thought it was the police too."

"It happened so fast. They must have been right in front of us because it was like, exponential how quickly they started moving. Like faster and faster the closer they got."       

"But they were ok. I mean, we got everyone out."

"It's just so stupid." 

Hekla threw another stone. Depending on how the stones landed in the water, sometimes the reflections of the lights above broke apart, and sometimes they remained intact, pliable white discs hovering on the surface.

"Do you think -" Mariam paused. "Do you think there's a part of you that wants the boats to crash?"

"What?"

"Do you think there's ever a part of you that wants the people to crash, so you can save them?"

Hekla looked at her. "Are you accusing me of something?"

"No, no."

"What are you asking me?"

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Then I don't know what you're saying."

"It's just something I was thinking."

Mariam let herself sink beneath the surface of the water.  Underneath, something made a sound like a hissing rattle, and she imagined it was coming from some huge underwater creature. She wondered if this is what things sounded like deep down, or if sound even traveled that far. 

Finally she lifted up. "I figured the riddle out." 

Hekla was looking down into the water. 

"It's a bit obvious."

"No."

"On the nose, then."

"It's not that, but there's something that bothers me."

No response.

"I don't understand why the woman in the lighthouse would turn out the light. If she didn't want boats to crash, there's no reason why she would turn out the light."

Hekla shrugged. "It's a riddle."

"It just doesn't make sense."

"Well, riddles don't make sense. You have to make sense out of them."

"But the woman is a rational person. She kills herself when she sees what she's done."

"I don't think it's necessarily rational to kill yourself just because you've made a mistake."

"It wasn't a mistake."

"Why do I still feel like I'm being accused of something?"

Mariam tried to look her friend in the eye, but Hekla wouldn't return her gaze. 

"Anyway," Hekla said, "sometimes people just do things."          

"But why would she turn out the light?"

Moses Allan Hubbard is an editor and writer living in Berlin. His work has appeared in print and online at HASH, L'Inquieto, Sleek, FU Review, Lahar, AKA, and others.

Fannie H. Gray

Cut Me To The Quick

We gathered all the prescriptions in the house. Robert bought a lockable file cabinet which we put it in our walk-in closet, storing the drugs there. Even veterinary medicine. Tylenol and Advil as well. No guns in the house to fret over. Robert and I don't drink so we didn't worry about booze. Alcohol, drugs, would we need to lock Emery in her room? Should we buy a baby monitor? These are the questions you ask yourself after your child tries to commit suicide.

Anyway, we locked up all the medication. We were taking Emery to counseling every other day. Well, honestly, we were all in counseling; it wasn't just for her. We were all broken. Even Harvey, the cat, could sense the discord. He had never been a snuggly, but those days, every time someone sat down, Harvey jumped onto their lap. It's true of course; petting a cat greatly reduces anxiety. We watched Emery’s face as Harvey burrowed next to her on the sofa. Each time she stroked his fur, we hoped to see the smile our child used to radiantly bestow so freely. We hoped Harvey’s unconditional love could coax our sweet Em to return to us. Robert and I agreed that if she went back to college, she should get an apartment, one that allowed pets. She couldn't take Harvey though; I needed him. We would get her a cat of her own.

It didn't come to that. Emery wouldn't return to college. We had thought about things like guns and drugs and alcohol. We even took away her hair dryer, afraid she might bathe with it. We just never thought about the knives.

It was terrifying. Walking into the kitchen and finding Emery seated at the table, every knife we owned laid out before her. I dropped my coffee, the mug shattering. I remembered thinking I would never drink coffee again, that the taste, the burnt velvet of it, would never be the same.

What happened next though - how could I have ever been prepared? Months of counseling and pleading. All the conversations with her therapist about finding a purpose, developing an interest. The sleepless nights. The mornings Robert and I would wake only to discover we had shared the same hopeless dreams in which we asked ourselves how our bright, engaged girl had dimmed her own light so low.

Emery picked up the paring knife and my child, my only child, my daughter, my life's work; she looked at me saying, this is the one I will start with. I will peel the apples with this one. I've been watching YouTube videos and you need killer knife skills to embark on a culinary career.

That moment. I relive it all the time. At night when I lie next to Robert in bed. Mornings when I drink my coffee, absentmindedly stroking Harvey’s coat. That autumn, as friends plied their cars with secondhand furniture, suitcases, bundling their children off to campuses. Our first visit to New York, when Em became sous chef at Coteau. With each forkful of silken tagliatelle or rich gribiche she makes for us when she visits. That moment when the glint of a steel knife reflected in my daughter’s eyes, and I recognized the flicker of redemption. 

Fannie H. Gray writes fiction in Northern New Jersey but she draws heavily from her southern upbringing. Pearl S. Buck’s compilation Fairy Tales from The Orient remains a tremendous influence since her early childhood. Her fiction can be found in The Tatterhood Review, Mac(ro)Mic, and The Dillydoun Review among others. Find her work at www.thefhgraymatter.com

Tomas Baiza

Addenda

“Bet you never seen nothing like this before, kid.”

The big guy was right. I’d never seen anything like him before, not on any delivery, day or night. I mean, I’ve seen fat lots of times, the kind of fat that makes you wonder whether one, five, or twenty more pies would even register on a lipids test anymore. But this one—the order ticket says ‘Harold,’ but I’ll call him Thick Slice—he took it to another level. 

It’ s not like I was repulsed. Far from it. More like impressed…by what a person can become, by how far they can journey from where they started. By where they might end up if they just have the plums to let themselves become something new. Except, it seemed like Thick was having problems accepting what he had become. 

What we’re all becoming, in our own ways.

He took a tall, narrow shot glass out of the mini-microwave that sat on top of the hotel room dresser. I’ll never be totally sure what was in the glass. The bittersweet scent and twine-wrapped bottle with kanji script next to the microwave suggested it was sake.  

“You got guts, kid,” Thick Slice said. “Most delivery boys would have tucked tail and run by now.” The flesh under his arms rippled as he slammed the microwave door shut and ambled bow-legged to an open space in the room. The fact he was naked somehow made him look even bigger, like the already spacious suite wasn’t enough to contain him. 

It was one of the nicer rooms in the hotel, the expensive kind where you can actually open the window.

The expanse of flesh between his shoulder blades, discolored and different from the rest of him, shivered beneath the fat layer, the subdermal lump undulating between two thick patches of back hair. The growth was agitated, like it was anxious for what was about to happen.

“I heard one of those egghead scientists on t.v. call all of this a ‘mass dysphoric event,’” Thick said as he regarded the steaming shot glass. “Whatever it is, I plan on actually doing something about it. Tonight.”

I realized I was still holding the pizza box. I set it down on the bed and tried to make it look like I wasn’t scared.

*

A convulsion—it would be a criminal understatement to call it a cramp—sent me falling into the restroom wall. My head banged off the stall divider and water splashed over the edge of the mop bucket creating a gray puddle at my feet. So much for wiping down the shop shitter before my next delivery.

“Fuuuuck, why now?” I clenched my teeth, tried to swallow my own tongue, clutched at the stall divider and strained to hold myself upright. Anything to ride this one out, to keep the change from happening. 

I retreated into myself and reflected on the word infection, one of the useless terms they use to try and explain all of this. I’m not convinced. If it was an infection, like an actual contagion, wouldn’t we all be suffering from similar symptoms? We had all heard of people fleeing the cities, hiding out in Tahoe or Death Valley or, God help them, Bakersfield. Others were bathing in isopropyl alcohol or buying every crack-pot ‘cure’ they could find on Amazon. But nothing has helped. Everyone has something now—and everyone’s something is different.

To my left was the ‘mirror,’ really just a plate of polished aluminum to combat the taggers. They still scratch their signs into the soft metal, crossing out others’ signs, dissing the marks left before theirs. I’ve cleaned this restroom a hundred times and watched the signs accumulate for a couple years and I’m amazed the pandilleros haven’t figured out that crossing out the last gang’s symbols only leads to yours being vandalized. In that erasure, the self-hatred escalates. Just once I’d love to see one tag etched into the aluminum next to a rival’s with a big fucking heart. Why shouldn’t kindness be part of the so-called contagion? 

Right then, all I wanted was for my body to not fold itself inside out. Despite every instinct, I glanced at the mirror and then puked into the mop bucket. Dominate this, Aurelio. You saw what happened to Thick Slice. He couldn’t accept it and punked out. However you choose to deal with this, you don’t have to do what he did.  

The skin under my shirt bulged in a dozen places, my pants pulled tight against my waist and the reflection in the mirror became blurry. 

Beat. It. Down. 

In my straining palms the metal stall divider started to bend, the creaking steel complaining as it flexed. What I was becoming began to gain focus when a sudden pounding shook the restroom door.

“Aurelio! You okay in there?” It was Brenda, the other delivery driver on shift that night. She’s hot, but super not into me. Who could possibly want what I’m becoming right now? “Juan says our deliveries are almost done. Come sit with me at the bar. I need you to do me a favor,” she shouted through the door.

“I’ll be right out!” Even to my own ears my voice sounded alien, like one of those Tibetan monks who can sing in two octaves at once. 

Hold it together, boy. Fight this. Hang onto who you are.

*

I’m glad that I brought extra slices when I see Yonas and Amadi on duty tonight. I flash them my biggest smile when I pull up to the valet station. Even without the bribe, they’d probably let me park my shit truck there for a few minutes while I make my deliveries, but it feels good to slip them some slices of pepperoni in trade.

“Aurelio! Good to see you, my friend! ¿Có-mo es-tá?” Yonas says, taking the wrapped slices from me with a polite nod. I’m grateful that he’s in a decent mood. He and Amadi have been a little off since Thick Slice did what he did. Yonas’s voice, already deep, has taken on a stereo quality in the past couple of weeks, one channel thick and rich, the other slightly whispery and tentative. The easy warmth of his smile—smiles—almost makes you forget everything that’s been happening. The second smile, nearer to his ear, is still forming. I marvel at his nonchalance and try not to stare. It looks like it will be as cheerful and optimistic as the original. 

If anyone in this world can wear their addendum well, it’s Yonas.

I wag my finger at him. “Cómo estás, bro. We’re friends, so you can use the informal.”

“Okay, okay, Aurelio,” Yonas grins again and feigns slapping his head. “Now it is your turn. Come on, now.”

“I-ni-de-ti ne-hi?” I say haltingly. It’s the only thing Yonas has taught me in Amharic that has stuck.

Amadi rolls his eyes like I’ve just said something insulting. I look him up and down. No addenda on him, at least as far as I can tell.

“Not bad, Aurelio,” Yonas says with a warning glance at Amadi, his four lips tightening into a subtle rebuke. 

“I’m struggling with the accent,” I say as I hand the single-slice boxes to Amadi. “Not sure why it’s so hard for me.”

Amadi passes a slice to Yonas who holds it under his nose. An embryonic tongue flicks inside his second mouth. “S’okay,” Yonas says. “The key is surrender.”

I tilt my head. Huh?

“If you keep believing that it’s coming from outside of you, it will stay outside of you.”

“What are you, like, some Ethiopian philosopher?” I laugh.

“It’s not philosophy, Aurelio. It’s common sense,” Yonas smiles. He takes a bite of pizza and both mouths chew, the empty second mouth apparently just as happy as the first. “Once you embrace it,” he says softly, his first tongue rolling around the masticated dough and cheese, “then it will come from the inside. Then it will truly be a part of you.”

Amadi shakes his head at Yonas and stares at the laptop they keep behind the valet station. He jabs the volume key and a smooth female voice calmly announces a massive uptick in reports of addenda.

I wonder how many more times I’ll have to hear the fucking word uptick. What’s wrong with increase, rise, growth, proliferation? All perfectly good words curb-stomped into obsolescence in favor of fucking uptick. 

Amadi’s eyes stare blankly at a spot on the pavement in front of him as the voice goes on to report that the markets are mostly stable and, the inconvenience of the pandemic notwithstanding, surprisingly few occurrences have proved directly fatal, though there has been a notable increase in suicides over the past month, and the President’s recommendation that people drink bleach didn’t help. The World Health Organization and CDC, the broadcaster says, have made progress in their research and hope to issue a joint statement soon. In the meantime, they say, don’t drink bleach.

“Soon,” Amadi says in English, slamming the laptop shut. He unleashes a string of angry words in Amharic and runs a hand across his cheek. That’s when I see it—the pale pink toe jutting from his dark palm. He winces at me and shoves his hand in his pocket. Yonas pats Amadi gently on the shoulder and stares out towards the quiet street, normally busy with Saturday night traffic. The tiniest shards of the broken glass that he and Amadi weren’t able to sweep up from the sidewalk wink at us from the sidewalk. There’s still a big, rust-colored stain on the concrete. 

“Go ahead, Aurelio,” Yonas says. Both of his voices sound tired. “It’s slow tonight. We will watch your truck.”

*

I’ve never delivered to the Presidential Suite before. Hell, I didn’t even know the Fairmont had a Presidential Suite.

Two floors higher than I’ve ever been in the Fairmont, from my last delivery to Thick Slice. It feels weird when the elevator silently glides past 14, and then 15 and 16 just blink like nothing unusual ever happened on 14. I wonder if they’ve bothered to fix the window and repaint the ceiling. But, what’s the rush? I can’t imagine they have too many guests these days.

Elevator doors open onto an empty hallway, the air so still it feels frozen, like it’s holding its breath. My footsteps murmur on the firm carpeting toward the double doors at the end of the hall. I’m about to knock, but then notice the intercom button below the small video screen. I push the button and wait until a woman’s face appears, the image grainy and stuttering.

“Hi, uh…” I falter. I’ve never been on video during a delivery before. “Um…I got your pizza,” I say and stand back from the door to be seen clearly. The universal I’m-not-a-scary-creep delivery move.

The face in the screen nods, a slight twist of her mouth suggests a smile. “The All-Meat Melange, right? Extra everything?” There’s something in her eyes that I can’t quite nail down through the screen.

“Yup, so extra it’s actually heavy,” I say, hefting the red delivery bag up to the camera.

Her inscrutable expression morphs into something I’m surprised can be conveyed through a grainy monitor: a deep, gnawing desire. The face slips off-screen just before a loud buzz unlocks the door.

*

“Who’da thought that deliveries would actually pick up with all this crap going on?” Brenda said, shaking her head. “And the tips, Aurelio! Can you believe it?”

We were seated at the bar, waiting for our next deliveries to come out of the oven. The shop was deserted, but Juan and the other cooks were swamped with app and phone orders. I was tempted to say there must be a direct correlation between the slow end of humanity as we know it and generosity, but could only manage, “I guess people feel safer at home.” I knew that’s bullshit. No one’s immune to what’s been happening. No one’s safe. Anywhere.

Brenda shrugged and watched as Juan slipped his aluminum peel under a pizza and slid it from the oven. “Better for us, then,” she said. “Hey Juan, make sure the slices are even this time. My customers value symmetry, especially these days.”

“Oye güey, que no rebanes la mía,” I warned Juan. “The customer dijo que la quiere whole, ¿entendido?” Don’t slice mine, dude. The customer said she wants it whole, got it? 

I couldn’t tell if Juan’s frown was because I was copping an attitude or because he hates my Spanglish, the kind you were never taught but had to learn from listening to your mother and grandmother and aunts argue over the phone and never felt like something you could truly own, like some part of you was always fake. 

“No te creas muy muy, pendejo,” he moaned. The slicer flashed across Brenda’s pizza, dividing it into perfectly uniform slices. With a quick glance at Brenda, he added under his breath, “Y díle a esa que ya no me hable o voy a cagarme en los chonis, te lo juro.” Don’t think you’re all that, asshole. And tell that one not to talk to me anymore or I swear I’m gonna shit my shorts.

“What’d he say?” Brenda asked.

“He says don’t worry about it. The pizza will be perfect.” 

Brenda squinted across the bar at Juan. “Liar. You can barely look at me since I showed it to you.”

“Why did you even do that?” I said. “You know Juan’s skittish.” 

I watched Juan work and marveled that he’s been able to hold it together this long. Undocumented, living on hijacked electricity, and wiring half his minimum-wage earnings back to Michoacán… I wasn’t sure what his particular affliction was, but I had to think that the line between order and chaos in his life was whisper-thin. Maybe the best way for him to hold it together was to just keep looking straight ahead. Survive the day. Wake up. Do it again. After all the shit he has to deal with, I’m pretty sure Juan had no extra room in his world to ponder the challenges of la disforia. 

Brenda’s barstool squeaked angrily when she spun to face me. “I showed it to him because I’m getting tired of hiding it. My girlfriend’s never home anymore, and I get all dizzy when I try to look at it myself. It’s like holding up a mirror to a mirror to a mirror. It never stops and I feel like I’m falling.”

We sat in silence while Juan boxed the massive extra-every-meat that took a half-hour to cook. 

“What’s up with your girlfriend that she’s gone AWOL?” I said. 

“Rub-off parties,” she said under her breath.

“Fuuuuck, serious? She believes in that stuff?” 

I’d heard about those gatherings, even gotten a few invitations. The idea of drinking, smoking, or huffing myself into a frenzy, stripping naked, and writhing all over a bunch of strangers, our limbs and orifices and protuberances—old and new—pressing onto and into one another…hard pass on that. It’s not like I’m squeamish, either. Whatever consenting freaks consent to is good with me, but there’s nothing about any of this that made me think we could pass our addenda back and forth by rubbing up on one another. If we’re racing toward the end, I’d rather not waste the little time I have left with body-hating doomsday orgiasts.

Juan flips the pizza box closed and sticks the delivery ticket to the top. A fifty-dollar pizza for some baller named Natalia staying at the Fairmont. Sixteenth floor, no less. I get up to leave.

“Wait,” Brenda says. “Would you look at it? Tell me what it’s like.”

I rub my right thigh gently. Somehow it comforts me. “Ah, girl…” I point my chin at the delivery bag. “I need to head out. Can you imagine the tip on that monster?”

“It’ll just take a second, Aurelio.” Brenda’s expression is pained, desperate. “Please.”

Juan’s eyes are as wide as saucers, silently pleading with me to say no. 

“Alright,” I say.

Brenda spins on her barstool and reaches up to part the hair on the back of her head. Through the strands I catch glimpses of it, opening. It focuses on me and I hear Brenda’s breath catch.

“Yup,” I say, trying to sound calm. My stomach lurches and the first hint of bile burns the back of my throat. “It’s an eye.”

“¡Pinche güey!” Juan yelps and pushes the massive pizza across the bar at me.

The eye peeking out through Brenda’s hair is now fully formed, no longer the angry boil and then the fish-egg-looking growth and then the doll eye she’s shown me over the past month. I force myself to lean in closer, raw fascination just barely edging out the urge to scream. It follows me. Without a full face, framed by Brenda’s cable-straight brown hair, I can’t tell if it stares back with kindness or malice. 

“Oooh,” Brenda says dreamily. “This is weird and…kind of amazing! Tell me, Aurelio.”

“Tell you what?” I whisper, transfixed.

“Anything. What do you see?”

“Well,” I swallow all the spit in my mouth, not quite believing what I’m about to say. “Pretty sure it’s not human.”

Across the bar, Juan’s face goes slack as he slumps to the kitchen floor.

*

Thick Slice positioned himself facing me, tree-stump legs spread wide like he was about to mount the world’s smallest pony. “So what’s yours, kid?” he asked.

“My what?”

He responded with a full-faced sneer, complete with curled lips and wrinkled nose. “Don’t even,” he said, placing the steaming shot glass on the carpet directly under his naked bulk. I couldn’t help but wonder whether his junk really was that small or if nothing could look big compared to the rest of him. “Your thing, gift, burden. Your ‘additive’ or whatever the science fucks and snowflake news douches are calling them today.” 

I involuntarily reached for my upper thigh, like I was protecting it from something. 

“Ah, so whatever it is, it’s there, huh?” Thick said mockingly. He flexed his round knees, slowly lowering himself toward the shot glass. On his way down he squinted at me.

“What?” I said.

“So, you Mexican or something?” he grunted, his taint hovering inches above the lip of the glass.

“The fuck that have to do with anything?” I was this close to stomping across the room and burying my fist in his blotchy moon face.

Thick just laughed and plopped himself fully onto the floor. The shot glass disappeared beneath a wad of hair and flesh. “Relax,” he said dreamily, watery eyes rolled back into his head. “Just thought maybe you hit the jackpot in this fucked up lottery and got a piece of Black guy.”

I took a step toward him and then forced myself to stop. “Okay,” I said. “I’ve seen enough, man. I’m out.” I turned and started for the door.

“Wait, don’t. I’m sorry.” Thick’s voice was dead serious. “I really want someone to see this. I need you to see me.”

I stopped halfway to the door. I need you to see me. The words entered me like a blade. Anymore, if you weren’t doing everything possible to hide what was happening to you, then you were turning yourself inside-out to show it, aggressively expose it to anyone and everyone who could be bothered to pay attention, even for just those few seconds that it took for the attention to make you feel more human. There wasn’t much about Thick to suggest that he had any redeeming qualities, but I need you to see me cut deep.

“Okay,” I said, cursing myself, “but any more racist shit like that and I will take you out.”

“Don’t worry, kid.” Thick Slice’s eyes regained some focus. “What happens here tonight, I’ll deserve it.”

*

The buzz and click make me jump just before the door opens.

Peeking from around the big door is a short, mop-haired woman. From behind rectangular, utilitarian glasses, her eyes lock onto the pizza box I’m holding. “God, that smells good,” she says. “Come in, please.” 

The woman—the order ticket says ‘Natalia’—steps back and I hesitate. Usually the customer just chucks money at me, snags the box from my hands, and lets the door close. After Thick Slice, I’d be happy to never see another room in the Fairmont, even if it is the Presidential Suite. 

“I have the money. I promise. I just…” Worried eyes dart from the pizza box to me and back to the box. 

“I’m sorry. I can’t give you the pizza until I’ve been paid. Regulations.” 

Natalia rolls her eyes. 

Regulations? Jesus, Aurelio, if you’re going to lie, at least make it good. Okay, truth, then. “Actually, the last time I went into one of these rooms, a few days ago, something really bad happened. A guy—”

Natalia’s eyes go wide with recognition. “The man who…” she starts to say and then catches herself. “They said he had ordered food. You’re the one who was with him. You saw what was happening to him.”

The heat from the pizza is starting to make my hip sweat. “Yeah, that was me. Can we just do this?” I fight the urge to run away. I want to tell her that I have other deliveries, but really it’s the look in her eyes that’s starting to freak me out. It’s not that different from Thick’s, except maybe she’s a little—or a lot—smarter.

Natalia looks me up and down, her expression a mix of wonder and need. “I need you to come in. Please. I can tell you why all this is happening.”

“No thanks,” I say, stepping back. “The last guy seemed pretty eager for me to see his freak show. I’d like to not repeat that.”

Natalia adjusts her nerd glasses and bunches her lips. “Look, I need two things right now: that pizza,” she says, jabbing her finger at the delivery bag, “and to tell someone what this is all about.” Before I can take another step backward, she grabs my wrist and holds me in place. With her other hand, she pulls her shirt up to just beneath her bra. Stretching across her pale stomach is a gaping mouth filled with rows of serrated teeth. Behind the teeth, a bright pink maw that disappears into the depths of her torso. Her fist tightens and I can feel my pulse throb in her hand. “One way or the other, delivery boy, this thing is going to eat, and I’m going to tell the truth to at least one person.”

*

Thick Slice rolled his hips back and forth, his bulk settling onto the carpeted floor. “Tell you what, kid,” he grunted. “Whatever this is, whatever they are. It ain’t right. None of it.” 

“How is that even in doubt?” I said, glancing at the flatscreen across from the bed. “How could any of this be right?” I let myself put both hands on my thigh. No use in hiding it. Thick knows I’ve got one.

“Oh, no doubt. Nothing natural about it, s’far as I’m concerned. But it’s how they’re trying to spin it, right? ‘Embrace it,’ the libtards say. ‘Go with the flow. Open yourself to the new opportunities. A new way of being.’ Well, fuck all those fucks!” he shouted and, with an agility that belied his size, rolled himself backward onto his shoulders, his nether regions now pointed directly at the ceiling. 

The upside-down shot glass was embedded deep into his ass. “Oh, holy-shit-Jesus,” I blurted out before clapping my hands over my mouth. I stood motionless as Thick Slice’s anus, clamped tightly around the glass, convulsed several times. With each pulse, the line of clear liquid in the glass fell slightly until it was gone, completely emptied into his rectum and sliding toward his colon. Next stop, large intestine. 

My stomach lurched and I looked away. On the television were images of a building engulfed in smoke. The caption at the bottom read “Emergency personnel respond to explosions at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory. Authorities investigate possible links to recent disturbances.” An almost orgasmic sound broke my concentration.

“Yesssss, that’s the stuff,” Thick moaned, his voice strained by his awkward posture and, I had to think, the hot sake he’d just poured down his ass. “Come on, you sonofabitch.” From deep inside him, a wet, fluttering gurgle, like the fake underwater sounds they add to documentaries on sea life or coral reefs or shipwrecks. His rectum, puckered around the shot glass, heaved. With a violent exhalation, the glass rocketed straight into the ceiling and shattered. I managed to spin away just as shards flicked across my face. 

“Ahhhhhhhh!” 

I jumped at the voice, knowing somehow that it wasn’t Thick’s. 

His massive back heaved and he rolled back to upright, facing me with his legs splayed. “Why did this happen, kid? I knew who I was before. Now…” Thick’s eyes locked onto mine. “Now, I’m something I never wanted to be. I never asked to be anything different than what I was,” he said, his voice unhinged and distant. His body shook and, from between his legs, something appeared, at first just a crown of wet hair, but then a forehead, a broad, flat nose, part of an ear… 

My back slammed against the door. I fumbled for the handle, unable to look away from the horror emerging from Thick.

“Sorry I didn’t get to the pizza, kid. It smells good. Wallet’s next to the bed,” he said, his voice straining from the bowling ball-sized mass emerging from his backside. “Help yerself to one hell of a world-ending tip.” Legs spread wide, Thick turned awkwardly and opened the window. Distant traffic sounds came to me through wispy, cream-colored curtains that seemed to float in the breeze. 

Thick pulled himself onto the air conditioning unit beneath the window. It creaked beneath his weight. Teetering on bare feet, he looked at me over his hulking, hairy shoulder. I forced myself to not focus on the monstrosity erupting from his ass cheeks. “Tell the so-called thinkers,” he said, his expression a mask of anguish, “that we don’t have to put up with this shit.” He groaned one last time and turned away. “We can choose to not play along, kid.” 

And with a flourish of his meaty hand, Thick hauled himself upright and leaned his bulk into the billowing curtains. As he pitched slowly out the window, the face emerging from his backside cast one final look at me. 

I so wish it had been smiling.

*

It would have been easier to handle, somehow, if there had been two of them, but there was just one. A single eye staring into my soul.

“Duuuude,” Brenda gasped, an uncharacteristic reverence in her tone, “you look so different. Tell me more.”

My thigh twinged and, for a moment, I was afraid that I would start to change again, my addendum somehow triggered by this inhuman eye looking back at me. I held my breath as the sensation in my leg subsided.

“Tell me, Aurelio.”

I leaned in closer. There was no white around the edges, just a large, bold iris that began as a ring of black, faded into deep orange, then amber, and ended in a sparkling cyan—the kind of blue-green that makes you think that only a higher power could have come up with all the colors of the universe. In the middle the eye was the iris, pitch black and narrowed to a pinpoint against the kitchen’s harsh fluorescents.

“Big cat,” I said, transfixed. “A lion—or maybe a tiger.”

Brenda let out a long sigh and nodded. “That makes sense. I know you, but seeing you this way, it’s like you’re…something new. Something totally different from me.”

Juan’s wobbly head appeared above the bar. Slowly, he rose to his feet and steadied himself against the prep table, the whole time making sure to look away from Brenda.

“What do you mean different?” I said to her. “Of course we’re different people.”  

The eye opened wider, its black pupil expanding to engulf nearly all of the stunningly orange iris. I covered it with Brenda’s hair and patted her on the shoulder to signal that we were done. 

“No, dumbass.” Brenda spun on her barstool. “I mean, through my new eye, you look like something not me.”

“You mean, like, not human?”

She scowled at the floor. “No. Through my new eye, you’re human and…I’m not.”

“Are you telling me that you see me the way a lion or a tiger or whatever-the-fuck-it-is would see me?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “It’s like, when it happens, I’m not entirely me anymore. I’m we. Does that make sense, Aurelio?” Her barstool creaked as looked at me with pleading eyes—her eyes. “Please tell me you get it.”

I instinctively rubbed my thigh and nodded. “I get it.”

Brenda sighed and nodded back, relieved. “Your turn, Aurelio.”

“Ay, ssssshingao,” Juan moaned before running for the stockroom.

“My turn for what?”

“To show me,” she said. “I showed you mine. I let you see what’s new about me. Now you show me yours.”

“First off,” I said, “you all but begged me to look. Second, my…thing isn’t like yours. It’s not as easy to see.”

Brenda placed her hand on my arm. It was the first time she had ever touched me. I wished it was for another reason. “I’ve seen you touching your leg,” she said. “If you’re shy about it, you can show me in the restroom.”

“It’s not that. It’s…” I stared at the delivery bag holding the monster pizza. “Mine isn’t like yours—or most people’s, I think. It’s hard to understand.”

“That’s why you need to show me,” she said. “So that you can be comfortable with it.”

“Comfortable?” I stood up from the barstool and shouldered the delivery bag. “You have no idea what mine’s like,” I said as I turned to leave.

“That's why you have to show me, Aurelio!” Brenda’s voice had a wild, desperate edge to it. “We need to let each other in. None of us should be alone in this!”

I hung my head, afraid to face her. “I have to get to the Fairmont,” I said. “Maybe when I get back, okay?”

*

Natalia’s fingers are still wrapped around my wrist when I step into the room and set the delivery bag on the wide desk next to the bed. 

If Thick Slice’s room was fancy enough to have one real opening window, the Presidential Suite’s got an entire wall of glass with a sliding door, full balcony, and a panoramic view of the city’s skyline. Natalia releases me and slides the pizza from the bag. 

“Holy hell, this smells divine,” she says, running her hand over the box. From beneath her shirt, a breathy, gasping sound grows louder. “You put every meat you have on it, right?”

“Yes,” I tell her and look around the room. On the bed is a large canvas duffle bag, its contents spilled onto the comforter. Sticking out of the pile of clothes is a lanyard with a laminated identification card. Natalia kneels next to the desk and rests her forehead lightly on the pizza box, as if she’s praying. Her back arches as she takes a deep breath. “God,” she whispers.

I step carefully to the bed and inspect the ID card.

NATALIA ROMERO, PhD, LAWRENCE LIVERMORE NATIONAL LABORATORY

Natalia inhales again and I turn the card over.

Project Trypanophobe

Clearance: TS/SCI

“It means Top Secret—Sensitive Compartmented Information,” Natalia says. “That’s what TS/SCI stands for.”

I drop the card onto the bed and jump away from the voice. Still kneeling before the pizza box, Natalia regards me through long, glistening stalks that bristle from her neck and head, each one culminating in a grotesquely large snail eye. “It’s the highest government security clearance,” she says. Her eyestalks sway like sea kelp.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Of course you did.” Natalia opens her eyes—her regular eyes—and turns her face toward me. A chill runs up my spine as the eye-stalks rotate in unison, each one holding me in its cold, inhuman gaze. Suddenly, I realize that my right thigh is shaking, expanding inside my pant leg. I instinctively place my hand over the tightening denim.

“The phenomena can be sensitive to the appearance of others, almost as if they’re communicating with one another.” Natalia gets to her feet and, still facing me, opens the pizza box with one hand and lifts her shirt with the other. Her eyestalks bend downward to guide her actions as she tears off a large, sagging piece and brings it slowly to the gaping jaws in her torso. The rows of teeth open and she feeds the piece into the maw. “We figured out that some people become something far more than they were once their addenda manifest.”

I wait a moment to catch my breath before answering. “Who’s this we you’re talking about?”

*

Yonas and Amadi were standing at their valet station when I emerged from the Fairmont lobby. Amadi leaned against a fake Corinthian column, his eyes blank, while Yonas frowned at the destroyed Ferrari. The tip of Yonas’s cigarette glowed red before he blew a cloud of smoke into the night air. Flashing police and ambulance lights gave the scene a carnival-like quality. A bored-looking cop began to string yellow tape around the red supercar.

Thick Slice had struck the vehicle square in the middle, caving in the top. His bare, tree-stump legs bent unnaturally over what was left of the rear-mounted engine. The rest of his naked bulk was obscured by glass, steel, and tan suede interior flecked with blood.

“You guys okay?” I asked.

Yonas nodded and took another drag on his cigarette. “Amadi had just moved it before that goddamn flesh bomb fell out of the sky,” he said. Smoke curled from the second mouth under his left ear.

“Serves him right,” Amadi said. “Refused to tip us, called us camel jockeys, and then he swan dives onto his own car.” Amadi spat onto the concrete and held up his hand. “Yihi be’inya layi līderisi newini?” he said, staring at the large pink toe that jutted from his palm. He lifted his eyes to Yonas. “Is it?”

Yonas shook his head and placed a hand on Amadi’s shoulder. “No, that will not happen to us, gwadenyayē, because we are going to accept what we become and let ourselves be new.”

When the cop turned away, I ducked under the yellow tape and peered into the wrecked Ferrari. My thigh began to ache as my eyes followed Thick Slice’s leg to his groin, where, to my shock, the head was still visible, its face pushing out from Thick’s flattened asscheeks. It looked up at me, its expression…sad. Faraway eyes blinked and, I swear, looked resigned, like it knew that it had only moments left. Thick was dead, but it wasn’t. 

I swayed on my feet, vision blurred but my mind racing. Was Thick dead? The tortured eyes of his addendum gazed into the night sky and blinked slowly. 

I’m still here, I could almost feel it thinking. 

*

I try not to feel sorry for myself, to act like I’ve got it worse than anyone else. The head that emerged from Thick reminds me that it could always be worse. But, I’m realizing that worse is relative. I mean, what must it have been like for the head? It’s one thing to have a cranium birthed out of your ass, but it’s quite another to be that head, that person. It looked at me and understood, I’m certain, what Thick had done, how badly Thick hated it.

It didn’t choose for any of that to happen. None of us has.

The inner seam of my jeans rips open, halfway between my knee and my crotch. The pain that had been building releases, like a dam bursting. I think about what Yonas told Amadi, about accepting what we become. Easy for him to say, the guy with just one new mouth to worry about. The thing that’s taken up residence in my leg, though…that’s enough of a gut check to make my knees wobbly, something that might have even made Thick stand up and applaud. “Well played, kid,” I could hear him saying. “You win.” 

What, exactly, have I won? What am I becoming? Can I accept this new me? 

All of this races through my head before Natalia can answer my question. 

“Well?” I say to Natalia. “Who’s we?” I realize that at some point she removed her shirt to expose her shark’s mouth beneath a plain black running bra.

With both hands, Natalia tilts the box to let the remaining half of the pizza slide into the open jaws that make up the majority of her torso. All of her eyes roll back in ecstasy as the white teeth turn the meat-heavy pizza into a ruddy mush, her body convulsing with the violence of the feeding.

“My colleagues and I,” she says, her voice husky with satisfaction, “the ones who started all this.”

I point at the identification card on the bed. “You did this? At that lab?” I stare at her in disbelief. “I thought that place was just nuclear bombs and cruise missiles and that kind of shit.”

Natalia slumps onto her butt beside the desk. “That’s what it was known for, but we did other things, too.” She unconsciously runs her fingers around the edges of the huge mouth, occasionally caressing the edge of a serrated tooth. Her eyestalks have partially receded and there’s a dull relief in the half-retracted organs that I almost envy. “Medical research,” she says distantly. “Experiments that you wouldn’t believe.” 

The last thread holding together my right pant leg gives way and it—I…we—spill out.

“Or maybe you would believe it,” Natalia says, staring at my lower body in growing awe.

“How?” I say. My leg is no longer my leg, or even a leg at all. It’s never gone this far before. What happens if I don’t change back? What would I be then?

“Do you know what neutrinos are?” she says.

I’m looking down at my expanding flesh when, for the first time ever, I feel it, that whispering tingle, in my other leg. “Something about atoms,” I say. My voice is shaky.

“Subatomic matter, so small and inconsequential that they can pass through anything, even the Earth, like travelers that leave no trace.” She sighs, the wonder in her voice almost religious in its earnestness. “They’re as close to nothing as you can get and still call it something.”

“Whatever the fuck you guys did, this doesn’t feel like nothing!” My muscles and skin swell against the denim, so tight that my heartbeat thumps in my neck. “Why did you do this to us?”

Natalia tosses her head back to laugh. I can’t help but stare when her shark’s mouth joins in, its jaws chattering in lethal amusement. “Ask me what we were trying to do for us!” she says. “When we figured out that we could use superstructures of neutrinos to transport genetic material, with no surgical intervention, our heads almost exploded. We considered the possibilities for limb regrowth with amputees, then organ replacement, prenatal therapy, neural regeneration, embryo implantation—even mass vaccinations. The possibilities were endless.”

“This all started as a fucking medical experiment?” I say and then gasp when my other pant leg separates in a loud rip.

“You make it sound so trite.” Natalia draws up her short legs. Her eyestalks extend to their full length and gaze at me, fully alert, as she gets up off the floor. “It would have changed everything,” she says, approaching me. “Can you wrap your brain around that, delivery boy? We could hardly believe it when we successfully grafted plant material. Imagine: A black oak with a sequoia branch growing out of its side, exactly where we had intended. Once you got over the dissonance of two species coexisting as the same organism, it was quite beautiful.” She says this as her eyes pass over my legs, both now changing beyond anything I would have thought possible.

“So that was the point?” I say. “To put everything in the genetic blender and see what kind of freaks came out?”

“No!” For the first time, Natalia looks ashamed. “It was an accident. We figured out how to block neutrino travel and limit them to the intended target, but—”

“But you fucked up.”

“A graduate fellow got sloppy when setting up the shielding we had devised.” She runs a hand over her face. “It was critical in ensuring that the packages arrived at—and stayed—exactly where they were intended. The moron ran twelve hours of tests flinging subatomic delivery vehicles all over Creation. What we never expected was that these rogue neutrinos could pick up genetic material along the way.”

I push through a wave of dizziness and try to focus on Natalia who’s standing in front of me now. “So what you're saying…is that you guys basically shot off a double-barreled genetic shotgun that sprayed DNA from people and tigers and sharks and molluscs and who-the-fuck-knows-what-else all over the world.”

Natalia opens her mouth to answer and shuts it just as fast. She nods at me with a wry smile. “Yeah, a little simplistic, but that’s pretty much exactly what we did.” She kneels to run her hand over the mass of appendages and new forms of life spreading out from me, rooting themselves into the floor. 

My eyes roll back and, for just an instant, I get a hint of the pulsing life around me—not just Natalia, but the people in the adjacent hotel rooms, and on other floors, and even beyond the building. My senses touch Yonas and Amadi. Yonas, tolerant, philosophical, long-suffering, and Amadi, whose impatience and resentment threaten to consume him. Through my new body, their essences flow. I am flooded with an awareness of all the new lives, roiled by fear, confusion, and, yes, hope. 

Something touches my cheek. Natalia’s hand.

“We wondered,” she says, “before all hell broke loose and we abandoned the lab, how much a single person could absorb, what the human limits might be.” Through her hand, I can see into her, understand her from the inside out. “I hypothesized that some people might end up being super-collectors, repositories for the randomized deliveries of material.” She steps closer to me. “I ended up supporting my own hypothesis, but you’re on another level,” she says, her eyestalks extending to their full height. “Thank you for proving me right.”

“You’re welcome,” I say. My voice is deeper than I remember, something that comes from farther down than I could have ever imagined. “I used to hate what was happening to me, Natalia. Now…now I’m beginning to think that I’ve never been more whole.” 

I feel myself filling the room, expanding, spreading. What I used to be feels increasingly incomplete. Lacking. Natalia’s teeth, serrated and pure, brush my flesh gently and then enter me. I wonder what I might taste like and then realize that it doesn’t matter because, through her, I already know. 

All too soon, I’ll taste like everything.

Tomas Baiza is originally from San José, California, and now lives in Boise, Idaho. He is a Pushcart-nominated author whose short fiction and poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Parhelion, Obelus, In Parentheses, Meniscus, [PANK] Magazine, 101 Proof Horror, The Meadow, Peatsmoke, The Good Life Review, Kelp, Black Lawrence Press, Bacopa Literary Review, and elsewhere.

Tomas's first novel, Deliver Me: A Pocho's Accidental Guide to College, Love, and Pizza Delivery, and his short-fiction collection, A Purpose To Our Savagery will appear on Running Wild Press in 2022. 

Anne-Marie Oomen

Directions: A Found Essay

Look, this is not something I want to write about.  Not something pleasant or easy or creative, but rather, something that matters only in the sense that someone I love must have this.  So right there during my 95-year-old mother’s care review meeting, at the table with the nurses gathered around, I look it up.  Google these strange words.  Suprapubic catheter.  A suprapubic catheter is a hollow flexible tube that is used to drain urine from the bladder. It is inserted into the bladder through a cut in the tummy, a few inches below the navel (tummy button). This is done under a local anesthetic or a light general anesthetic. See?  I already don’t like it.  The nurses, their hands drawing the act of the catheterization above the conference table surface, have explained that my mother needs this because her urinary tract is blocked so often that to catheterize her by hand is now very painful, and likely to tear her old tissue, the tissue of her own natural tube that she has used to pee for over ninety years.  She hollers, she moans, and a suprapubic would ease her discomfort.  I’m thinking about the process, and in the way of a distracted mind, I remember one of my student’s school essays. Speaking of Whitman, the student wrote that he retreated from the “pubic” areas in his later years.  The student meant “public” but in this new context, I wonder if the suprapubic will become the super public, something she would hate if she understood at all.  But the nurses are citing her discomfort. The nurses say sometimes she cannot pee at all, but then all at once, she soaks everything.  Their hands open, palms up, hovering above the table. The nurses look sad. They look frustrated.  This is hard but necessary: how this is done.  At the end, she screamed when they catheterized her—I saw it only the once, and that’s when we knew something had to be done.

Anyone who cannot empty their bladder may need a catheter. A suprapubic catheter may be chosen because it is more comfortable and less likely to give you an infection than indwelling urethral catheters.  The nurses agree.  This procedure allows the bladder to drain in a constant flow. My mind veers from this topic, unwilling, and will not stay focused: I think of rivers clogged with debris, of culverts catching broken branches of maples after wind. I think of squeezing caulk into small openings to stop the flow of air, and how in repeated cold, it comes loose, breaks away, and the wind flows through anyway. The windows of the farmhouse where I grew up were like this. The windows of her mind are like this now. 

Suprapubic catheters are sometimes used for the following reasons:  Urethral trauma (damage that has been caused to the urethra – the bodily tube where urine comes out). She had five children in six and a half years and she helped run a busy and often precarious, barely surviving farm, so her body had paid a price, but in those fields where we five worked by her side picking, hoeing, loading pickups laden with dust and the residue of pesticides, she was also known for holding her bladder through long hours. She hated having to go to the ditch, behind a tree, dropping her jeans, the squat and balance, hated having to go at all.  It took time, slowed everything down. She retained and retained and retained.  What else?  She leaked and leaked.  I tell myself.  Stay with this.  Pay attention.  This is how to stop the leaking. 

Also after some gynecological operations e.g. surgery for prolapsed uterus or bladder, or surgery for stress incontinence.  Once or twice, after the cancer, after the brain tumor, I had to catheterize her myself because she could not release urine at all. The muscles would not let go.  Retention to spasm to paralysis.  Whatever releases the stream had failed and clutched.  Or was blocked.  She held it until the nurses were alarmed. Back then, they showed me how.  A simple catheterization.  I tried to make it easy, tried to make her laugh “Oh gosh, Mom, I get to see where I came from.”  The urethra and  vaginal opening—so close together.  I meant it, I get to see it—a privilege. Me, the first of five to move through her body, in my case, a forceps baby also battered her sacred places, that metal against the walls of the uterus, that stretching of tissue. The coldness of it.  

Long-term catheterization for incontinence. Although this is not recommended, sometimes medical staff feel it appropriate to avoid skin problems or other medical complications. In the facility, she has a regular catheter for several months, and yes, she got several infections, and yes, rashes rose in the still-damp folds, between her thighs, on her bottom. The welts rose like tiny flowerets, battling for attention.  They bloomed, wild patches, mottled with pink. 

People who require long-term catheterization and are sexually active may find this helpful.  I asked her once if she ever wanted a male companion, someone who could maybe hold her.  “Oh, god no,” she said, offended.  I wasn’t thinking of sex, but the fact that she seemed to think that’s what I meant—and not simple contact—well, that tells me things too. I think in the end, she had disliked sex, become so tired of it that it was burden, it was something she dreaded.  But I often found her in sleep, her hand curled between her legs at the top of her thighs. I consider this, the idea of self-touch, then abandon it. Intimacy of any sort was not her bailiwick, and self-pleasure might have even been a sin.  Her hands were there simply to warm them.  She was always cold. 

I sit at the table, scrolling through the FAQs, the nurses offering reports on diet, exercise, other stuff.  The doctor will insert your first suprapubic catheter. A small balloon at the tip of the catheter is inflated to prevent it falling out. A doctor or nurse can change the catheter in your home, or in their surgery or urology department.  I linger over the word inflated because it reminds me of the word invasive. This, the suprapubic catheter in her lower belly, a short-cut to the bladder.  Whereas I had been able to catheterize her directly, I would not be able to change a suprapubic catheter, could not pull the darkened tube, not because I was afraid, but because it demands a trained touch, and yes, it hurt me so to see what had been the belly of our growth, the stretched-out tissue.  This was not the inner part, but the belly’s exterior, the atrophied muscle, loose skin. The center of chakras, distorted and falling in on itself.  Our births had done this. And plain life.  

But this belly. This is what children see if they are lucky; it measures for them the depth of gratitude required.  It tells them what is the debt there in the folds of an old woman’s belly—even if you never do see this, you should imagine, and if you can bear it, you should be present. It is harder than anything, to see the folds of belly like an abandoned blanket after a tumble in the sand. It connects us all, all of it, from desires, plain and venal, our beginnings, to all the aftermaths.  

What happens to the urine? There are two options:  Free drainage – where the urine drains out from the catheter and is then generally stored in a drainage bag. Or a catheter valve – a valve at the end of the catheter used in place of a drainage bag. Look, those of us who are squeamish: this is what it may mean to care for an elder.  Listen, and don’t look away from what our minds give us. This is real, so stand near me, here next to her chair, bend and check the bag, look closely at the density of that liquid the body has filtered and exuded. The waste is a text written in the only goodness we can give at this stage of a woman’s life.  Acknowledge she is still with us.  Look at it, especially you sons who are sometimes barred, or more commonly, who sometimes avoid it, mostly because you are unfamiliar with the intimacy of bodies that women more often bear.  Look and look again.  If a word like duty comes to mind, let’s replace it with something warmer.  

Once, my mother and I stood in a kitchen together and I said something funny, and she laughed so hard, she started to pee, and couldn’t contract the muscle, and her bladder drained onto the floor and we watched in a kind of be-laughtered awe, then strained silence while I grabbed the towels, and then we laughed again.  This is the attitude you should have about it. This is the warmth to bring to it.

The first catheter change is usually done in the hospital/clinic that put the catheter in.  After this, it can vary from 4-12-week intervals depending on the type of catheter and your own situation and will usually be done by your nurse.  Once, after, later, when the aides were changing the catheter, it became stuck.  Likely some new cells, a tag of skin had attached to the tube, and she cried out again.  Two different nurses tried and then we all went to the ER where a nurse practitioner, his beard gathered in a net, and with the most feminine hands I had ever seen, bent to her, his turban glowing white. He did the work as if pulling the slowest needle through a silk. She didn’t squeal, but studied the turban that wrapped his head.  When it was over and he had left, she asked “Is that what they are wearing now?” His hands, I loved his hands. She did not cry out. 

You should wash the area around the insertion site with cooled boiled water once or twice a day.  Some people find cleaning the wound with a sterile saline solution a good method of keeping the area clean.  The scent is the giveaway.  It’s a smell nearly like bread, but sourer, like the bread as it’s fermenting hard.  I want to love the smell, I want to know how to make the scent seem as wholesome as the fresh bread that was sometimes waiting for us kids as we assaulted that farmhouse after school, the way running, loud-mouthed and unruly into the kitchen was like running into a cloud, and then how we devoured a whole loaf at one sitting and spoiled our supper.  She stopped making it—you kids make pigs of yourselves.  But the scent? Ok. It’s not really like fresh bread at all. 

A couple times I am there when the nurses clean of the site.  They are efficient. They are cool about it all.  My mother’s cheeks are red—is she blushing or is she just having a blood pressure spike, which happens often when someone is caring for her body so directly.  

Although not always necessary, many people prefer to wear a dressing around the wound all the time. In the end, this is what they did.  They put a dressing on and hoped her old skin would hold up.  Sensitivity to the glues is common. But it seemed to help. Laden with antiseptic, it kept the rashes at bay, the yeasty scent receded, and she seemed to decide she could ignore it after all. Or she just forgot, that’s also possible.  There were days when she would look up, around, and ask “Where is this?”  She was not afraid anymore, just curious.  As if the plane on which she had been a coveted passenger had been rerouted, landed her somewhere unexpected.  She had arrived safely but missed the announcement as to where, and was just wondering the name of the place before she moved on.  It was not a comfort to tell her. Not a comfort to destroy that trust she had placed in the pilot of the plane.  She had not landed safely after all. She could not leave the unexpected, her age and decline.   

In order to prevent infections and encourage drainage, you should ensure you have an adequate daily fluid intake (average being 1.5 to 2 liters). A good mix of fluid types is recommended i.e. water and juice. Keep bladder-irritating drinks e.g. tea, coffee and fizzy drinks to a minimum.  Cranberry juice can be helpful to prevent bladder infections. 

“Mom, how about another sip.”

“Don’t like it.”

“Mom, it’s cranberry, it’s good for you.”

“Too tart.”

“Mom, how about I mix it with a Coke?”

“Waste of a good Coke. I’ll take the coke plain.” 

One must bite one’s tongue, even when she pushes the cranberry off the edge of the tray and it falls, staining the curtain and leaving a splash that she always asks about, “Who did that?”  The splash reminds me of a flower. 

It is better to take showers rather than baths as sitting in water for long periods may delay the wound from healing. Once the wound has healed it is perfectly okay to shower normally, although avoid using scented products as these can irritate the skin.

No matter what is recommended, they use the lift to transfer her to the bath.  She can’t lift herself, can’t make the transfer to the shower chair, and can’t sit in such a way that she doesn’t slip.  As to the bath, even with the bath, she always says it’s awful until she is nearly immersed, and then they unbuckle her, and there is that soft buoyancy and a certain relaxation takes over.  She sighs, and when this happens, they detach the tube, shut the valve, and do their best to clean every part, every nook and cranny.   

I remember the baths of childhood, the tub yes, filled only a few inches, the two boys bathing together, then my two little sisters together, then she and I, sometimes together, sometimes not together, but using the same water. We often ran out of hot water in that house.  She was always afraid one of us would pee in the water, always afraid she’d have to drain it, wouldn’t have enough for everyone, that with hot water at a premium, she wouldn’t be able to keep us clean.    

There are several different types of drainage bag: leg bags held in place with straps or in a holster and worn under your normal clothes during the day, night drainage bags which are attached to a leg bag at night, a Belly Bag is also appropriate to use with a supra-pubic catheter.  The nurses attached her bag to the side of her wheelchair because it was they who would need to check the contents, and with it hanging there, it was easy to observe the color and the amount, to make sure her kidneys were still functioning.  Yes, in plain sight.  I looked too, every time, and sometimes, if I touched the bag, it was warm.  Later, I asked them to provide a cover, a flannel with bright flowers, so Mom wouldn’t have to look down and see it herself—it alarmed her.  She had been a nurse during the war. She knew what it meant, but didn’t think the bag was hers.   

The week she died, the aides said the urine was nearly black, and it may have been blood, and it may have been the kidneys had finally had enough. Or it may have been that she was dying of Covid—that was another thing that love could not overcome, the threat of pandemic in the middle of the aging process. For elders, it could invade the lungs and the other organs.  Maybe. Maybe not.  But by then, the week of black urine, we could not see her, so it’s all second hand.   

What kind of problems should I watch out for? What I learn.  Watch to see if the urine stops draining out of the catheter.  This is a reverent observation.  Watch to see if she feels unwell with pain, fever, or abdominal discomfort. This is a solemn sorrow.  Watch to see if the urine is leaking around the catheter. Watch to see if the area around the catheter becomes red and sore. Watch for bleeding. It is not unusual to see blood in the urine following a change of catheter but this usually settles in 24 hours. These are blessed inspections. These are the flowers you never gave her.  Watch for unusual drainage.  

Do not look away from any of this.  Check google, listen to the nurses, take notes.  Let the mind wander.  Later,  after the decision, after the procedure, learn to change the dressing and undressing. Make yourself look again, each time. It is sacrosanct, the skin, the dressing and undressing around the tube of plastic, soft as a petal, around the hole in the fold of the belly. 

And when you sit with her, remember what other things beside the bladder drain— 

pots and pans and boiling kettles

blisters

sinks

tubs

colanders 

ponds or lakes or reservoirs

fields of spring rain 

the heart 

Anne-Marie Oomen recently won the AWP Sue William Silverman Award Nonfiction Award 2021 for her forthcoming memoir As Long As I Know You. She wrote Lake Michigan Mermaid with Linda Nemec Foster (Michigan Notable Book, 2019), Love, Sex and 4-H (Next Generation Indie Award for Memoir), Pulling Down the Barn (Michigan Notable Book); and Uncoded Woman (poetry), among others. She edited ELEMENTAL: A Collection of Michigan Nonfiction (also a Michigan Notable Book). She teaches at Solstice MFA at Lasell University (MA), Interlochen’s College of Creative Arts (MI), and conferences throughout the country.

Brenna Hosman

Waxworks

I met him on a Bumble date in a tourist trap: an off-brand wax museum with King Kong hanging from the building. It was either going to be that or the replica Titanic museum, and the former seemed less somber. Plus, my date told me, he had a coupon.

The museum was not busy on a Thursday, the only day that we could both get off of work. We didn’t realize until meeting up that we had crossed paths before matching on the app. My date, Anthony, was a food delivery driver, finishing up his last semester of college. Having graduated with a cinema studies degree, I was temping as a receptionist at an ad agency and handling the lunch orders that came in. One day, he must have carried in big bags full of Panera, and I must have taken them. I didn’t remember. Maybe a thank-you, barely a passing glance, yet weeks later, a swipe on our phones said something more.

*

I was 23, and this was my first real date.

My mom used to say that I lucked out by not dating in high school, as if it was a personal choice and not a product of my shyness. I remember my dad huffing a sigh of relief each time he saw me home on Friday nights, watching movies, my only date the lead star on the screen. 

After college, armed with a passion degree and a hazy future, I felt loneliness creep in like fog. I had barely held hands with another person. Flirting was a foreign language. All around me schoolmates were getting engaged, and it didn’t help that my roommate Dinah had her boyfriend over each weekend. He had all but moved in with us.

I downloaded an app for the hell of it, which amounted to a dreadful slideshow of guys who peaked in high school, who brought me back to the sweaty-palmed feeling of crowded cafeterias. Anthony was one of few guys who didn’t have a photo of himself holding up a dead fish or who cited working out as a pastime. I matched with him because his cat looked nice.

When I pulled up to the wax museum, he was standing in the parking lot. He was a little short and very square, from his wide jaw and broad shoulders to the shape of his blue-framed glasses. I didn’t know how to greet him. His Bumble profile said Anthony, but what if he went by Tony or Ant? I opted out of a name entirely and just said, “Hey.”

I told him my name was Eliza.

In truth, my name is Elizabeth. When I started work at the ad agency, answering phones and clicking pens and not knowing what to make of myself, I looked at the long mix of letters on my name badge and broke them down as if trying to glean something from the dissection. To the managers, I was Beth. To the janitorial staff, I was Lizzie. I became Ellie to the interns and Betty to the mailman. On Casual Fridays, I wore just an E with my jeans.

Somehow, I thought each new name could mold me into some better version of myself. The hard parts of me chipping away with each letter.

At work, I kept waiting to be found out, but no one gossips about the temporary receptionist. Even if someone came up and demanded to know who I was, I was not sure what I would say.

*

As we walked through a hall lined with figures of dead musicians, Anthony told me about a wax museum he went to when he was a kid. One of the fancy ones, he said, where celebrities go to have full-body casts made, where every minute freckle and hair is accurately rendered.

He told me that the museum had a waxwork of Jennifer Lopez, posed seductively in a snug satin dress. It contained technology that caused a flush to appear on J. Lo’s cheeks when patrons whispered into a mic in the ear. But everyone assumed the figure blushed when you touched her bottom. Men would line up to take a picture with the singer’s likeness while copping a feel of her ass and waiting for the telltale blush to emerge on her face.

Eventually, the museum removed the figure. Too much negative attention, plus the back of the dress was grimed with fingerprint stains. They replaced J. Lo with a replica of the Rock.

“Why did they have to get rid of her completely?” I asked.

“What do you mean? There were imprints in the wax from people squeezing too hard.”

“Couldn’t they have roped her off, put signs up, make sure no one touched her again?”

Anthony shrugged. “People would’ve just complained. Better not remind them of what they can’t have.”

I took in that advice. I did not offer him my hand to hold.

*

Though I didn’t have high hopes for this date, I found myself just a little bit disappointed that I would not have my first kiss by the end of this. After all, I’d basically created a new identity. Eliza wore lipstick. Eliza had curled her hair. Eliza had a skirt on. Hell, Eliza shaved. Even if someone were to get a kiss today, it would be Eliza, not me. 

We entered a room full of outdated action movie characters. All men, I noticed. Pierce Brosnan’s James Bond aimed a gun at us as we walked by. Rambo and the Terminator made eyes at each other from across the room. I looked closely at the Tom Cruise figure. Something about it looked off. Anthony asked me why I was staring.

“His teeth are too straight,” I said. “Too even.”

“Oh, Eliza, don’t worry about that. I think your teeth are just fine!”

He didn’t get it.

Anthony changed the subject. “Hey, the next room is the horror chamber. You know, Jason and Freddy and all that. It’s kind of dark, so I don’t know if you want to go in?”

“I think I’ll pass. But please, you can go on ahead. I’ll meet you in the gift shop.”

“Suit yourself.” I watched him stumble away.

I allowed an exhale, not realizing that I had been sucking in for the past half hour. The waistband of the skirt cut into my stomach, but it was almost a welcome feeling. Eliza melted away. I wished her well, wished she could’ve gotten her kiss.

Aside from the generic action movie score pumping through the speakers, the room was oddly quiet. I was the only one here, yet it was hard to feel alone. A dozen pairs of glass eyes stared blankly from all sides.

There was a figure I almost didn’t see, one seemingly shoved into the far corner of the room, halfway hidden by Jack Sparrow. It was a likeness of Brendan Fraser from his role in The Mummy, donning a leather vest and 90s-boy hair. I remember being fond of the movie, yet here was the figure in dim light with a faded, barely legible placard. Poor Brendan Fraser.

I felt an odd jolt of tenderness for the figure, a thing forgotten and cast to the shadows. I stepped closer and saw how unnaturally smooth the flesh was, how dull the blue marbled eyes seemed. There was a layer of dust stuck to the wax. The museum didn’t even bother to clean it. On my tiptoes, I reached eye-level with the tall waxwork and gently blew on its face, watching the dust cloud scatter. My balance wobbled, and, for the briefest of moments, my lips brushed against the waxy nose.

Looking around the room, I assured myself that no one had witnessed the accidental peck, save for that Tom Cruise statue who looked like he knew something was up. I felt relieved, but then I heard a deep voice.

“Well, you’re a little close, aren’t you?”

Sure enough, the wax figure spoke, its eyes blinking like a doll. The stain of my lipstick marked its nose.

“You can’t just go around kissing people without their permission, you know.” Did I just see the molded lips part, the corner of the mouth upturn into a smirk?

“No, no, you’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean to offend you, um, Brendan.”

“Now, I’m not saying I minded it. It’s not every day I’m kissed by a pretty stranger.” He attempted a wink. “Oh, and don’t call me Brendan. Never met the guy. The sign says I’m ‘Rick O’Connell,’ but I don’t know. I haven’t seen the movie. I guess you can just call me Rick.”

“Okay, Rick.” Despite being inanimate moments ago, this wax figure was charming me. The heart-jittering nerves of a first date came back. Then I remembered the incidental first kiss.

For once, I dared to be bold. “Hey, do you wanna get out of here or something?”

“Hell yeah! They’re going to put me into storage next week.” He took an initial step, Tin-man stiff at first, but his gait became convincingly human. Maybe even I could convince myself.

Rick was the one to take my hand, so cool, so smooth, on our way out. “I don’t think I got your name? I’d like to know who so rudely kissed me.”

“It’s Elizabeth,” I said. We somehow passed unseen through the giftshop and into a summer late-afternoon, my body feeling a heat unrelated to the weather.

*

Growing up in Pigeon Forge, I was used to the kitsch landscape, the roadside tourist attractions as common as churches or banks. Driving down just a short stretch of Parkway, I’d pass the improbable: the wax museum’s cityscape, the Titanic striking an iceberg, the giant cartoonish barn of a themed dinner show, a building tossed upside-down. All facades of course, trying to sell tourists an idea of this mountain town. But they were the familiar features of my home, as natural and as nonsensical as the wax figure in my passenger seat.

Rick bug-eyed through the window each passing landmark, the dozens of hotels, the mini golf and go-karts. “So this is the world.”

“Just a weird corner of it,” I said.

“Amazing,” he said, still gazing through the windshield. “Do you work at one of these places?” He pointed to the year-round Christmas store.

I laughed. “If only! No, I work at an agency that advertises these places.”

“Is that fun?”

“It’s a job.” I shrugged. “So, no, not really. But I don’t know what else to do.”

“What do you want to do?”

I paused, though this was a question I asked myself nearly every day. “I like movies. Maybe I could make them someday, or something. I like some of your movies, by the way.”

“They’re not my movies.”

“Right! Sorry.”

Soon I took a turn and we escaped the tourist trap, cruising by a view of hills and trees. “What about you?” I asked. “Was being at the museum fun?”

Rick blinked. “I don’t really remember. Not many people came up to me, took my picture, things like that. But you came along. You saw me!” His waxen face brightened.

He was actually quite beautiful. “Yeah, I did! I’m kind of glad I kissed you.”

“Can I ask you something? Why did you kiss me?”

I smirked. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” I quoted from his Mummy character.

The reference went over his head, but he replied, “I think it was a good idea, too.”

My cheeks felt hot. “Can I ask you something now? Why are you still holding my hand?”

My right hand was still locked in his, having never let go since leaving the museum.

“Because it’s so warm,” Rick said. “I’ve never felt this kind of warm.”

I then felt his hand squeeze, the wax rippling around my fingers. I understood.

*

It was lucky that Dinah was gone on a road trip with her boyfriend. For three weeks, I had the whole apartment to myself while Dinah escaped with her love to the Pacific Coast, camping in truck beds and cheap inns. I remember wishing her well on the day she left, clenching a goodbye smile. I remember, that night, tenting a bedsheet over my head, lit in my own campfire glow of the Bumble screen, feeling lost and lonely.

Now a different feeling occupied this bed, a solid thing made of beeswax and fiberglass, the hinting scent of honey on his skin. When Rick undressed out of the film costume, I was surprised by his pale body, anemic, unpainted where the clothes had been. But the body was strong. The sculptor had indulged in every curve and ridge of muscle. Hollow strength, I knew, yet enough to hold me, an artifice I bought into.

“You’re George of the Jungle underneath it all,” I said.

Rick didn’t get the joke.

He was bare down there, Ken-doll smooth, and I was relieved to see it. Naked bodies were an enigma to me, others and my own, yet I found myself in this bed stripped to flesh and fuzz, all me, all Elizabeth. It didn’t matter that we fumbled, stiff-limbed, both born new to this world of life and touch. It didn’t matter that there was nothing between his legs. He had his long, cool hands, and it felt enough for me. I felt enough for me.

*

We were still in the middle of a southern summer, the heatwave coming over like a flood. My apartment’s air conditioning was spotty at best, and Dinah and I usually opted to sweat it out, windows wide open. It wasn’t ideal, but we figured we could make it until autumn, counting the days between.

When I woke up, I realized with horror what the heat could do. Unsticking myself from Rick’s body, I stood and saw that he’d gone soft. He’d only partially melted, enough to become doughy, but I could see the mold of where my body had been impressed in him. His stomach was concave, his leg bent in an unnatural angle where it lay. 

Rick was awake, staring at me. He grinned so warmly, as if he didn’t realize the mess that he was on the bed. I began to cry.

“Elizabeth, what’s wrong?” 

“Look what I’ve done to you! God, I’m so sorry.”

He looked down at his body and shrugged. “It’s fine. Really. Don’t feel a thing.”

“But I feel awful. I should’ve known it would be too hot. I forget you’re not….”

“Listen.” Rick sat up, swinging his crooked foot over the side of the bed to face me. “I knew something was happening. I saw my body changing. But you know, I could’ve moved away from you. I could’ve kept my shape. But I didn’t. And I think you should know that.”

This admission struck me deeply. Here was Rick, who quite literally made space for me with all the willingness to change, to have his body morph and melt, a tall risk just to hold me. 

“So much of this doesn’t make sense,” I started. “So when I say that I think I may be falling for you, I know that it sounds crazy. But this is all so new to me.”

“Everything is new to me. This life. This feeling. You! Elizabeth, you’re the best person I’ve ever known.”

I knew his catalogue of people he knew was slimmer than a pamphlet, but he was genuine. I watched Rick try to walk toward me, arms outstretched, but his bent leg betrayed him. He fell to his knees, which flattened on impact.

I tried to help him back up. “We’ve got to fix this.”

Cranking up the air conditioning on high, which blessedly worked this time, I went to work at massaging Rick’s legs. While he was still soft and malleable, I reformed him in my hands like clay, working up each limb until my arms wrapped around his waist as I tried to reshape his torso. I paused there, felt the need to be still. Embrace. Head against chest, I listened for a heartbeat I knew wouldn’t come. I pretended the sound of my own was both of ours.

When the cool air kept him solid, Rick looked better, but not the same. The sculpted abs he had were replaced by a swirl of puckered wax. One leg looked skinnier than the other. I was disappointed to see this beauty go. But then I saw freckled up and down his body were the subtle marks of fingerprints. Mine.

*

To come home to an apartment that was empty no longer and have someone like Rick waiting for me was surreal. I felt a jolt each time I unlocked the door to see him standing there, unmoved from when I last saw him, and smiling. I asked him what he did while I was away. He said he just stood there, waiting, for hours. It was all he knew to do.

One day, he asked me if we could have a movie night. He said he was curious about his doppelganger, So we sat down to a Brendan Fraser marathon, first with his fish-out-of-water flicks like Encino Man and George of the Jungle, a typecast that was feeling all-too familiar now. I surveyed his face during all of The Mummy movies, seeing his eyes widen at the character he was based on and wondering if the recognition ended there. As the credits rolled on the final film, I muted the TV and waited.

“So,” Rick finally said, “that’s who I’m supposed to be.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I’m modeled off that Brendan guy. I guess I should be more like him.”

“What? No, you don’t have to do that.”

“Well, who do you want me to be, Elizabeth?” he asked.

I told him I just wanted him to be himself, but was this true? Rick made me feel special, made me feel like I could be my own self, yet I was searching for something special in him, something to prove to me that he was as human as he appeared, that he had a life inside of him beyond just me, someone with a story. I didn’t know if he had a story. I had to fill in the blanks.

*

Ever since the day at the museum, Rick had only spent his time at my place, alone or with only me. I didn’t want him cooped up forever, so I planned a date for us, our first real outing together, an experiment on how Rick would function in the real world. 

Rick’s museum clothes wouldn’t do, but thankfully Dinah’s boyfriend had his own drawer in her room. I picked out a dark blue long-sleeve button-down and some faded jeans that were a bit too big. He looked overdressed for the summertime heat, but I couldn’t risk anyone seeing the obvious dents and bumps on his skin leftover from his melting.

We ended up at an outlet mall far from the city’s tourism, an introduction to some sense of normalcy in Rick’s new life. Still, he appeared awed at nearly everything we passed, from Build-A-Bear to coffee stands and photo booths. We did step inside one and pose for a trio of sweet photos. I looked so happy. I put the strip of film in my bag.

There were countless couples in the mall holding hands, and as we walked around, I recognized that I was finally part of them. I too had someone by my side, and it didn’t feel like pretending. My hair was casually tossed up in a bun, I was barefaced, but I didn’t care. The person beside me saw me, saw Elizabeth. And even though he was a six-foot mannequin, did it feel any less real?

Rick did attract some attention, on account of his looks, his height, and the stiff way he walked. I tried to steer him into the emptier shops, but one woman approached us in a hat store. She was probably mid-thirties. Her head tilted, a not-quite recognition.

“Sorry,” she said, addressing Rick, “but you look so familiar. Are you someone famous?”

Rick looked at me, wide eyed. “Uh, not exactly.”

“I swear you look like some actor. Gosh, what’s his name? What happened to him?”

“You must be mistaken.” I took Rick by the arm and moved past the woman. “He’s nobody.”

I felt Rick go stiff in my grip. He looked down at me, hurt. I told him I didn’t mean it that way. He was quiet for a while.

Something unanticipated: my mother was shopping here. By the time I spotted her at the entrance of a department store, it was too late. She came our way, half-running with shopping bags swinging from her arms.

“There’s my girl!” my mother said. “Dear, it’s been weeks since we talked.” Her eyes flicked to the man beside me. She squinted. “And who is this?”

“Hey, Mom. This is Rick.”

My mother smiled, nodded at Rick. She took a step away but pulled me closer.

“Is that the guy?” she whispered. “The one from your date?”

I nodded. It was true enough.

“Gosh, he looks nothing like that picture you showed me. Can’t trust anyone these days.”

We looked back at Rick. He was standing off to the side, a little awkwardly and very still. It was eerie how still he could be.

 “So, Rick, what do you do?” my mother asked.

Rick began to speak, stuttering over his answer. “I guess I stand around a lot—”

“He means he poses,” I said. “He’s a model.”

“I see. Well, Rick I hope you know there’s more to life than taking pictures.”

“Mom.”

She sighed and said in a hushed voice, “Really, Elizabeth. Are you even ready to date? I know you’re new to this, but dear, do you really think this is the guy for you? Some pretty boy with no personality?”

 “Mom, he can hear you.”

I looked to Rick. He was staring down at his feet, despondent. He didn’t look at me. 

“I think it’s about time we get going,” I finally said, reaching for Rick’s hand. 

Rick felt like dead weight as I led him away from the mall. I begged for a sign of life from him, just a squeeze of the hand. When we reached my car, I felt the shaking of his body, and I wondered then if glass eyes could cry.

*

We went back to my apartment, and for days Rick didn’t move.

He sat motionless on the couch, unblinking and brooding. I worried that whatever spell had brought him to me had lifted, that whatever life he had had vanished, and I would be left alone with an oversized figurine.

I hugged him, kissed him, said his name, over and over like an incantation.

Finally, I felt his body tense, more rigid than normal. “Please don’t call me that.”

“What do you mean? Rick? But you told me that was your name.”

He pulled away. His face contorted, the wax wrinkling around his mouth, his eyes, I almost thought he was melting again. I reached up to smooth those lines, sculpt them away with the touch of my fingers, but he stopped me.

“No. Elizabeth, no. I’m not Rick. It was the name that was there, and I just took it.”

“I don’t understand.”

He stood. “You were right. I am a nobody. I didn’t even know what to say to your mother, because what is there to say about me? I don’t know who the hell I really am.”

“You’re not a nobody. You’re mine!” I said. “I mean, isn’t that enough?”

He started pulling at the shirt I had dressed him in, revealing his stomach. “Look. You’ve had a literal hand in the shaping of myself. I wish I could be who you want me to be. But I’m not Rick. I’m not Brendan Fraser. I don’t know what that leaves for me. You deserve someone who knows who they are.”

“We can figure that out together, can’t we?”

He looked at the floor, not meeting my eyes. “You’ll be fine. I’ve seen you. You know who you are. You don’t need me.

“Please don’t cry, Elizabeth.” He took my hand in his, still so smooth. “You’ve brought me to a life I never would have had otherwise. I am so grateful for that. And I just want to make use of that gift. Do you understand?”

I didn’t understand a lot of things. I didn’t understand love. I didn’t understand how a waxwork could come into being. I didn't understand why he stuck around. I didn’t understand why, as I collapsed as a mess on the floor, he still took me in his arms and held me all throughout the rest of the day until I fell asleep, my body pressed against his in an attempt at reformation, wishing I could be the one to melt away.

I only understood when I awoke, when I noticed that he was indeed gone, my purse left open beside my bed. He took no money, just the filmstrip of our photos. All he left behind were his museum clothes and a severed wax hand.

*

When Dinah finally got back from her trip, I was cocooned on the couch, nursing a headache and watching The Mummy because it was on TV. It wasn’t very healthy.

She burst through the door toting a half dozen bags on her arms. “Hey, girlie!” she called. “Miss me much? Hope you didn’t have too much fun without me!”

She detailed her trip, from the Rockies to the beaches to her boyfriend. I could only pretend to listen to so much. Then she told me she bought me a souvenir. 

“Now, it’s nothing too special,” Dinah said as she rummaged through a gift bag. “But I wanted to bring back something from Pacific Beach. Get a whiff of this. It’s a handmade beeswax candle!”

Dinah didn’t understand why I was crying.

*

Searching for him was futile. He could be wandering in the woods somewhere, the branches of the trees carving him out. He could be a melted puddle on the side of the highway. He could be packed up in a bus halfway across the country. There was no way of knowing.

I went back to the wax museum just once. When I broke him out of there, I wondered if there would be a search, if I would read or hear any news report of a stolen waxwork. But there was nothing. He was easily forgotten. Maybe, eventually, it would be easy for me too.

It wasn’t likely he would go back, but I thought it was worth checking. I reached the action movie room, found his designated corner, and saw that the placard with the name he took was gone. He wasn’t there. Standing there in his place and taunting me with a raised eyebrow was a newly sculpted statue of the Rock. Why was it always the Rock? 

*

A few weeks later, I saw Anthony again. I was back at work, though my temping days were numbered, and I would have to figure out what was next for me soon. Rick showed me how easy it could be to leave. Maybe I could too.

The office had called in a large Panera order to celebrate someone’s birthday. Anthony came in carrying paper bags full of bagels and bread bowls which he set down in front of my desk. He stood awkwardly as I wrote a company check for the tip. We exchanged nonsense small talk, neither of us acknowledging that I had ditched our date.

His eyes wandered, landing on an object on my desk. “Cool paperweight.”

It was a model of a hand, wide and lifelike, reaching out from where it stood on the desk as if trying to grasp something. “Thanks. It was a gift.”

I gave him his tip, which he pocketed. “Take care, Eliza. Nice to see you again.”

“It’s Elizabeth, actually,” I said.

Anthony left, looking young and disappointed, and I felt sorry that I could not be the person for him. I felt again the rush of loneliness come over me, a tidal wave I’d been swimming in since he left. My heart tight and breath shallow, I reached for what would calm me. My hand placed against the wax one, I felt its cool fingers, held on, telling myself I will be all right.

Brenna Hosman is a fiction writer who calls Tennessee home. She holds an MFA from Bowling Green State University in Ohio. An excerpt of her novel-in-progress has been published in The Write Launch. She can be reached via Twitter @BrennaHosman.

Ali Saleh

Moonlight

As Hisham stood over the dune of debris, he had to ignore the possibility that there were still jets and drones above him in the night sky, ready to strike again. He had to ignore the cuts on his hands from the shattered glass, pieces of splintering wood, and jagged stones that he sifted through—remnants of house lamps and window frames, bookshelves and cabinets, shattered bricks, and metal arches that fortified the ceiling of what was a nondescript country home. Other than the flickering glow of the flames, all around him was darkness, and aside from the crackling of the fire’s embers and the occasional muffled scream of the man buried under the rubble, all around him was quiet. 

As he dug further, Hisham could soon see the man’s shoulder and his dusty, curly hair. It took all of Hisham’s strength and the piercing sense of urgency that surged through him to remove a large slab of cement, freeing enough of the man's body so that he could pull him out. He threw the man onto his back and carried him across the remains of the destroyed house, back to the highway where Hisham had left his car. But it was only when he laid the man down in the back seat that he saw the extent of his injury—his white, bulging bone, bloodied shin, and bits of fluttering flesh that hung off either side of what remained of one of the man's legs.

Hisham froze. His eyes homed in on the agony in front of him and captured, as they did with everything else, the colors, textures, shapes, and size of the wound for his brain to construct. Except he couldn't, in that moment, proceed to the next step of interpretation. He couldn't fully grasp the scene, place it in his mind relative to his past experiences, and deduce its significance within the category of things that share their place in his mental workings. He was stuck, standing in front of the man, unable to move or think or acknowledge the sound of his cries. He could only hear his own irregular breathing and a quiet, rambling voice that spoke faintly to him from some dark cavern in his mind.

The man released a loud, violent cry, reminding Hisham that he needed to move, move, move and again his body was moving, purposeful, and knowing. He removed his blood-stained button-up and wrapped it around the wound. Hisham lifted the man's remaining leg to the side and shut the door. As he made his way to the front of his car, he looked back at what remained—the aftermath of an explosion that fell into a cataclysm of fire, metal, and charred cement. He got into his car, turned on his engine, and began speeding down the hillside, but as he saw the flames disappearing in his rear-view mirror, a thought came to him and he stopped the car. 

“Was there anyone else with you?” Hisham said. “Is there anyone else in the house?

“No. It’s just me,” the man managed to get out.  

Hisham nodded and drove off. 

He turned through a village, toward its mosque, and followed a small dirt road that would link up to the highway ahead. Although he had never walked through the village streets or visited the ancient temples or ruins, he drove through Baalbek and the surrounding area several times a month, taking people to and from Beirut and sometimes as far as Syria. Since Lebanon's only international airport, along with several major highways and bridges, were some of the first sites to be hit, people were willing to pay a high price for someone who knew the lay of the land and could quickly get them out of the country.

He was told, as the 2006 war ensued, to go to Turkey or Syria, that there was no telling how long this war would be. But Hisham, like much of the Lebanese, was stubborn. He wasn't afraid of losing his life, having already lived through two wars in his youth and having lost the dearest thing to him, his wife, some years ago to illness. 

The loss of his wife led Hisham to return to driving, the only real job he had ever known before he inherited his grandfather's olive grove. It was easier for him, in the months following her death, to move around, stay away from home, and have a constant stream of changing scenery as he drove through Lebanon's bucolic regions, keeping his eyes busy while his mind remained on her. His sense of guilt and helplessness, however, was something he couldn't escape. She became ill during the biannual harvest, and if he wasn't so busy with the grove, Hisham would remind himself for the rest of his waking life, perhaps he would have recognized the severity of her illness sooner and taken her to Beirut before it was too late. 

After the memorial service, after Hisham, her brothers, and her uncles had carried her cold body from the top of the village to the cemetery, after weeks of wearing black and people unexpectedly visiting him, inundating him with their condolences, after the visits ended, and after the pain of sitting in bed alone at night became the measure of his daily cycle, Hisham was unable to find a good reason to continue maintaining his grove. He could see no rationale in sustaining a piece of land that failed to serve the nourishment of a family or cultivation of a future. Eventually, people relented, letting him do what he willed, and the land slowly withered away, becoming only a shell of what it once was.

If Hisham had listened to his family and tended to his land, he may have found some solace in its sustenance and never turned back to driving. And if he had never turned back to driving, he wouldn't have passed the small hill on his return from the drop-off to the north that evening. He wouldn't have heard the loud, violent whistling of a jet that preceded, in many cases, the forceful impact of an explosion. He wouldn't have witnessed the expanding red glow that reached toward the night sky and permeated over the hillside, concealing the house's destruction. And he wouldn't have been able to get close enough to hear, as faint as it had been, the sound of a man in need. The sound of a man who, at that moment in his car, was clear and piercing and full of fear.  

The only thing between them and the town was the highway and a brief set of hillsides that marked the halfway point. Hisham didn't know how much time he had, and he wasn't sure if the hospital a few towns over would be open, but he knew it was his only real chance. He kept looking back to check how much blood had gathered in the leather seat, but it was too dark to tell. Even his faded, salmon-colored button-down was indiscernible, camouflaged in the dark, open wound. The inside lining of his bloodied hands between his thumb and index figure, that long, sharp curve of skin, Hisham realized, was tearing against the wheel. He loosened his grip and looked ahead. 

Hisham ascended the small dirt road, leaving the village behind, and reached a wide, open highway. His confidence grew as he pressed down on the pedal and gained speed. He looked ahead, anticipating the hillsides, but saw nothing. No cars. No lights. Only a wide and open, dark, uninviting stretch of land. His headlights shined onto the rows of grape fields beside the road, bright enough that he could see the vibrant blue of the grapes as they hung with vitality and color and size—signs of what would have been a fruitful harvest.  

Earlier that day, with the family he had picked up from Sidon in the back seat, Hisham had passed by these very same grape fields. When he had turned into one of the vineyards for a bathroom break, he approached one of the grape-farmers and congratulated them on their success.

“Just another year.” The grape farmer said.

“No, really. I drive through every season and I've never seen them like this.”

“You wish you could be them, huh?”

“What?”

“I wish I could switch with them every day. Just hang there, soak in the sun, enjoy the breeze — People think the vines are there for our use. But most days it feels like I'm here for them. Working for them. Sweating for them.” The farmer flashed a wide smile, revealing the gaps in his teeth. “Only a fool wouldn't want to switch with the vines.”

At the time, Hisham didn't know what he was alluding to, thought the man was crazy, and perhaps he was. But in that moment on the road, engulfed by the darkness, his lights shining onto the endless rows of grapes, Hisham recalled the farmers words and couldn't help but agree with him. He couldn't help but imagine himself as a grape, hanging off one of the vines, waiting to be watered and plucked and taken somewhere far away. And as more grapes came into view, their incandescence breaking through the vines, and as Hisham realized how long and dark and empty the road was, a simple thought invaded his mind. His eyes widened and his heart pounded and the hairs on his arms shot up like soldiers brought to attention. He inhaled sharply and turned off his headlights, becoming suddenly aware of how exposed he was in the darkness.

Idiot, he thought. Idiot, idiot. 

He leaned forward, his head over the steering wheel, and looked up at the deceptively clear and empty sky. There was no way to know whether he was safe or not. No way to know if he was perceived as a target from above. Hisham looked back at the man who had quieted down, still breathing, with an arm over his eyes, whispering to himself, “Yah Allah, yah Allah.” He knew that he had to keep going, that he was running out of time.   

Hisham made quick but careful turns as he ascended into the hillsides, using both lanes as the road thinned out along the narrow cliff. He looked up again, scanning the sky as it stood detached and immense in its stretch of stars and a nearly full moon. Although he was in no position to appreciate how beautiful, quiet, and painfully apathetic the sky was, he could begin to see, as his eyes adjusted, the lines on the pavement. He could see the night-shadows of the weeds, bushes, and trees that bordered either side of his path. A quiet, blue hue bled into the hillsides, and he grew more confident in his turns as his eyes continued to adjust. He could make out a change in direction ten feet ahead of him and then twenty, and soon, as he passed the final mouth between the hills and drove into another wide, open stretch of highway, the grape fields and road in front of him all lit up, infused with the blue of the moonlight that would clear his path.

He didn't say a word or think a thought. He simply followed the path laid down by the moonlight before him, anchoring himself in the passing lines on the road and the quiet hum of his engine. His breaths parted with more control, his shaking abated, and his purpose came clearly into view.  Across the valley, beside a mountain range, he could make out lights coming from the homes and shops of the town. For the first time, he smiled, and a rush of energy flowed through him.

“We're going to make it,” he said. “You're going to make it.”

The man didn't respond, but Hisham could hear his breathing and faint, subsiding cries. 

Hisham sped up as he passed the familiar Pepsi sign, abandoned and battered and leaning on a fence on the side of the road that indicated the town's border. The streets at night, like most of the villages, towns, and cities in the Beqaa Valley during the war, were empty, and Hisham took liberties to speed through the windy roads, blowing past stop signs and blind turns without caution—though the Lebanese were apt to this kind of reckless driving even on a good day. 

He knew the general direction of the hospital and could see the green glow of the cross from the main road as he crossed a bridge that marked the southern half of town. Hisham pulled up to the front steps of the hospital, jumped out of his car, and carried the man out. He threw him on his back, encouraged by his wails and cries, that he had enough life left in him to express anything, and ran through the front doors. 

No one sat at the reception desk, the halls were empty, and, except for the bright lights that expanded over every surface of the walls and ceiling, the hospital seemed to be completely uninhabited. 

“Hello!” Hisham shouted. “Help! I need help!” 

He started running through the halls, blood dripping behind him, taking one turn to the next, aimlessly, until an elevator at the end of the hallway opened. Two nurses, both smoking cigarettes, appeared. They took two steps out of the elevator, dropped their cigarettes, and ran to him.

They led Hisham to a room with several empty beds. One of the nurses disappeared and moments later the doctor came in, shoving Hisham to the side. There was no way to tell that he was a doctor by his appearance; not only did he look like he was in his 20s, thick-haired and unwrinkled with a muscular set of arms and swelling chest, but he entered in blue jeans and a gray polo shirt. His deep, dark eyes looked over the man, assessing the situation. Hisham followed his eyes, and for the first time he could see, clearly, the man he pulled out from the rubble—the cuts along his body, the black stains on his face, the pain in his frequently blinking eyes, and then the wound itself, red and bright and visible in all of its horror. Before the doctor could instruct the nurses to provide him with the necessary tools needed to stem the bleeding and begin the transfusion, Hisham was out the door, teary-eyed and overcome with nausea. 

He rushed to the bathroom, failed to vomit, and look at his tired face in the mirror. Although the cuts on his hands weren’t initially as bad as he thought they were, they still stung when he washed them in the sink. He followed the man’s trail of blood back to the front of the hospital, where he retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his car and sat down on the front steps. The dry blood along his lean, pale arms lit up as he flicked his lighter. He took off his undershirt, allowing himself a moment to breathe before he inhaled the cigarette smoke, letting the cool breeze lick his exposed skin, holding onto the sensation, anchoring himself in it, allowing each pass of the wind and each breath of smoke to chip away at his nerves and the tremors that carried over. He thought of the man and his wails and the fear in his eyes, and he cursed God while praying to him that he save the man’s life. 

An hour passed before one of the nurses came out. 

“How are you feeling?” she said.

Hisham shot up, startled as he was drifting into a tenuous sleep. 

“I'm okay.”

“Sorry, no more coffee.” She handed him a steaming, plastic cup.

“It's okay, I prefer tea anyway.” Hisham looked up at her welcoming smile and green eyes, and then he saw her blood-stained scrubs.

As if she could read the concern in his eyes, she said, “I think you made it just in time.”    

“He's okay?”   

“It looks like it.”

Hisham gave a deep sigh and pressed his hands across his face and into his wavy hair. 

“No injuries on you?”

“No, no,” Hisham said.

“Do you want to call someone? His wife maybe?”

“I can't.”

“It’s not a problem if they’re out of the country—”

“I mean, I don't know the man. I don't have anyone to call for him.”           

“Oh,” she said.

Hisham lit another cigarette, exhaled, and sipped his tea. Smoke hovered around the plastic cup's opening.

“Are you from the area?” She said. 

“No, just passing.”

“You can stay here until morning. It's not safe. At least not at night.”

“Yeah, I guess not. Thank you.”

“You're lucky. We were considering going to Beirut yesterday, until the war settles down a bit.”

“They’re already calling it a war, huh?”

“What would you call it?” She asked.

Hisham shrugged.

“And you?” She said.

“What?”

“Do you want to call someone?”

Hisham thought about who he might call. His sister? She was staying at her brother-in-law's place in Istanbul. His uncle in Michigan? And then he thought of his wife and how emphatically he wanted to tell the nurse that he should call her and tell her he was okay. He wanted to tell the nurse how his wife would have warned him, a thousand times, to stop making these dangerous drives. Maybe they'd have a couple of kids, and he could hear their voices and be reminded that he too survived for something worthwhile. 

“No, no one.” He said.

The nurse pressed her lips together into a weak smile, told him they had fresh clothes for him, food if he was hungry, and went inside.

The elongated line of ash that formed across his cigarette dropped to the ground, and Hisham thought about the man inside and how close it must have been. He thought of the second chance that he was given. Hisham thought of the man's family, whoever they were, and realized that it wouldn't have mattered if it was him under the rubble instead, bleeding out slowly. Even the image of Hisham’s own family hearing the news of his death, the look of shock as the words came through their end of the phone, and the tears that would follow when the impact of those words registered—none of it fazed him. And then he thought of his wife and what she would think if she saw him there, lifeless. Would she still love him if she knew he was capable of such indifference?

The electricity suddenly went out, as is custom in Lebanon, and the lights surrounding him—the neon green cross above him, the streetlights, the glow from inside the double doors of the hospital, and the houselights spilling out of the windows, sparsely scattered throughout the hilly town—they all fell into a dark, glittering blackness. The red from Hisham’s cigarette beamed between his fingertips, and soon enough the blue of the moonlight washed over the town like a tidal wave crashing along a set of rocks, filling into the cracks and crevices. Hisham took a deep breath as his eyes adjusted to the scene. In a few moments, the generators would turn on and the lights would return, wiping away the spread of the moonlight; but for now, Hisham would sit, feeling its presence on his skin, settling into it, and giving himself to it for the little time it had left.

Born and raised in Southern California, Ali Saleh is a Lebanese-American writer whose work explores the intersections of immigrant life, cultural hybridity, and fractured histories. He spent much of his 20s teaching English abroad in South Korea, and he is currently a fiction MFA candidate at North Carolina State University. His work has appeared in Gwangju News and Groove Korea, and when he isn't focusing on his own creative work, he's usually watching movies, going on hikes, or exploring the East Coast.

Bruce Meyer

Thine Is the Kingdom

My grandfather entrusted me with his trench diary, but I had to promise I would never open it. The old man had gained some notoriety among historians of the Great War because he said he had been witness to one of the conflict’s atrocities. He’d signed up with the Third Toronto Regiment, Company C, Platoon 7, and saw what he called the “worst of it” at Vimy Ridge where he made it to the crest of the summit and Passchendaele where the Vimy survivors disappeared in the mud. He insisted he was the sole survivor of platoon that discovered a young Australian soldier crucified on a barn door.

Historians who interviewed him contested his claim. They said there was no record of the men Platoon 7. The Aussies, on the day he described, were miles down the front. According to my grandfather, his platoon had lost their way in a fog that hovered over the quagmire, had been haunted by the sound of men screaming for help as they were sucked under and drowned in shell holes. 

He told the scholars Platoon 7 had bivouacked in the remains of a farming hamlet named Petite Sainte. Those who studied the war said there was no Petite Sainte before or after the lines shifted like tides leaving nothing in their wake. But my grandfather was adamant he knew what he knew, and as much as it pained him to talk about it, he would not back down from his story.

“The Holy Spirit speaks not only to us but through us,” he told me on the last night of his life. He took my hand and said he would soon stand before his Maker and would have to tell the Father Almighty he had killed his beloved Son as the only begotten died for the sins of Mankind a second time. My grandfather was no centurion dicing for robes. He was a boy from Toronto who wanted to go home.

 “You don’t know the burden I am taking with me,” he whispered. “He can forgive all the wrongs of humanity except the one that took his Son. I should have hanged myself when I had the chance, but there weren’t any trees for miles. When I finally saw chestnuts in Paris, I hadn’t the heart or rope to bring more death into the world.”

The story the historians contested was a piece of grizzly apocrypha of the Western Front. It ranked with the Germans chopping the hands off Belgian babies. According to  men who studied records, the Germans were human, too; that despite introducing poisoned gas, despite using flame-throwers on the Allied lines and bombing the streets of London in the night, they did so only because they knew for certain that the Allies were planning to do the same to them. Being pre-emptive is a cold fact of war.

My grandfather went on the CBC and told his story. I have a recording of the broadcast on an old reel-to-reel tape. I can hear how he fought the tears to get the words out. The night was raining, “filthy weather,” as he put it. The rain was mixed with sleet. Easter a year after they had taken Vimy on Resurrection Day and emerged from their own graves to surprise the Germans behind their lines was still winter. Life refused to return. 

Their sergeant, a carpenter from Cooksville in his previous life, spotted some farm buildings in the shadows. There should not have been any structures left standing in that area. The area had been the target of heavy shelling for three years. The platoon made for the barn, broke open a side door, and threw themselves down on the hay. Someone lit a small fire so the men could remove their tunics and de-louse them over the open flame. They heard nothing. Even the lookout, denigrating his duty – and who could blame him under the circumstances – fell asleep. The guns were silent. One of the men thought he heard a nightingale.

They woke before dawn to the sound of someone moaning and crying out in agony for a mother. 

“Here is your son,” the voice said.

They’d grown used to such sounds, to the voices of their mates caught out on the wire, shot, and shot again as they struggled to free themselves, then falling silent because no one came to help. But the voice was near, almost beside them if not among them. One man in the platoon said he couldn’t stand it and putting on his gear crawled around the barn to the large gated door on the opposite side from where they had entered. He screamed and pushed so that the door opened into the barn.

My grandfather sat up. He wasn’t sure if he said it or someone else uttered the word, but the name “Jesus” hung in the rancid air.  A Catholic boy, new to the unit from St. Michael’s College, crossed himself. The Australian soldier, his hands and feet nailed to the door, his arms spread, his breathing labored was hanging there. 

He called out to the awe-struck Canadians, “I thirst.” The sergeant reached for his canteen and ran to the tortured soul, but the Aussie was nailed too high to reach. He looked around and shouted that someone needed to “Get the lad down,” or “Where’s a scythe so I can reach him?” But no one was certain of what the sergeant said. The moment was silent and the silence bordered on holy awe.

The historians said that the crucified suffocated after only hours when their pectoral muscles tore and the weight of their bodies choked them to death. They argued that they would have heard the dying soldier’s moans the minute they arrived at the barn, that he could not have suffered all night long without the Canadians knowing he was there, and that they would have been called to action immediately to help a wounded comrade had the story been true. What was true was they would have done anything to help the lad. He called out to them, “Please, please.” 

“Raise me up!” the corporal of the platoon shouted. “For Christ-sakes, lift me up and let me try to pry him loose.” My grandfather said he was among the men who held the corporal up so that he could grab the nail heads with his fingers, but the more he wiggled and worked them, the more the Australian screamed. The nails would not give up their grip on the wood. Just before my grandfather and the others weakened, and lowered the corporal down, he looked into the eyes of the dying soldier, and fell to the ground weeping.

My grandfather drew his bayonet and screamed to be lifted up. He said that if he couldn’t loosen the nails he could try to pry the door boards apart; but they were old oak and would not budge. He thought for a moment he could pull on the Aussie, that the nails might slip through the stigmata and release him, but the heads were broad and had been hammered into hooks and they held the man fast and in his pain as he cried out with sounds my grandfather said he had never heard from a human voice. 

He’d heard men explode with agony when they were hit. He had cradled the dying in his arms and said even they never made a sound like crucified soldier. The radio host asked him what the sound was and my grandfather replied that it was the voice of a million demons being crushed beneath the weight of an avenging hand.

“Isn’t there anything we can do?” someone in the platoon yelled. The men stood in stunned silence. Some began to weep. If the moment had been intended to send a message of shock and horror to Allied soldiers, it had achieved its purpose. 

The historians said that such an atrocity would never have been permitted, not according to the articles of war, and not according the meticulous records kept by  commanding officers. They said that despite hundreds of thousands, if not millions of men whose bodies were never recovered from the Western Front, the offices of the command knew where their men had fallen, could pinpoint the exact location within inches. And in a war where men had fought and died for inches, every patch of mud, every step, every footprint marked a moment in the conflict.

“You are wrong,” my Grandfather told the expert in the radio studio who was there to refute his story. “You are the devil because only the devil would deny the death of the Son of God.” 

The expert laughed. So did the radio show host. 

I could tell from the recording that my grandfather, already on the verge of tears was ready to explode with rage. But he did not. He sighed. It was not a sigh of exhaustion or even trepidation, but a sound I never heard him make. It was a sigh of someone confronting a darkness while asserting that there may be light in it somewhere beyond the scope of the eye.

“So, what did you do?” the host asked almost mockingly to cast doubt upon my grandfather’s story. “What did you do then?” he repeated.

“We all knelt. We knelt as if we were standing on the skull of Golgotha. We knelt as if the sky had turned black at noon and we felt such sorrow. I looked up at that young man, his hair blowing across his forehead, his breaths laboring, his pain unfathomable and his suffering the embodiment of everything I had witnessed in the carnage of the front. Old soldiers are not supposed to talk of what we have seen. It is the unspoken code among us, and I am breaking it when I tell you that I knelt with all the others and closed my eyes. I closed my eyes and saw the faces of all my mates who had perished. I saw them staring at me and reaching out from the muck with outstretched hands and trying to speak to me. But the dead live in an eternal dream, and in dreams a person cannot speak. They can only imagine they are making sounds and those sounds are nothing but muffled moans and cries, the sound of souls attempting to call out from Hell to the living who cannot hear them.”

“Do you mean you were all praying?” asked the expert. “That sounds very extraordinary.”

“There was nothing we could do. All of us, the Catholic boy, the corporal, the sergeant, we all broke into the Lord’s Prayer, and when we reached those words where the Protestant version carries on after the Catholic one has finished, I stood. I had brought my rifle with me from the hayloft in the barn because a soldier is never, or should never be, without his rifle. I stood. And just before we reached the words that offer Heaven and Earth to the Father, I stood and drew the bolt back on my Enfield.”

“You were going to murder him?” asked the radio host.

“We shot our own to stop their suffering. They begged us to. Yes, we shot them. In a world without quarter, we made our own mercy. The Aussie knew what I was going to do. He looked at me. His eyes said. ‘Yes.’ Then he raised them to the sky and cried out “Father forgive for they know not what they do.” 

I raised the barrel and said out loud so everyone could hear, ‘Thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever,’ and as the platoon said ‘Amen’ in unison, I pulled the trigger. I shot the poor lad to put him out of his suffering. Amen.”

The radio host and the expert were silent. Then the host interrupted with the name of the program and the names of my grandfather and the historian in the studio.

The historian added, “Nice story, but it never happened.” 

The last thing on the tape of the broadcast is my grandfather saying, “How the hell would you know?” Then dead air.

I have remained true to my word. I have not opened and read my grandfather’s  diary. It is sealed with a small brass lock. My grandfather said he bought the diary in a fancy stationery store in Salisbury when they were stationed on the plain for their final training before crossing the channel. It still has grains of mud that were caught where the pages meet the spine. There is a brownish black streak along the bottom edge of the book, and when I try to put my fingernail between the pages they are stuck together. The stain is probably my grandfather’s blood. Not long after the events of Petite Sainte, he was wounded by mortar fire. He claimed that same shell killed the sergeant and the Catholic boy. My grandfather was sent, as he said, “To Blighty.”

If the truth is written in that diary it is not for me to know. It is not my truth, but I am certain that the events were real to my grandfather. Often, just before men were wounded, especially if they had not been sent down the lines for rest after extended duty, they saw and imagined things that rose from the horrors they experienced around them. It was called ‘shell shock’ by the troops. My grandfather would never have admitted to that state of mind. He was an enlisted man. If an officer suffered shell shock, the proper scientific name for the malady of the mind being neurasthenia, he would be sent to a quiet English garden in the countryside to recover his nerves before being returned to the front and likely to death. If an enlisted man said he was suffering from nerves or trench fatigue, he would be shot. My grandfather was determined to survive and he could have hidden in his mind.

As he fought the Angel of Death for weeks in a Toronto hospital, I wondered why he simply didn’t give up. His war wounds that had haunted him most of his life coupled with his intestinal cancer put him through a torment I cannot imagine. I watched him being crucified by his own life, heard him calling out for the Lord to take him, heard him forgiving a Maker who would make his creations suffer and kill each other either for King or country but usually in the name of God. I am not preaching, but I cannot forget what he said. 

He drew me close the day before he died. “Will I go to Hell for what I did?” 

I wanted to tell him he had eased someone’s suffering, that he would have cured the dying soldier had been able to do so. So I said, “No.” 

Then we prayed together. We reached the end of the prayer but he could not utter the word Amen.

Bruce Meyer is author of sixty-seven books of poetry, short stories, flash fiction, and literary non-fiction. His most recent collections of short stories are Down the Ground (Guernica Editions, 2020) and The Hours: Stories from a Pandemic (Ace of Swords Publishing, 2021). His stories have won or been shortlisted for numerous international prizes including the Anton Chekhov Prize, the Fish Fiction Prize, the Tom Gallon Trust Fiction Prize, the Carter V. Cooper Prize, the Thomas Morton Prize, and the Retreat West Fiction Prize. He lives in Barrie, Ontario and teaches at Georgian College. He can be reached by email at bruce.meyer@sympatico.ca, on Twitter at @bruce_meyer, and on Facebook at https://facebook.com/drbruce.meyer.

Mike Kiggins

Flotsam

It’s almost 3 p.m. on the Friday before finals week, and Sophia Mason is watching the orthopedic surgeon rotate the holographic scan of her right leg. She’d rather be studying.

According to the antique wall clock’s second-hand, she is exactly this old: Fifteen-years-two-months-five-days-seven-hours-twenty-one-minutes-and-eleven-twelve—

Dr. Holloway says, “I’m almost done,” interrupting her tally. 

Since her arrival to the Vanderbilt ER last night, Sophia has undergone a CAT scan—gristle threading a donut—an MRI—the noisiest coffin—transcutaneous oxygen tension measurements—mercury sinking to a horrible day—and awalking test measuring muscle blood flow and the clearance rate of Xenon 133—lingering decay tracing lurking rot.

On the opposite side of the examination room, Ainsley whispers, “This wasn’t the plan.” Sophia has always been on a first-name basis with her mother, so their current distance feels right. Still, she doesn’t like the looks Dr. Holloway and his two nurses exchange when Ainsley responds to her internal dialogue.   

A few years ago, what Sophia called “the rot” began shredding the nerves of her leg, siphoning subcutaneous fat, unraveling muscle fiber, and mining marrow. She couldn’t guess how often she has twisted her right ankle.

Dr. Holloway cradles her foot, saying, “Tell me how this feels,” and then he drags a silver three-pronged tool from her heel to her toes.

Sophia stares at the wart removal scars along the roots of her left fingers. “Like cactus needles dipped in liquid nitrogen.” 

“Regarding post-op rehab,” Dr. Holloway begins immediately, “implanting the smart dock for a transtibial amputation is better than a transfemoral.” 

What’s one leg, she wonders, treading against a tsunami? Sophia shakes her head. She can’t decide what’s worse: the surgeon’s chapped and frigid fingers palpating from her ankle to inner thigh, those getting too close to her fists anchoring the paper gown in her lap, or the skin tags mushrooming from his jowls and neck? 

“Let me start over,” he claps. “There’s B.K. and A.K.” 

“I’ve already aced college-level genetics and micro,” Sophia says. “Below, above. Got it.”

Ainsley keeps muttering and Dr. Holloway keeps talking, but Sophia only hears static. Because she hates the face adults make when precocious lingers on the tip of their contempt, she stares at her bruised shin and calf for the first time in months. A rotting banana, those darkened splotches and yellowing flesh.

Last year, as her mother’s neuroleptic cocktail began failing, Ainsley once joked, “No matter how bad it looks on the outside, nothing’s wrong beneath the peel. Who cares about sugar seeping to the surface?” After that, forecast be damned, Sophia started wearing tube socks and jeans. 

Eventually, the pruning shears of pharmacogenetics couldn’t keep pace with the recursive thicket of Ainsley’s delusions and paranoia. Six months ago, she began exhibiting symptoms of Capgras syndrome, accusing a junior V.P. at work of being an imposter who was purposefully compromising the company’s network. Ainsley was placed on an emergency medical leave, which has since become permanent.

In those early days, Sophia researched Capgras, learning about validation therapy, so she started playing along with Ainsley’s quizzes: 

“What’s your favorite color?” 

“Ultramarine.”

“When you were eight and I took you to Destin, what’d you beg me to buy you?” 

“A blue ball cap with a white manatee on it.”

“What’s the one herb I can’t stand, and why?” 

“Cilantro, because only a mother’s disappointment tastes worse.”

Sophia also began announcing herself every time she entered the room, hoping her voice would remind Ainsley who she was. This worked occasionally, but afterwards the suspicion on her mother’s face only deepened.

Over the last few weeks, a new wrinkle has rumpled the rest. Ainsley has now become convinced she was sent back through time and trapped in the past. To her credit, some of her correct predictions include: a sinkhole opening on the property of a nearby Black couple whom she’d convinced not to sell to a developer, revealing a cave where Civil War gold had been stashed; alerting a neighbor two doors down to get a prostate-specific-antigen blood test three months before it would have been too late; and, a local megachurch pastor getting busted as part of a child porn ring, who would later incriminate the state senator who had been instrumental in outlawing autonomous vehicles across Tennessee.

Most of her mother’s predictions haven’t come true, but a lot of them almost did. Those near-misses bother Sophia more than Ainsley’s bullseyes. In fact, those are why she’s never told anyone about the snippets of the future she remembers. Like how her science study buddy, a junior named January, would find a $100 bill in a bargain bin hardback she’d buy on a whim. Or how a letter with a check for her would get mistakenly delivered to the neighbor with prostate cancer. Or having a mini-brella in her backpack on the sunny day the high school’s fire sprinklers would go off by accident. 

Unlike Ainsley, Sophia’s few positive hits have never amounted to much. And there have been too many events which happened without any warning. Like last night, when January was driving them to a concert at Exit/In. They were running late because it had taken Sophia longer to sneak out than she expected, but the stoplights were on their side, green after green after yellow. Until a drunk driver ran a red light and crushed the passenger-side door. Sophia’s concussion was a symphony scored for nothing but tympani. She remembers the warm blood streaming from her thigh and the paramedic’s wintry scissors slicing up the right leg of her favorite pair of jeans and down tube socks, how the woman had looked up at her and shook her head. “Sorry, kid. This wreck’s the least of your worries.”

As the static resides, Dr. Holloway is saying, “…preserve joint function in the residual limb, if we can save the knee.” 

Sophia looks up. So much in a definite article, so much that’s definitely not.

“Given the extent of the decay—” 

“‘Ex-tent-of-the-de-cay,’” Ainsley’s voice limps along. Sophia commiserates. Calculus she can do in her sleep, but poetry’s arithmetic she’ll always fail. 

“Yes, Mrs. Mason. Unfortunately, we’re looking at amputating between twelve and thirteen centimeters below your daughter’s knee.” 

Sophia does the rough conversion—Around five inches—but as she looks at her leg, she can’t figure out where the chop will land.  

Dr. Holloway nods at one of his nurses, who stands, then he swivels toward Ainsley. “My apologies, ma’am, but there’s a little more paperwork we need you to fill out, if you’ll follow my nurse.” 

“Why’s this happening?” Ainsley says, not waiting for anybody to show her the way.  

Sophia is in the middle of figuring out how many minutes and seconds to add to her age when Dr. Holloway locks the door and raises his palms. “Don’t be alarmed.” 

She isn’t, because the further her future unfurls from this point, the clearer it gets.

*

Over the next two years, she will re-learn how to walk and then run, all while ignoring the predictable nicknames. 

Then three years of undergrad hurtle past with classes that actually challenge her, and the occasional party where she’ll joke with the curious and happy drunks. One feint will go, “I found a yokel’s long-lost bear trap while hiking the A.T. Still not as messy as my worst one-night stand.” Another: “I blacked out on some train tracks. That shin and foot were a flattened coin not worth pocketing.” And her favorite: “Should’ve thought twice about surfing after using a tampon from a restroom vending machine. At least the shark didn’t snag the string.” As for the rude drunks, she’ll saw through them like a surgeon from antiquity would a femur. 

Ten years after Dr. Holloway’s bad news, she’ll meet one of those assholes, an A.B.D. who will inquire what her major had been, waiting maybe five seconds before launching into his dissertation on Moby-Dick.

“Did’ya know that in the Roaring Twenties, D.H. Lawrence dubbed the titular whale the great American phallus?”

“Don’t you say, and I’d rather you didn’t.”

“In the sixties,” the A.B.D. will say after a sip, “Shulman opined that Melville’s belief in creation’s well-spring, whether reproductive —” he’ll burp but won’t wipe his lips “—or aesthetic, is the true leviathan behind all the titanic cock symbols. Me, I want to plunge deeper.” He’ll arch his left eyebrow.

Sophia won’t respond. He’ll resume: “I mean, Shulman’s right, but he’s wrong. Ahab’s trying to kill off his own queerness.” 

“Sometimes a peg leg’s just a cigar,” Sophia will say, failing to get the bartender’s attention.

“Yeah, this is my last extension,” he’ll soldier on. With a pint in his right hand, he’ll motion at the gleaming dock of her prosthesis, the skin below and above it nearly indistinguishable to sober eyes, and ask, “What’s that garter about?”  

“The wrath of a symbolic catchall,” Sophia will mutter. 

“C’mon,” he’ll say, squeezing her right knee and sloshing beer on her lap. 

Behind him, a person waiting for the bartender to notice them will say, “What the hell?”

Sophia will wrench the A.B.D.’s left thumb over his wrist until he stumbles off his stool. While the bartender and a bouncer rush over, Sophia will empty the dregs of her pint on his face, and say, “For the last time, Ahab, keep your hands off me, or you’ll see what gets ‘reaped away.’”

Once he’s gone, she’ll be served a new round garnished with too much attention and toast, “Here’s to knowing when you should fuck all the way right off.” So many glasses will clink together and tap against wood as she ignores the phantom pains threatening to capsize Sophia’s middling joy.

*

Back in her present, ten years from then—in this room that’s too bright and only getting brighter, with a surgeon she’s just met who is intent on carving away more of herself than she realizes—Dr. Holloway is saying, “From where I’m sitting, Sophia, it looks like you’ve been taking care of a very sick person. I’m sure you did the best you could, but you’re about to have major surgery. Your recovery has to be your top priority. Let me be blunt.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” she says.

“Your mother needs more help than you can give her. If she didn’t, we wouldn’t be here, because she would have noticed your condition sooner.”

“And what, you want me to turn her in?”

“She’s talking to D.C.S. and the police right now.”

The room sinks beneath and expands around Sophia. The fluorescent lights buzz. The smell of hand sanitizer wafts. Her gown crinkles beneath her fists. A minute later by the wall clock, she asks, “Which joint function will this preserve?”  

Someone tests the door handle several times. 

“I know we’ve just met,” Dr. Holloway glances back, “but you seem too sharp for that analogy.”

“You’re only convincing Ainsley she’s right.”

“Grab your shit!” Her mother pounds on the door. “Goddamn it—if you steal that duplicant from me—it’s why everything’s gone sideways—get your hands—” The scuffle trails off.

The surgeon pats Sophia’s shoulder, crinkling the gown. “I can’t imagine how tough this is for you.”

She catalogues the expression on this perfect stranger’s face, unable to estimate how many times she’ll see it over the next few years. “Below. Above. Got it.”  

“Do you have any other questions?” Dr. Holloway says while checking an alert on his watch.

Sophia looks between her left palm and right leg, uncertain how large her next scar will be or how she’ll keep her head above water, but all she says is, “May I get changed now?”

Mike Kiggins’ fiction has appeared in The Citron Review, A&U Magazine, Monkeybicycle, and elsewhere. He lives in Nashville, Tennessee, with his husband. You can find him on Twitter @MikeKiggins and read more of his work at www.heavytomorrow.com.

Deepthi Atukorala

A Big Girl

An excerpt from the unpublished novel The Fabled Life of Malini Wickrama.

Latha snuggled into the sleeping mat and strained her eyes to make out the familiar shapes around her. But the house was cave-dark. Beside her, on the only bed in the house, her twin stepbrothers giggled.

“No talking,” Latha whispered. “Tomorrow is a school day.”

Seven years her junior, they had just started school. Before their birth, that bed had been hers. Once they arrived, to her great thrill, her father and stepmother had elevated her to a reed-mat-sleeping-grown-up like themselves.

A single mosquito keened near her face and she waved it away. Gathering the covering sheet around her head leaving only her eyes uncovered, she turned towards the bedroom door and waited for light to reappear. 

The darkness gradually receded, and the room next door started to take shape. Gradually the only table in the house came into view, pushed up against the far wall with two chairs and a bench for seating. Preceded by the aroma of steaming hot rice soaked in sprats curry and the kerosene smell of the lamp he was holding Father came into view. Keeping the lamp and plate on the table that claimed most of the room, he sat down for his dinner. Kudamma skirted along the wall to her seat. In the lamplight’s golden halo, they bent their heads and mixed the food delicately with fingers. Their shadows loomed large in the wattle and daub wall beside them. Latha closed her eyes, ready to be lulled to sleep by their murmured dinner conversation.

“Latha can barely fit into her school uniform,” Kudamma spoke in her low dinner-time voice. “With next Friday’s pay, can you get one-and-a-half yards of white poplin?”

“What about rice?” Father’s deep voice too was pitched low.

 “Get naadu rice enough for a week. We can manage with some mung beans and chickpea for the next two weeks,” Kudamma said, and added after a pause, “She is growing fast. It won’t be long before she becomes a big girl.” 

Latha’s eyes flew open. She was glad of the darkness that hid her blush.

Kudamma was looking at Father, but he kept his eyes on his plate.

At school, when the girls whispered about becoming a big girl, Latha and Tikiri had tried to gather more details. Finally, Tikiri got some firsthand experience when her sister Binuri became a one, and she had kept Latha appraised of the goings on—the isolation from men with only women for company, the auspicious-time bathing, the new clothes, the celebration, the gifts. But there were parts Tikiri didn’t know too, like how one realised when it happened. When Tikiri asked, her sister had said she just knew. That worried Latha and Tikiri. What if they became big girls and didn’t even realise it? When Binuri returned to school a week later, Latha thought she looked prettier. But most telling of all, bra straps showed through Binuri’s new uniform.

Kudamma spoke again. “You know those ne’er-do-wells loitering around the tea-kiosk across the street? They don’t have eyes for her now but wait until she starts filling out. She has her mother’s face. I remember what trouble the family had with all the unwanted attention,” Kudamma laughed. “Until you came along.” 

Shocked by the words, Latha looked at Father, but he kept his head low trying to hide a smile. Latha knew the story of her parents since Gran had told it to her many times. Latha’s Amma had been the most beautiful girl in the village, and had many young men vying for her attention. But she had spurned them all until Latha’s father came along. Gran too had approved of him because he had a government job working in the road paving crew and had proven himself to be a good man by looking after his parents until their death. Besides, his family had their own plot of land and he had added one more room to the two-room house his parents had built. The union had been short-lived because of Amma’s untimely death, but only after giving Latha as her gift to them. 

Because Gran was too sickly to look after a new baby, she had arranged for her niece, Kusuma, to help. Kusuma was older to her own daughter and still unmarried due to the twin afflictions of a plain-looking face and having a mother who eloped with her husband’s friend. 

It had taken Latha’s father a long time, almost five years, to think of another woman. When he did, it had been the one who had, over that period, looked after him and his daughter. He had grown to love her in a way different to his previous fevered infatuation for his first wife, and he never recognised it as love. He thought that he was doing the logical thing when he married her.

*

A week after the diner conversation, Latha got a new uniform. 

A few more weeks later one evening after dinner when the twins and Latha were on their way to bed, Father asked Latha to stay. Latha followed them to the lean-to kitchen at the back and watched Kudamma serve the dinner of chickpeas, grated coconut, and chili-sambol for Father and herself. 

Father leaned against the window and glanced at Kudamma. “Do you want to tell her?”

Kudamma stopped serving and smiled brightly at Latha. “Your father has a great opportunity for you Latha. The whole village will be jealous when they find out.” 

Latha looked from one to the other, her heart beating like honey-bird wings.

“There is a manor house,” said Kudamma. “Wickrama Walawwa, the most prestigious home.”

 “The Mudliyars were chief ministers to our kings and later to the white Governor-General.” Father piped in. “Very respectable people who didn’t change their names and religion trying to curry favours from the white people.”

“Yes, and the Mudliyar’s granddaughter, their only child and heir, is getting married,” Kudamma said. “They are looking for a girl, a companion for her.”

Why were they saying this to her? Once, when Latha was in Grade Five, the teacher announced that Sumudu won’t be returning to school because she had gone to Colombo. Kids had whispered that Sumudu had gone as a servant to a Colombo house. Were Latha’s parents asking her to do the same? 

“To be young Hamu’s personal companion is a special privilege,” Kudamma said. “We don’t know if she will choose you, but we want you to try.” 

Father cleared his throat, and Kudamma waited for him to speak. 

“We have been very lucky. The moment my supervisor, Siri-mahattaya, heard about it from his brother, who is the old lady’s driver, he thought of you. You won’t be alone. That driver-mahattaya will look out for you.”

“Imagine meals with five, six curries,” said Kudamma, “electric lights at the turn of a switch. Travelling by car, seeing Colombo, the ocean, maybe even Anuradhapura. While your classmates toil in an old shack, cooking, cleaning, having children, you will be living in a mansion, sleeping under a fan.” 

Latha stared at Kudamma. Were they asking her to go forever?

“All the while, your pay will be collecting,” Kudamma held Latha’s gaze as if she knew her thoughts. “When you are ready to start a life, you’ll have a lot of money.”

“Who knows,” said Father, “maybe a nice young driver from the household will want to marry you. Then you will come to see us seated in the front seat of a car with your new husband.” 

Latha stared. She had never heard Father speak like this, of the future, of marriage, of her grown-up. 

That night she had trouble falling asleep. With A’levels six years away, she hadn’t thought of the future. Girls who finished school got married or started working at the ceramic factory. Was she being sent away because the uniform material had been expensive, and they had to eat rough naadu rice and chickpeas so many days? The twins had been fussy, and every meal had been a battle to coax them to eat. She tried to imagine being away from her family, not seeing the twins growing up, not being at school with Tikiri, but she couldn’t. Instead, a mansion lit with electric lights was taking shape in the darkness. She turned away from the dining room towards the wall, debating whether to tell Tikiri. She decided against it. After all, she might not even be chosen.

*

The lady of the mansion seemed to have chosen Latha, sight unseen. She found out one Friday evening when Father said that Siri-mahattaya will be coming the next morning to take them to the Walawwa. There was no time to say goodbye to Tikiri, no time for anything except to wash her clothes and whip out as much water out as possible so they would be dry by the next morning. Then the whole family spent the rest of the evening placating the twins. 

Next morning, Latha and Father were ready early. But they had to keep Siri-mahattaya waiting at the bus-halt because the twins clung to Latha, crying and begging her not to leave. In the end, Father had to pry away their octopi arms and legs to free her. 

On the bus, Latha’s eyes ached from crying and her stomach roiled as if she had eaten too much ripe jackfruit. She tried to contain her weepy hiccups so that the other passengers wouldn’t stare at her. But when they reached Ratnapura, the riot of so many people, shops, and vehicles made her forget everything for a while. They changed buses and travelled through rubber and coconut estates, and more and more villages. Finally, Siri-mahattaya rang the bell, and they got off between two coconut estates with nothing else in sight. Unlike the smiling hedges of araliya flowers in the village, tall, barbed wire fences securing the estates frowned down suspiciously at them. 

As they walked, Siri-mahattaya proudly swept his hand indicating both sides of the street. “All this belongs to the Walawwa.” 

He turned back and looked down the road. “This road was one of my first paving jobs. The old Mudliyar signed away his lands without a fuss for the road.”

“When was this?” Father asked.

“Oh, this was twenty years ago, in the fifties. Mudliyar was the Chief Clerk to the white Governor-General, and we all thought he would pull some strings and get the road moved away from his lands.” 

“Must be before 1954,” Latha was good at remembering history. “That’s when Sir Oliver Goonatilake became the first Sinhala Governor-General. Is the Mudlier still the Chief Clerk?” 

Both men turned to her in surprise. 

“No, he is dead. Loku Hamu is his widow.” Siri-mahattaya stared at her, “Keep that good head on your shoulders, child, and you will go a long way.”

Father’s strong, wide hand cupped the back of her head. 

“Remember this advice, Latha.” His voice was croaky.

She met his shiny eyes squarely and nodded, her eyes welling in response. She was going to remember this forever; this first-time Father touched her head in blessing without her kneeling at his feet.

They turned onto a paved road between two grand gate posts. The gates were elaborate metal ones as tall as young coconut trees. But they looked to be perpetually open because there were vines holding them against the nearby trees. After a long walk along a driveway between guava, mango, and rambutan trees, they saw the house. It was as wide as their garden and was trimmed with lacey-white gables. Under the portico, a man in a bright red sarong polished a black car. Latha grinned, remembering Father’s dream. She would never marry this one. He was as old as Father. The man stopped polishing and watched them with a smile. He turned out to be Siri-mahattaya’s brother.

On the front veranda between the portico steps and the main door, a cut-glass vase filled with orchids posed on a large round table. There were enough chairs and teapoys for several village houses scattered around in conversation circles. From the great big armchair by the main door, an old lady almost as small as Latha looked up from the newspaper she was reading and started folding it. She was wearing a pretty yellow osari and a white lace blouse.

Siri-mahattaya, Father, and Latha stopped on the bottom step and put their hands together in greeting.

“Aayubowan—May you live long!”

The lady returned the salutation from her seat, “How are you, Siri?” Her eyes narrowed as she scanned Latha, “So, this is the girl?”

“Yes, Hamu,” said Siri-mahattaya, “She is a bright girl. A good student. She will serve Malini Hamu well.”

“What is your name, child?”

“L… Latha,” The sounds stuck in Latha’s throat. 

“Latha.” The lady savoured the word. “What work did you do at home, Latha?”

Lathat swallowed. She hadn’t been prepared for this question, and thought through her day, “Er, I help my brothers to brush their teeth, I help Kudamma to put washed clothes to dry in the clothesline, and if it starts raining, I bring it back in. I make sure the water bucket in the toilet is full before it gets dark. Er… I help my brothers with their reading.” 

Loku Hamu nodded and seemed to hold back a smile. “It’s good to have responsibilities at a young age,” she said. “You will be keeping my granddaughter Malini Hamu company when she gets married and leaves this home. She has gone with her parents to their tea estate today, but they will be back tomorrow.” She looks at the driver-mahattaya, “Somarweera, they must be tired from the trip. Please take them to the kitchen and tell Dingi to arrange some breakfast for them,” 

They followed him around to the back of the house.

The massive kitchen was big-enough to hold Latha’s entire house. The aroma of roasting spices—coriander, fennel seed, cloves, cardamom, fenugreek, cumin, made Latha’s hungry mouth water. 

“They are roasting curry powder,” driver-mahattaya said unnecessarily as he directed them to a low table with benches for seating. 

He called out to the two women, one fat, one thin, who were stirring large metal woks at the hearth while watching them. “Dingi, Prema, you remember my brother? He is here with Malini Hamu’s girl. Dingi, Loku Hamu said to serve them breakfast.”

The fat woman smiled and nodded. She continued stirring for a little longer before taking the wok out of the fire and pouring out the spices to one of the wide reed trays lined with banana leaves. 

“Vegetable spices are done.” She told Prema before slipping three plates out of the plate rack and coming towards them. 

“You can wash your hands from the tap outside. There’s soap there.” 

When they got back, Dingi brought three glasses of water and opened the bamboo food cover to reveal dishes of rice, sambol, fish curry, and kiri hodi with boiled eggs. “Eat.” 

“Seer fish.” Siri-mahattaya was wide-eyed. “On your first day for breakfast. And eggs. You’ll be living like a Hamu.”

Latha nodded. She had heard of seer fish. Unlike the tiny, sharp-boned dried sprats they ate at home, seer fish turned out to be creamy chunks of flaky white fish. As tasty as it was, she would never miss it if she was eating sprats at home with her brothers.

After breakfast, they were taken further into the house, to a central courtyard filled with flowers and herbs. In the verandah that encircled the courtyard, Loku Hamu sat on a grander chair than the rest, a small, decorated box beside her on the many-coloured inlaid-wood table. 

She asked Latha about school grades and told her that for the next little while she had to learn the ways of the Walawwa from Dingi. Then, when she accompanied Malini Hamu to her husband’s house, Latha would help make it a Walawwa suitable for the lady. 

Then it was time for her goodbyes. Under the hawk-eye of Loku Hamu, Latha sensed the need to be strong. She steeled herself and moved so quickly paying obeisance at her father’s feet before scooting over to Siri-mahattaya’s and bouncing back up, that the two men had to bless her after she stood up. There was an imperceptible nod of approval from Loku Hamu. 

Father spent extra seconds blessing her, his hand slowly and repeatedly moving from the top of her head to the nape. Latha curled her fingers into her palms, saving the feel of her father’s rough toes she had touched in farewell for as long as she could. 

Loku Hamu gave money to both Father and Siri-mahattaya from the box. When the driver-mahattaya led them out, Latha glanced at Loku Hamu for approval before following them up to the driveway. 

Once she returned to the kitchen, they showed her to a room she would be sharing with the two women,to keep her paper-bag of clothes and to change into her home dress. From then on, she and Dingi cleaned the house. 

The first room was Loku Hamu’s. Her four-poster bed was wide enough to hold Latha and both the twins. A white mosquito net cascaded on all four sides like the Bopath Ella waterfall. An almirah ran the length of one wall and a mirror completely covered one door. 

Latha gaped at the scarecrow-girl staring back at her. Having only a cracked mirror hung at the back of the house for Father to shave, she had never seen herself from head to toe before. People said she looked like her mother. But when Latha looked in the cracked mirror, she only saw an ordinary face like her classmates. At school nobody talked about looks. They only talked about who was good at math or Sinhala essays or singing or drawing and who brought sweets in their lunch box. Only physical attributes they talked of were their height or the length of their plaits. Now Latha saw the bony arms, the square dress that hung from her thin shoulders like Loku Hamu’s nightgown on the hanger behind the bathroom door and turned away. She would never be beautiful like her mother. 

The toilets in this house astounded her. Their home toilet, built farthest away from the drinking-water well, had three wattle and daub walls, a thatched roof, and a broken door the boys couldn’t close. Inside, a concrete slab with a hole and foot-shapes on either side covered the pit underneath. Here at the Walawwa, the servant’s toilet had an elongated white porcelain bowl instead of the hole. Hamu’s toilet was in a room attached to the bedroom. A seatless porcelain chair eliminating the need to squat and instead of a water bucket and a bowl, another pedestal seat squirted water up to wash. After Dingi cleaned the porcelain chair, she pulled a long chain hanging from the ceiling, and a mass of water like the river after the rains gushed down. Latha jumped back, but the water swirled around and got sucked into the hole and not a drop spilled anywhere on the floor.

“Close your mouth!” Dingi laughed at Latha. 

Latha’s head was filled with questions but she kept her mouth shut. Dingi and Prema had already laughed at her when she asked for directions to the bombu bush. At home after a meal, she just broke a bombu twig, stripped the bark with her nail and chewed the end until it fanned out and used it to brush her teeth. But here, it seems people bought plastic brushes from the store. 

“What about when you were in your own homes?” Latha asked, but they just kept laughing. 

Dingi and Latha moved from room to room, six in all and five with attached bathrooms. 

“How many people sleep in these?” Latha asked Dingi.

“Four in three rooms. Loku Hamu in one, Rosemond Hamu and her husband in one, and Malini Hamu in one. The last two are for guests.”

All the while, Loku Hamu moved around giving instructions to do this or that to different people and answered phone calls. When the washerwoman brought laundry, there was a problem with some missing sheets. The coconut pluckers came but there was problem getting the coconut collectors and counters organized. Vendors came to buy arecanuts and pineapple grown in the property. Workers came and left after getting meals and directions. Meanwhile, no one dropped in to share a piece of breadfruit, a comb of plantains, or some gossip. 

Back home, Aslin Nona and Kudamma would be laughing in the kitchen as they made tea before going to Dhamma school to pick the twins and Aslin Nona’s grandson. Every week, Aslin Nona stopped to have tea because her heart gave her trouble if she walked to and back from the temple without a rest. And both Kudamma and Latha looked forward to her visits, and the funny stories she told.

By the day’s end, Latha’s head was exploding with Walawwa things and Walawwa ways. She never imagined people needed so much furniture, clothes, and other paraphernalia and spent so much effort to maintain them. 

Just to have afternoon tea for one person, they had laid the table with two finger-bowls, a napkin, a tea-plate, a plate of biscuits, and tea. Loku Hamu only drank her tea but everything needed to be washed, dried, and put away again. Tea fingerbowls and napkins differed from rice-and-curry ones. Then there were those almirahs full of clothes and shoes! How did they even remember what they had? Latha knew that two dresses, one to wear out and one for the house, and one uniform for school or temple, were all that was necessary to dress clean. Even though she had five curries for lunch and hoppers with fish and other accompaniments for dinner, after each meal she had wished it had been the simple one or two curries from home that always left her satiated and comfortable. What a mad thing it was that they couldn’t see how simple it could all be?

That night, lying on her new reed mat next to the two snoring women, Latha wondered if the boys were still sad, or if they were up late into the night, whispering and giggling with no one to supervise them. She imagined Father and Kudamma in the lamplight's halo, eating quietly. They won’t have to eat rough unappetising naadu rice ever again. Would the teacher announce that she had gone to live in another village? For how long would Tikiri be sad? How long before they all put Latha in a far corner of their minds? 

That’s the way it had been when Gran died. At first, Latha had been inconsolable. Now she only remembered her as a fleeting figure in a faded blouse and a sari, walking behind her as she skipped along the footpath. Or whenever she smelled roasting rice flour, that made Latha’s mouth water thinking of Gran’s cashew-studded aluwa. 

Everyone said Latha was lucky that her Kuda-Amma was almost her Amma from her infancy. But if her own Amma was alive, she would never have sent Latha away. Tears seeped from her closed eyelids down the side of her temples and into her hair. Why was she crying for her mother now? All this time, she only thought of Amma’s looks to wonder if she looked like her, because they had no photographs.

Even amidst her sadness, Latha saw the selfishness. As long as people wanted her, she hadn’t thought deeply of those who were gone. Only when she felt rejected did she remember the ones she had lost. The tears dried in her eyes.

Is this how it worked? People only longed for others when they felt rejected? Was that how it worked with everybody or was she the only selfish one? 

She wondered what Malini Hamu was like. What would happen if she didn’t like Latha? Would her parents send her to another house? No, Latha had to take matters to her own hands from now on. She decided that she would do everything to make Malini Hamu happy. That way she would keep Latha forever.

Deepthi Atukorala is a graduate of The Writers Studio at Simon Fraser University and writes fiction and poetry. Literary journals Pulp Literature and Drunk Monkeys have welcomed her short stories. She has been shortlisted for Malahat Review Far Horizons Award for Short Fiction and Surrey International Writers Conference Short Story competition. Her poem “Authentic Self” won the 2021 Fox Cities Book Festival poetry competition. She was born and raised in Sri Lanka and makes her home in the unceded lands of Musqueam, Squamish, and Tsleil-Waututh First Nations known as Vancouver, Canada.

K.C. Vance

Spell

I’m a good speller. I can spell almost anything. I don’t know why. What happens when you’re a good speller? People find out, then they’re always asking you how to spell things. My husband, although an educated man, an engineer, was one of those people. When I met Jack he would always ask me how to spell words like phlebotomy, mesothelioma, Albuquerque, Lithuania and pretend to be impressed when I was right, after he confirmed, of course. 

Over the years he quit confirming and accepted my orthography skills. If he were in a certain mood, he asked how to spell easier and easier words, words even Helen, our six-year-old, could spell. If distracted, I sometimes answered without thinking, s-t-o-p, and he and Helen laughed and laughed. It was funny, I guess, in a way. 

My mom’s a bad speller too, but finds no humor in it. When she comes to our house, she gets angry if I don’t spell things at the speed she can type on her phone with her fat fingers. I spelled phonetical too fast for her the other day, then too slowly. “I’m not stupid,” she said. “Is that how you answer your students’ questions—like they’re stupid?” 

Biting my lip, I went to get the leash. “I should probably take Humphrey out.” Our dog came running and I took him on a long walk, leaving Mom at the house to stare at her phone alone, not that she cared. Humphrey’s always happy to see my mom because it usually means an impromptu walk.

Although, maybe I’m not giving Mom enough credit. She did try to be nice for a little while after Jack’s diagnosis and managed for a few months. But eventually she exhausted her limited stores of civility, probably right around hospice time. She always said Jack was my better half, the son she never had.

To be clear, I don’t spell words quickly to make her mad. If you spell a word too slowly, you start to get confused and doubt yourself. You have to do it quickly, picturing the word in your mind, otherwise, you lose your confidence.

* 

When the doctor gave us the diagnosis, the name of the syndrome made me picture a white, sandy beach on the Florida Panhandle. When he spoke of where the cancer had metastasized, I imagined the gray Gulf tide washing over Jack’s body, depositing salt, sand, and carcinogens in its wake. I explained to the doctor that Jack had quit smoking seven years ago. Wasn’t he aware that after quitting, your body recovers quickly? Perhaps he was mistaken about the MRI. Maybe it had been mixed up with another patient, someone much older. Of course, it turned out he wasn’t mistaken and Pancoast, spelled the way it sounds, is the name of the doctor who initially discovered the syndrome and wasn’t related to sand, sea, or Florida. 

Maybe I was thinking of Florida because when we received the diagnosis, we had already made June reservations for the beach and Disney. Reservations suddenly seemed like a ridiculously optimistic notion. Why would anyone tempt fate like that?

Sometimes when Dr. Stubblefield mentioned the word Pancoast, I pictured the tide lapping at our toes, walking hand in hand with Jack on a deserted shore at sunset, like some schmaltzy Hallmark card. The way the doctor was talking I wasn’t sure we would be going to the beach, but we did. Jack wanted to be the one to take Helen to Disney for the first time, for her to have that memory of him. 

The promise of Florida kept him alive for longer than expected. No one wants to leave when you have Disney reservations. The time to leave is after the fun.

*

When we returned home, the fun was over. Jack’s condition declined rapidly, the kind of decline that made his doctor suggest hospice. That’s where we spent the next month and where I discovered the NDE genre.

During those four weeks, in the peculiar state of bored anxiousness or anxious boredom, I discovered a bookshelf in the Annie Leigh Jones Residential Hospice Center with titles about death, heaven, and near-death experiences or NDE’s. They were full of comforting words about God’s golden shore. I read them to Jack so he would know what was coming and feel better about leaving. Maybe he would change his mind about the possibility of a heaven. On ever increasing doses of morphine, I’m not sure whether Jack heard or understood me. He held conversations with people hovering just under the ceiling light, where perhaps he saw a small portal to another dimension, a dimension under construction. “Get those beams unloaded,” he said, not to me, but to the ceiling people. “They’re not going to unload themselves.”  

One of the NDE books was written by a preacher who had a car wreck when he was 37. He was pronounced dead and went to heaven for 80 minutes, which was warm light, beautiful music, and deceased loved ones greeting him with open arms. But then a preacher he knew happened upon the wreck and with the best intentions prayed over his body, until he came back to life. He fell out of heaven and back into a body with legs crushed beyond repair, unspeakable pain, and the prospect of over twenty surgeries. He had been wearing his seatbelt.

Crediting the important role of seatbelts in their journey to and from the after-life seemed to be a common thread in the NDE books, at least the modern ones. They all would still be in heaven if they hadn’t been wearing their seatbelts. The credit was supposed to encourage seatbelt usage, but heaven sounds so much better than my current situation, or any situation I can even imagine, that now when considering whether to click-it or ticket. I think fuck it. Go to heaven. I hear it’s nice. 

Of course, with Helen, I can’t afford not to wear my seatbelt. Life may not currently be all warm light and beautiful music, but it’s not all tediousness either. There’s sorrow, all those pamphlets they hand you at hospice tell you how to deal with the grief. It’s a process. But there’s also things I would miss—my dog, coffee, chocolate. I have a t-shirt that says so, and I would miss Helen’s goofy smile, of course, so many things. 

*

Sometimes Helen sat in the Hospice room with us. She too was bored, sad, but bored. I spent a great deal of time telling her how to spell words when she was on my phone looking up games or YouTube videos, words like face, sand, make-up. Hospice had good wi-fi. Of course, I should have made her sound out the words, being not only a mom, but a teacher. Language acquisition is a long, arduous process, but I didn’t feel like being a teacher over the summer. Observing Jack, I noticed how, like so many other things, losing language is a much faster process than acquiring it.

One day while Helen was talking to the nurses in the kitchen, the Hospice Chaplain came into the room and told me Jack should have died months ago. Maybe I should tell him that it was okay to leave, he continued. People with families have the hardest time letting go, he explained. Sometimes they need permission. He said all this while standing over Jack’s bed, not bothering to spell or whisper. Jack fixed his eyes on him and asked, “Where’s the crane?”

“It’s coming,” I said. “Just running late.” 

The chaplain smiled and gave me an awkward hug before wandering out the sliding glass doors to the gardens. He sat down at one of the benches and started reading his bible while sliding the red ribbon bookmark between his fingers.

I wasn’t ready for Jack to die. Jack was obviously not ready to die. He would not be coming back. He would not return to see Helen graduate, walk her down the aisle, or tell me all about the afterlife. When he left, it would be final. What was wrong with this so-called chaplain?

While reading from the words of Georges de Benneville who died briefly in the 18th century when he was 36, I considered the chaplain’s suggestion. The room grew dark, and I scooted closer to the dim lamp beside the bed to read the account of de Benneville’s first death. Georges was my new favorite NDE memoirist. Born one of nine children of Huguenot refugees, he became a pastor and physician, and wrote eloquently of the afterlife and how the multitude were delivered from the seven habitations of the damned, eventually passing through five celestial habitations. Jack appeared to enjoy de Benneville’s descriptions of the afterlife. He smiled and his hands became even more animated in the secret sign language of the ceiling people. His directions became more urgent, telling the ceiling people to hoist that beam and pull it over to the right, the right!

After lying in repose for 42 hours, Georges de Benneville returned to his body. His NDE convinced him God was too good to condemn anyone to eternal hell, which was not a popular belief in the 18th century when most held to predestination. He was something of a heretic, spreading this new gospel of the restoration of all souls. As a physician, he incorporated the remedies of the Native Americans into his medical practice, believing there was an essential unity behind every appearance of religious diversity. Liking the sound of that phrase, I repeated it to Jack. He smiled and nodded in agreement, plucking at the wrinkles in the blanket. “Drop it in the hole,” he ordered his people. “Drop it!” Apparently, they were not very good at following direction. De Benneville died the second time in 1793, when he was 90.

*

My husband was agnostic, never wore a seatbelt, and smoked a pack or two a day for most of his life. Seems like if you didn’t believe in heaven, you would wear a seatbelt. He always said anyone who believed in heaven or God was not a reasonable or logical person. He probably didn’t think Georges de Benneville reasonable, so despite the physician’s reportings from beyond, Jack in all likelihood maintained his agnosticism. 

Whenever we visited my 94-year-old grandmother in the nursing home, Jack always wondered aloud why anyone would want to end up like that? She probably didn’t want to end up like that. Who would? But yet, she goes on and on, always careful to click her seatbelt securely whenever we go anywhere.

My grandmother, bless her—she doesn’t talk to ceiling people, but she says a small girl and an old man live in her room. They leave when I visit. My grandmother can’t see. She can barely hear. I repeat everything I say at least three times, wording them differently. Asking me how to spell words, she tries to pronounce them—synthroid, immunotherapy, hospice. “Speak up,” she says, becoming frustrated, holding on for her great-grandchildren. When they visit and give her a hug, she doesn’t want to let go.

* 

Even though I had always tried to be honest in my marriage, I took the chaplain’s advice. After opening the sliding glass door in Jack’s room, we could smell the sweet, almost cloying yellow roses which bloomed all around the patio. Lowering the bed rail, I crawled onto a sliver of empty mattress beside Jack, laying my hand softly on his hollowed chest and kissing his face where the skin stretched thin over his cheekbones. “We’re going to miss you, so much,” I whispered, “but we’ll be okay. We’ll see you again soon, so soon.” He ordered the ceiling people to knock off and focused on my words. I was surprised. He never let them slow down, much less stop, what with the impending deadline.

“It’s okay,” I said, granting permission. For some reason, I spelled it out. “Go, g-o,” I said slowly, too slowly, losing confidence in the knowledge that I was doing the right thing. He offered one of his old, crooked smiles and must have understood, because finally the next day, he did.

K.C. Vance's work has appeared in the The South Carolina Review, New Madrid, Nelle, Zone 3, and  elsewhere. She holds an MFA from Murray State University where she  works as a Medical Librarian and Professor. A native of Tennessee, she  now resides in Kentucky with her family and a house full of pets. You can reach her on Twitter @cvance41, on Facebook: Facebook.com/kcvance4, on Instagram @kcvance, on her website: https://kcvance1.blogspot.com/ or by email at kcvance4@gmail.com.

Lenna Jawdat

Invisible Shadows

My cats see ghosts. They chase invisible shadows, claw at the walls, yell into corners of the ceiling. My partner and I joke, when one of them jumps up from a nap, strolls up to a wall and meows directly into it, that they must sense my teta, my grandmother, whose apartment I moved into some time after her death. Teta didn’t like cats, thought they were dirty, which is funny to me because I discovered my love of cats while visiting her in Cyprus during childhood summers. They would roam freely in the streets, and I would chase them down and sing at them, pet their matted fur, put out dishes of milk for them to lap. They weren’t allowed inside the house; they were too “dirty.”

The day I brought my cats, then kittens, home, my apartment still felt like her apartment. As they bounded around, exploring the space, curling up in the brown leather armchair she used to sit in for the nightly news and a nightcap, I had the distinct sensation in my belly that I was breaking a rule. I named them Zeitoun (olive in Arabic) and Manoush (after my favorite Palestinian flatbread).

 Teta would have hated the mess they make - knocking knick knacks off countertops, scratching furniture, spraying litter on the bathroom floor. Cats are pure chaos. She was meticulous, rigid, concerned with each thing looking just right. She’d comb her fingers through the tassels of each rug, straightening them. I used to watch her in her dressing gown, smearing creams on her soft face, combing her silver hair, applying lipstick, at the same dressing table that’s now cluttered with my eclectic jewelry and dark nail polish.

Teta was Palestinian. She and my jiddo, my grandfather, met as teenagers in the lush hills of Lebanon, where they’d both fled with their families during the Nakba of 1948, when the state of Israel was established on Palestinian soil. Nearly 700,000 Palestinian Arabs fled their homes in terror. My grandparents, along with their parents and siblings, packed a couple of bags and took a vacation, hoping they could wait out the violence and uncertainty. They never returned. Perhaps it was why she was so particular about her belongings. She’d lost everything. 

 My parents moved to New York in the 1970s because, yet again, their home, now Beirut, was under attack. First it was the civil war, then invasion by the Israel Defense Forces.

 “Where are you from?” my mom recalls New York City shop clerks asking her.

“Palestine,” my mom would reply.  

“There is no Palestine.”

 The violence of assimilation. The parts of you that get beat down until they’re silent.

When I was little, my parents would have dinner parties and from my bed I listened for the clink of silverware, the raucous laughter, the cadence of my parents’ speech muffled through the floorboards. I’d creep silently to the top step of the stairwell, comforted by the warmth of the din and the sliver of warm light from the dining room below. I heard a word here or there, “torture,” “war-ravaged,” “shelling,” which I’d weave into gruesome stories with my big, childhood imagination. When I slept, I dreamed of emerging from rubble in buildings that were merely shells, the sounds of gunshots and bombs echoing throughout the space, looking for my family, my home.

I was 14 when the planes struck the World Trade Center. I was attending an international school in DC, and had always loved the feeling that we were all connected, through history and culture, to far away places. The world felt small and welcoming. That changed the day the principal called an emergency assembly and informed us all of the attack. There were a few chuckles, then a stirring silence as we all tried to make sense of what was just said. Planes. Hijacking. Attacks. As students spilled out of the auditorium and wandered, wide eyed and shocked, back in the direction of their classrooms, we shared the same fear.

The school closed for a few days, and then a few days more when they started receiving bomb threats by fearful xenophobes. “Go back to where you’re from” they’d say. But I had nowhere else to go; I was an envelope with no return address marked “return to sender.”

At night, I’d wake up to the thwop of helicopters and light suddenly illuminating my whole bedroom as if it was daytime. I felt afraid for my life, unsure of who to trust in my newly divided world.

I became hyper-aware of mutterings in the hallways, on high alert for hateful quips. I was in the school library one morning when I heard one classmate state loudly, “All Arabs are terrorists,” as if I wasn’t there, his impulsivity and entitlement to my motherland making him bold where others kept their opinions under their breath. The murmur of agreements that followed landed in the center of my chest, knocked the wind out of me.

 My parents warned me to be careful who I disclose my ethnicity to. Hate crimes were on the rise. My light skin kept me safe, and I spent childhood working to approximate the accents of my classmates. But my name was a flag. “Where are you from?” they’d ask at parties. 

“DC,” I’d respond hesitantly.

“Where are you really from?” 

The little kid inside me curled into a ball, hiding behind the veneer of whiteness, finding security skating on the icy surface of the world.

I wake in the middle of the night with images, metaphors, memories: the image of legos falling out of my mouth like teeth. The clumsy shapes of Arabic words rolling on my tongue. I can’t make the sounds that form my parents’ native language. Mother tongue: a foreign object in my mouth. What have I lost that cannot be found? Am I a lost thing? Where do I belong? 

During my training to become a Reiki Master, students took turns practicing channeling healing light over video chat. I’m paired with Marcella, who is also part Palestinian. We sit on the floor of our respective living rooms, clearing the space by burning aromatic herbs and setting intentions. I lay down on my yoga mat to receive Reiki healing, and the cats curl up with me, Zeitoun under my left armpit, Manoush behind my head, their warmth radiating. 

My limbs are weightless in the water. I float, looking up at the blue sky. Dappled golden light streams through the leaves of the lemon tree. I hear the familiar lilt of my parents’ and grandparents’ voices, muffled. My ears are full of water. Smells of basil and mint from jiddo’s garden waft over, muddling with chlorine and the coconut of sunscreen. Everything is still, except for the slightest ruffle of branches in the breeze, small ripples across the surface of the jacuzzi. I’m in Cyprus, in my grandparents’ garden. My mind is quiet, drinking it all in.

When Marcella finishes my session, I open my eyes. The cats, who were sitting on the window sill, traipse over to me as I sit up and look around the space. I’m in my apartment, teta’s apartment, filled with my plants and belongings, the artwork I’ve hung, rugs and cushions from my travels. I’m in my body, heart thumping, limbs heavy, being held by the ground underneath me. Zeitoun springs into my lap and Manoush flops on the floor beside me, exposing his soft belly fur. I check in with Marcella. “I’m sorry,” she says, wiping away tears, “I felt the presence of ancestors… a grandmother, if that makes sense...?” I nod, tears forming in my eyes. She adds, “she loves you so much.” 

She felt our tetas there together. We talk about taking a pilgrimage to Palestine once it’s safe enough to travel again. As we chat, I can feel the gentle vibration of the cats purring under their sun-warmed fur. And I imagine our tetas, sipping tea together in the living room behind her, propped up against traditional Palestinian embroidered cushions, their cups and hearts brimming with warmth.

Lenna Jawdat is an Arab-American writer, yoga teacher, Reiki master and psychotherapist in private practice. Her work is published or forthcoming in Stone of Madness Press, FreezeRay Poetry, Rogue Agent and Sledgehammer Lit. She lives in DC (on Piscataway and Anacostan land) with her partner, two cats, Manoush and Zeitoun, and a rotating cast of foster kittens. You can find her on instagram: @lennaj.

Ali Bryan

Patron of Bones

“You have to get rid of the bones.” My husband stands in the driveway, coffee and laptop in hand, and stares down at the yellow plastic bag at the edge of the lawn. 

 “I know, I know,” I mutter from the front step. “I’ll do it today.” I don’t bother to promise because we both know there’s only a fifty percent chance the bones will be gone when he gets home from work. I blow him a kiss, because he accepts this. We both do. It’s what the dating sites get wrong. They shouldn’t ask if you like tennis or Jesus or fixed-rate mortgages. RVs or Paris. They should ask: what would you do if your husband watched football on his phone during your kid’s concert? What would you do if your wife collected the bones of a dead and very large animal and left them in the front yard for two weeks?

 In fairness, he supplied the bag. When he saw me loaded down with an armful of femurs and tibias, standing shin deep in the icy Elbow River, he’d gone back to the car in search of something to put them in. I filled the grocery bag to overflowing. I think you have enough, he’d said at one point. The plastic was starting to split. I carried the bag, like a newborn, back to the car. My husband popped the trunk and I slid the bag inside, propping it in the corner so the bones wouldn’t tumble out. We both stood back to admire my handiwork. What are you planning to do with them? He asked. I replied, I don’t know, because I didn’t.

 I sit on the front step, sip my coffee and size up the bag. There are a lot of bones. Tomorrow is garbage day. I could just toss them. Or throw ‘em in the compost. Somehow, both options make me feel uncomfortable, criminal, juvenile. I nudge the bag underneath the patio table. I’ll deal with the bones later, after the kids have gone to school. For now, they’ll be out of sight from postmen and passers-by. 

My kids trickle into the kitchen in varying states of readiness. The teenagers are overtired, the tween, determined, all of them hungry. I cook breakfast, but think about the bones. Who does that? My husband had asked, the day after we’d brought them home, as he stared out the front window, a regretful accomplice. 

I does that. 

But the question he should’ve asked was: why?

My son has brought his antler to the table. He found the antler in a southern Alberta field, sun-bleached and sleek, nestled amongst the grass and cacti. It is beautiful and majestic. Somehow, it is perfect. I hand him a plate of breakfast and convince myself the bones are the same. That by lovingly plucking them from the river and assembling them into a plastic bag, I am honoring the flesh and muscle and hide and soul and legacy of the animal to which the bones belonged.

 Animals, my husband had inferred, fingering through the lot. What did an accountant know about ungulates? He’d held up a competing pair of femurs. Enough to know I’d collected more than one.  

I refill my coffee, pleased with how I’ve justified my actions in the river. I am not a hunter or a weirdo, but a noble scavenger, a nature aficionado, a patron of bones. The bones will pair well with the shells and fossils on the mantle, with the petrified wood in my bathroom, the antler in my son’s hand.    

You are not bringing those things in the house, my husband had said when we were walking up the driveway. I’d detoured then, as if that hadn’t been my intention, as if my plan all along had been to leave them outside where I might turn them into folk art or hillbilly sculpture, a white trash trophy. 

“I need a plan for the bones,” I say to my oldest as she slings her backpack over her shoulders. She is practical and sympathetic. She thinks in equations, I think in art. “Take them back to the river,” she replies. “Other animals feed off them. They need those bones. Osteophagy,” she says. “Look it up.”

When she’s gone, I do. She is right. Animals, even herbivores, especially herbivores, consume bones as a source of phosphorous. An innate behavior, Wikipedia describes, animals will feast on bones to supplement a deficiency, to boost their mineral intake. Bears, birds, porcupines, cows, deer: all have been observed practicing osteophagy for hundreds of years. They need bones. I load the dishwasher and wonder what deficiency I was trying to supplement when I collected the bones. Why, I had gathered them with such fervor, such necessity, such innate behavior. What am I missing?

The middle child is the next to leave. He tosses the antler on his bed and jams his feet into his shoes. I check the time. He will have to run, or he’ll miss the bus. He forgets to close the front door or doesn’t bother. I watch him race down the hill. I see the bones under the patio furniture and feel shame. Bone hoarder, mineral thief. Deficient.

I turn and pick up my youngest who is too big to be picked up. She’d watched me pick up the bones in the river that day but never questioned, never marvelled, never joined my zealous mission. Maybe because she’s only nine and she thinks collecting bones from the riverbed is just another thing moms do, like laundry or banking. Maybe because it didn’t matter.  Or maybe because she knows I will never have the answer. That her mother is simply drawn to brokenness. There are cues all over the house: in the jars of beach glass, in the photographs of collapsed barns and abandoned industrial places. In my ripped jeans, sentence fragments, and fractured spine.    

I stuff her lunch into her backpack and walk her to school. It is a short walk. Across the street and up a cobbled path that leads to the sprawling schoolyard. I kiss her at the top of the path, at the edge of the field. She runs. 

Time to face the bones, time to face my deficiency. I walk home and nudge the bag with my foot. It topples and a bone tumbles out. I squat down, hovering over the bag while a parade of parents and kids jostles by. After they’re gone, I re-stack the bones and rest the bag against the house. I can’t bear to get rid of them. Yet. 

I slip back inside the house and go about my day doing the other thing I “does.” I think. I think about bones. I think about tendons and ligaments and connective tissues. Marrow, skeletons, joints. Brokenness.

Wholeness is what I’m missing. I am bones scattered in the river. Mother bones, wife bones, artist bones, animal bones. Displaced bones. 

It is nearing five o’clock. I rush outside barefoot. I need to get rid of the bones. I pick up the bag, tiptoe around the side of the house and startle a deer. Both of us freeze though neither of us is entirely surprised. She’s been coming to the neighbor’s yard for years, feasting on bird seed and napping in a depression in the late afternoon sun. 

Beside me is a bin. I lift the lid and quietly lower the bag of bones inside. The deer watches. Not a long-term solution, but for now it will have to do. One day, I will return the bones to the river where they’ll provide nutrients to others. Calcium, phosphorus, life. Wholeness. 

Ali Bryan is an award-winning novelist and creative nonfiction writer who explores the what-ifs, the wtfs and the wait-a-minutes of every day. Her first novel, Roost, won the Georges Bugnet Award for Fiction and her second novel, The Figgs, was a finalist for the Stephen Leacock Memorial Medal for Humour. She’s longlisted for the CBC Canada Writes CNF prize, shortlisted for the Jon Whyte Memorial Essay Award and won the 2020 Howard O’Hagan Award for Short Story. Her debut YA novel, The Hill, was released in March from Dottir Press and was longlisted for 2021 Wilbur Smith Adventure Writing Prize. Her short-form work has been published in Alberta Views, HASH Journal, Reservoir Road Literary Review and Understory Magazine. Ali has work forthcoming in the Good Life Review and The Queen’s Quarterly. She lives in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies, where she has a wrestling room in her garage and regularly gets choked out by her family. IG: alikbryan TW: @AliBryan FB: Author Ali Bryan

R. F. Mechelke

The Challenger

Mike is in the arcade. He's always there. There in the back through a narrow path of blade-thin black carpet, stomped threadbare, legs spread, one hand twitching on the joystick, the other blasting. His hips moving side to side, with his long blonde hair swiping at the hot air, eyes focused, in total command of Asteroids.

I lock my bike on the rack. The arcade windows stand guard, dark and menacing, and glowing, vibrating with neon-buzz. A total high. I walk in, feeling red eyes in low light itching in cigarette-haze. I walk the path, ignoring the turning heads. In my wake, dozens of dudes line up pushing for a spot to see the action. On many of the machines, Mike and I held the toplines. I am TOR and he is MIC. 

Topping out Asteroids is the most sought after topline in the arcade. Not because it is the best game in the house, but because it was the first machine that hooked us all, and we loved it. In the morning, we would sog through the tall Florida weeds on sides of roads for returnables to stack quarters. At dusk, we bounced and shifted, pounding buttons until each of us were pulled away for one reason or another. In the parking lot, we’d sit on the curbs smoking fresh buds and when short on cash, the butts we’d find in ashtrays, rinsing our mouths by downing Mountain Dew.

Being on top is what it’s all about. We stand at the edges, memorizing patterns, watching, whooping any new top. We live for top recognition. We talk smack, high-five each other, smile and laugh. Our steaming, dilated eyes cut through the screen-glow holographs blurring in the wafting smoke to pulverize, outrun, stomp, punch, shoot, stab or crush. In bed each night, I would replay my tops on closed eyelids, my eyes moving in all directions.

When I round the last machine, Mike is exactly where I knew he would be. He is already warmed up on Asteroids. Some dude in the back belches Mountain Dew fizz, and says, “This is going to be epic!” As is our way, we flip for who goes first. One game each. High score wins. I lose the toss, and go first. I work magic with the joystick, skittering back and forth, thrusting my hips in and out until I top even my last top by more than just a smidge. I turn and nod to the dudes who know they’ve seen a work of art. Mike stands from the challenger’s stool, and flashes a brand-new shiny quarter before slapping it into the machine. I sit down on the stool, and light a cig. Flames burn behind my eyes as Mike moves the joystick with a precision I have never seen before, with Mike or anyone else. My fellow addicts slap my back at first with encouragement. Soon though, the slaps become more like padding, a gentle consolation. Where I am more like Richards–halting, jerky–Mike is Hendrix. His movements blur, a shimmering sense of what he is aiming to do. His lack of focus is his perfection, his supreme art, the ideal. I know I am witnessing a true artist. MIC takes the topline. 

Outside in the parking lot, MIC and I share a fresh Marlboro Red. As I toss smoke rings haphazardly into the liquid air, moonlight cascades across our faces. In the yellow light, MIC smiles at me with a look of amazement and with lips pursed,  a rush of breath escapes his mouth.  I know that feeling, that look. I met MIC when he tried to out jump me on a bike ramp my friends and I had made. I watched him swing around on his Schwinn chrome bike with black mags, his foot up on the pedal. He smiled at us and I envied his confidence. He came at full speed, hitting the wooden ramp, his tires thundered, sending him sailing through the air. Suspended. 

He landed hard, cracking the frame of his bike, and he flew over his handlebars, breaking his arm. He would have beaten me that day, too, if he had managed to stay on his bike. And when his arm healed, he came back and tried again. There was no fear on his face, only determination. Later, in bed, I will replay this new vision of him in front of the machine, leaning on his heels, moving his hand and body, with his head swaying, like a virtuoso, and I will listen to Voodoo Child over and over and try to uncover MIC’s magic. We shake hands and mount our bikes for home.

R.F. Mechelke was nominated for The Best American Mystery and Suspense Stories series. He holds a B.S. from Marquette University and a Masters from Cardinal Stritch University. He was born and raised in Florida, and now lives in the Chicago area. His short stories have appeared in or are forthcoming in the American Writers Review, Loch Raven Review, Sci Phi Journal, Lowestoft Chronicle, MoonPark Review, The Main Street Rag, Blue Lake Review and elsewhere. Follow him on Twitter @RFMechelke. www.RFMechelke.com.

Nathan Bachman

Recreational Spots of Interest According to Daffodil

Ping-Pong Table, Southeast Bedroom. Four stars.

This location is perfect for sunbathing. There’s a wide table in the middle of the room. Two bay windows provide plenty of sunlight and catch large patches of dawn. I often find myself here in the mornings, resting in the quiet before breakfast time. There’s not much else—a rug and standing lamp. Oscar says Steve and Mary would bat around a tiny ball here, which sounds like an Oscar lie, but it would explain the small ball I found in the next room under the couch. So, I guess I’ll never know. Usually, Mary will enter with a blanket and sit on the ground and rub your chin. She might even apologize.

Raised Planter, Living Room Corner. One star.

You’d think a round container of soil and sticks would be more fun, but it isn’t. Oscar showed me this spot yesterday and explained how it used to be better—it used to have leaves, but Steve was the one who watered it. He had won the bamboo palm from a baby shower by guessing how many pacifiers were in a jar—there were twenty-seven. Steve’s coworker was the one having a baby and by all accounts she was a very ungrateful girl. Mary and Steve argued all night afterwards.

“I can’t believe I went,” Mary had said and poured herself more wine.

“It’s been eight months,” Steve then said to her. “I’m tired of hiding. I want to move on. I need to move on, Mary.”

“Hiding?” Mary was furious.

Oscar retells the whole story while licking his front paws. He calls it the beginning of the end. The dried skeletal twigs poke from the dirt and sit dead in the corner of the living room. You can jump into the pot from the floor, but the soil is so dry, you’ll probably sneeze like I did, and end up hacking a hairball in the kitchen ten minutes later. Seriously, this spot sucks.

Top Shelf, Norwegian Bookcase, Home Office. Five Stars.

The view is incredible. You can see the entire room and all the way down the hall.  There is just enough space to fit yourself, comfortably confined between The DaVinci Code and Wells of Grief: Coping with The Loss of a Child. You can purr for hours up here, totally undisturbed. It can be a bit tricky getting to the top shelf, but man is it worth it. I’m definitely coming back here tomorrow. 

Kitchen Sink, Kitchen. Three Stars.

There’s nothing like stainless steel on fur. Plus, it’s like a box, four sides and a bottom. You can usually hop on the trashcan and then walk onto the counter. Not a bad spot, but lately, it’s got soupy dishes stacked inside, and there’s just not a whole lot of room. I’m giving this spot three stars because it used to be better. Steve enjoyed cleaning, so now it’s mostly too crowded, unless Mary’s has someone coming over. She’ll hurry up and put all the junk inside the grumbling machine. Then, you can spread yourself out and enjoy the cool feel of metal. Of course, once the guy comes over, she’ll shoo you away—and because the guy is never Steve—he’ll complain about his allergies, and you’ll be locked up in the bathroom with Oscar, again. But it’s worth checking out if you get the chance.

Coat Closet, Front Hallway. Three and Half Stars. 

This place isn’t so bad, but it’s a bit exclusive. There are two ways to get inside. The easiest way is to wait for Mary to open the door and dash in before she can grab you. The second, much harder way, is to work at the edge of the door all night until the space between the wall and the door is big enough to slip inside. Once in, there’s total darkness, which is part of the fun. Plus, the coat Steve wore when he adopted me still hangs there and his smell fills the space. If you’re missing Steve, this is a good place to feel his presence again.

King Bed, Master bedroom. Two Stars.

Sure, there’s tons of blankets to hid under and the whole thing is soft and warm, but there is something eerie about this place. The windows are always closed, and Mary’s usually quiet and wrapped up. If she notices you, she’ll shriek and grab you and throw you off the bed—unless you’re Oscar, of course, then she’ll pet you and talk sweet. Oscar tells me not to take it personally. It wasn’t my idea to be a band-aid. Before Steve brought me here, Oscar tells me, the windows used to be open, the bed covers drawn down smoothly, so you could soak up the sun. I don’t believe it. This place is gloomy and stuffy. If you’re looking for an adventure or just feeling frisky, you can try crossing the bed, but if Mary kicks you or pulls a fist of hair from your back, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Closed Door, End of the Hallway. ??? Stars.

I’ve never been inside, so I can’t say if it’s awesome or lousy. Could be filled with boxes and a big cat tree in the corner. Some days, I even imagine Steve is inside. Oscar says it’s empty, but there used to be a rocking chair, a barred box, and a plush pillow on a sofa by some windows. I can fit my paw underneath and pull at the door, so that for a moment I catch an inside peek. The walls are blue, or mostly blue, with little white clouds. Mary sometimes touches the door panels with her open palms, eyes closed. I’ve watched her stay still like that, hardly breathing. I make sure to creep up behind her then, because I’m certain she’ll open the door, and I’ll finally get to see what’s inside—but she never does.

Nathan is a middle school English teacher in central Ohio where he lives with his wife who is also a teacher. His fiction has appeared in Allegory Ridge’s fiction anthology, Open Pen, Penumbra, and Ponder Review. He is also forthcoming on the Ripples in Space podcast. You can follow him @bachman.28 on Instagram and @nbachman28 on Twitter.

Erica W. Jamieson

How to Shoot the Photographer

Enter your father’s hospital room carrying his vintage Nikkormat camera outfitted with the 17-35 zoom lens. You pilfered this camera from his house years ago as a memento for a trip taken just the two of you. A workday overnight to Grand Rapids when you were sixteen. It was late afternoon when you grabbed the camera and focused on your father. The wind had kicked up and he said to increase the shutter speed. The camera caught him with a full tooth grin, his hair in midflight. It was a solid shot and told no lies. Your father’s advice on photography made him a better amateur photographer than he was a part-time father. Hold back the roller coaster of anger that rushes at you when you see him in the hospital bed. Use black and white film, high speed for low light just like he taught you. 

Watch your father through the viewfinder. Photograph his chest as it stretches to fill with so much air that his face is obstructed from where you stand at the foot of the bed. Photograph his fingers, taut from swelling, fierce and angry. They will remind you of cigarettes. You picture his package of Camels and remember him smoking one right after the other down to enflamed ash snaking from his hand. The phantom scent of your father still lurks in memory. A combination of Royall Lyme cologne and yesterday’s coffee that hits you with the force of time. It will take you back to late-night rides to see his typist. The car windows rolled up. The air inside the Caddie spiked with smoke and things not said. Your mother, and after the divorce your stepmother, hoped having you in the car would be armor against his infidelity. They were wrong. The typist gave way to a co-worker who gave way to a student in one of his classes. You remember it all because you were his only blood, the one who understood and kept his counsel. Remembering lies told may make it hard to breathe. Ground yourself by taking a photo of your shoes on the linoleum floor. It has been a long time since you were his alibi. 

You may want to poke the hillocks of skin that balloon on his bared shoulder. Hear the snap, crackle and pop and think he is trying to send you a message. The nurse will explain that your father’s organs are too damaged to expel the oxygen caught between layers of skin. She will call this Krispies, as in Rice Krispies, a cereal you will never again crave. Don’t miss the shot of fluids flowing to and from your father’s body. The plastic tubes create a lasting photographic impression of the entanglements at life’s end. Change your depth of field. Take a shot with the ventilator in sharp focus in the background while your father remains blurred in the foreground. You will feel untethered seeing your father out of focus, not center shot. You learned the word narcissist in therapy. 

Force yourself to tolerate the nights’ vigil for the dying. Eat the warm yogurt from the airplane that you stored in your purse because you knew you would stay. Photograph the glass window where no one is waiting to enter his ICU cubicle. You see in this shot your stepmother’s abdication when she handed you jurisdiction over the plug. Decide that this has to do with her belief in Jesus. Or homage to shared DNA.  Or as penance for visiting every other holiday until you didn’t anymore. Or perhaps as revenge because you knew his secrets. Either way, you alone will decide when it is time for him to die. If the nurse asks are you okay? take her picture. 

Look up from the camera when your father becomes agitated. Legs scrambling up and down the foam mattress striving for traction. Do not stop him from grabbing the accordion tubing taped to his mouth. You are an observer, and this is the ICU. Buzzers and alarms will sound. Drop the camera when the sheet covering your father falls away unveiling his penis. Wonder how one penis, so inert and disenfranchised, could have been the root of so much strife in two marriages. Understand that you understood nothing. Leave this undocumented, subject to vicissitudes of memory. Pull the sheet to cover your father. Anchor it with your hand clasped around his ankle.  

Do not jump when your touch torpedoes through the milkshake concoction of morphine, Ativan and propofol waking his smoked brain. It will be the shot you were waiting for, but your camera is still at your side. Do not tell anyone that there is recognition when his eyes shoot open. You see him seeing you. Understand he knows he is dying if you are here. In the sky-blue blink of his familiar eyes, all those unsaid words disperse into the ether. He will die as he lived, totally unapologetic. 

As your heartbeat slows to your new normal, decide you are both ready. Take the final shot before you give the order, before your stepmother returns, before procedures are followed. You will inherit his cameras and photo equipment, his photos and his history. What if atonement is overrated. Love does the best that it can. Perhaps, you think, it is time to forgive.

Erica W. Jamieson writes fiction and personal essay. Her work has appeared in Self Magazine, Lilith, and in numerous online journals including Switchback Journal, Spittoon Journal, and Rkvry Quarterly Literary Journal. Erica facilitates writing groups, teaches memoir & essay and is a fierce supporter of emerging writers of all ages. You can read more from Erica at www.ericawjamieson.com, and on her social media: Facebook and Instagram.

Brian McNely

A Shade Across the Fields

I keep thinking of that man’s billowy shirt, the color of a ripe July peach, stuck with sweat to his back along the diagonal of a black camera strap cutting into his flesh, his large frame filling and obstructing my view. Untucked, made from some synthetic concoction—fuzzy, brushed. The thin but widening shadow of sweat: not a profound experience of art but the image I can’t shake long after a day trip to Humlebæk.

*

They were working on the train lines. I had to get off in Hellerup to purchase a bus transfer in a shabby open lot north of Copenhagen, near the highway. I found a small rectangle of shade up against a bulletin board for community events and waited 20 minutes as busses pulled in and out without leaving anyone new or taking anyone away. The bus with “Humlebæk” turned in and a small, confident, middle-aged woman in navy capris, white flats, and a bright white blouse stepped to the curb and a handful of others fell in behind her. I left my shade and fingered the bus transfer in my pocket, its paper edges slightly damp with sweat.

I folded into a window seat and tried to read Arctic Dreams. An American couple narrated much of the trip to their young children, a girl and boy—“do you see the trees, Cassidy? Look at those cars, Thomas!” I couldn’t concentrate and tried to see, instead, what Cassidy and Thomas saw. Hazy bright sunlight, green fields and boughs blurred by our speed, dappled shade, and, through slim breaks in the tree line, the shimmering blue waters of the Øresund, the sound stretching across the distance from Denmark to Sweden. After each glimpse of the sea two young boys in the seats behind me chattered in French.

We disembarked—the French kids and Cassidy and Thomas and their parents and the purposeful woman in the bright white blouse and everyone else who’d ridden from Hellerup. We fanned out along the sidewalks of Humlebæk Strandvej, making the 10-minute walk to the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art. I paid the entrance fee, stashed my daypack in a locker, and began at the beginning.

*

I had been struggling through the massive Münter exhibit, bristling, at first, in front of flat, simple representations. I sat on a white bench, pulled out my iPhone, and asked myself why I was resisting, why I couldn’t be more open. “The problem with expectations,” I wrote in my notes app; a clause with no conclusion, an interrogative with no punctuation. 

In front of Drachenkampf I shifted focus to color and shape instead of representational fidelity—the proportions were exaggerated and distorted, the brush strokes, slashing and jagged, mirrored the fight of knight against six-headed dragon. Oranges and yellows and blues were vivid and chaotic and unblended. I softened—“that’s no knight,” I told myself. “That’s no dragon.”

I watched a tow-headed toddler in little gladiator sandals and plaid shorts sitting cross legged on the floor, eating a chunk of white cheese. She looked across the room at her mom, then pushed up and ran off, her sandals slapping against the tiles. There was more Danish here, hushed and whispered. I stayed with Sinnende II (1928)—sleeves and arms like Christmas bells, lines of nose and eyebrows like a sconce, white highlights shimmer.

My experience of Münter is here, with Drachenkampf and Sinnende II and a tow-headed Danish toddler with a chunk of white cheese; with vivid yellows and pinks and blues; with the stuffy, noisy bus and Cassidy and Thomas and two French kids; with a field of peachy light: a man steps in front of me, blocks my view of Sinnende II. I look toward the Münter but see now his untucked shirt, the soft peach hue a proper contrast with gallery walls. I stare at a dark diagonal of sweat feathering out from the camera strap draped across his body, a strip of black leather twinned to its damp shadow, a presentiment, a shade across the fields. A light here required a shadow there.

He stepped to his right and turned his head, making eye contact with me as he moved away.

Italicized portions: a profound experience of art, from Ben Lerner’s Leaving the Atocha Station; a shade across the fields. A light here required a shadow there from Virginia Woolf’s To The Lighthouse.

Brian McNely is associate professor of Writing, Rhetoric, and Digital Studies at the University of Kentucky. His work has appeared in Porridge and in academic journals such as Philosophy & Rhetoric. You can learn more on his website: http://brianmcnely.com

Jennifer McGaha

On Wanting

I am a social worker in a nursing home. I am twenty-three years old, newly married for the second time, the mother of a two-year-old. I know nothing about dying. Nonetheless, on the day Beulah begins her transition to the hereafter, the nurses call me because I am charged with confirming that, as her medical records indicate, Beulah wants no medical intervention at the end—no tubes, no oxygen, no hospital. 

I start by calling the only relative named in her chart. Beulah’s niece, Ann, lives in Atlanta, a few hours away. Yes, she does recall that those were her aunt’s wishes, and though she is so oh, very sad to hear that Beulah is dying, she does not plan to visit her. After I hang up, I stare at the vase of blue silk carnations on my desk, a truce offering from my husband. After work a few nights before, he had stopped at the drive-through at the bank, and he had come home raving about the teller. 

She was gorgeous, he had said. A Greek goddess. 

I hadn’t spoken to him since.

I have only been working here a few weeks, and I have never met Beulah. Thus far, my most difficult task has been confiscating cigarettes from a patient who smokes through a stoma in her trachea. Still, I cannot bear the thought of Beulah dying alone, so I gather her chart—a thick, brown folder—and head down the hall. When I push open the door, the room is dim, but a ray of sunlight falls across two twin beds. Beulah lies motionless on the closest one. She is on her back, a sheet pulled to her chin, her eyes closed. I pull an armchair from the corner of the room and place it next to her bed.  

“Hi, Beulah,” I whisper, taking her cool, crinkly palm in my own.

She squeezes my hand. On the nightstand beside her is a lamp, an alarm clock, a plastic cup of water with a straw, a silver hairbrush. In the hallway outside, footsteps approach and recede. Medicine carts rumble by. The resident in the other bed is asleep or comatose. She is curled on her side facing the window, her breathing a gentle hum. Perhaps because I need something tangible to do, I pick up the brush and run it through Beulah’s thick, gray hair, smoothing into billowing waves. Gradually, the wrinkles on her forehead soften. 

“Do you want to go?” I whisper in her ear. “Squeeze my hand if you want to go.”

The force of her cool, crinkly hand surprises me. And, yet, I ask again. Again, she grips my palm.

“Are you sure?” I ask. Then, in case my meaning is unclear, I ask, “Are you ready to die?”

Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. Yes, yes, yes. I want to ask again, but I stop myself. Her chest heaves and falls under the sheet. Her breaths are shallow and raspy. The clock on the nightstand reads 12 noon. Any minute now, my mother will be picking my daughter up from preschool. Maybe they will go to the park or for a walk. Maybe they will picnic in my mother’s yard, sprawl on a blanket on the lush grass, a plate of peanut butter sandwiches between them, a sippy cup of juice for my daughter, a glass of iced tea for my mother. I see my daughter’s stuffed orange cat, her peach cotton sundress, her tiny, pink Reeboks. When I pick her up this evening, she will run to hug me, then run away, a game she plays when she cannot decide what she most wants. I want to go home. I want to stay. I want. I want. I want. 

As the light from the window grows pale, I am still holding onto Beulah. Her hand is colder than before, and very, very still. I put down the brush and kiss her pale cheek. A nurse comes in, checks her pulse, makes a note in her chart, pats me lightly on the back, and swishes out the door. The time is getting close. Even an amateur can see that. Yet I want to ask her again: Are you ready? Are you sure you want to go? Maybe she has changed her mind. Of course, she’s too far gone for saving now. But I could make a note of it in her chart. 

Beulah did not want to die, after all, I could say. Beulah wanted to stay.

Jennifer's memoir, Flat Broke with Two Goats, was chosen as a 2018 Big Library Read for OverDrive, an international digital library. Her second book, Bushwhacking, a memoir/craft hybrid work, is forthcoming from Trinity University Press in 2022. Jennifer's work has also appeared in dozens of magazines and literary journals including The Huffington Post, The New Pioneer, Lumina, PANK, The Chronicle of Higher Education, Brevity, Bitter Southerner, and others. A native of Appalachia, Jennifer holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She currently teaches at the University of North Carolina - Asheville. You may find her on Instagram @liberalgoats, on Facebook, and on Twitter (Jennifer_McGaha). Her website is jennifermcgaha.com.

Diane Forman

What We Carry

Instead of Sterno, safety pins, signal flares, razor blades and chewing tobacco like the soldiers in Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried, my husband carried his grade school spelling papers, frayed Scientific Americans and statements from our first bank account at the East Cambridge Savings Bank.  He carried endless hand scrawled camp letters, news clippings and report cards. 

He was particularly fond of old electronics, tangled wires, outdated corded phones in Avocado Green or Harvest Gold that belonged in kitchens from the 1960’s. He carried a couple of original beige box Macs, several nonfunctional TV and radios, even the kids’ original Fisher Price baby monitors, faded and yellowed. There were gerbil cages and fish tanks for pets long dead, Hot Wheel sets and games like Dr. Nimh from his own childhood days; 800 vinyl record albums, including original Steely Dan, Jackson Brown, and the Beatles thick with dust, not played for at least twenty years, although we still had a working turntable. Or two.

He carried all of this, as well as the kids’ old bats and soccer balls long after they were grown, their art projects and stained blankets, their nubs of sidewalk chalk, their boxed games of Sorry and Clue, even if Professor Plum was missing.

I needed to extricate myself from this hoard, from my near 30 year marriage, from the piles, the boxes and the tangles of wires that threatened to strangle me. He didn’t want to let any of those things go.  “I need them,” he told me. How could you possibly need baby rattles and deflated balls? I wanted to carry hope instead.

*

I was driving to Mass MoCA, winding down Route 2 in early January, before any clue emerged that we’d be paralyzed by a pandemic. Months earlier the sugar maples were bursting in crimson and orange while tourists crowded this road, the Mohawk Trail, to leaf peep. It was quiet now, that time of winter when the bare branches of the trees meet the grey sky, stark as drawings in black ink.

I’d gone to the contemporary art museum to view Annie Lenox’s exhibit Now I Let you Go, because I hoped that witnessing her collection of objects, artfully displayed in an earthen “mound”, might help me better understand my former husband’s hoarding. By now our family home had been long packed and sold, but I carried memories of the hundreds of hours we spent sorting and packing, the hours spent watching my ex-spouse carry items to his car, week after week for eighteen months, packing things from which he couldn’t part.

In Lenox’s mound were dozens of her children’s shoes, recording devices, outdated iPods, a pair of her mother’s glasses. Some of the artifacts, nearly buried, were obscured by dirt and partial darkness and I wondered how she chose what to expose and what to shroud, as she described having a significant connection to each object. I spent hours in the stillness staring at each item, especially taken by the full size grand piano, teetering precariously at the top. Her prized possession, leaning, almost losing its footing. But not.

Was that common glass box or black sweatshirt important to her, in the way that the black desktop phone was important to my former husband? Why had she continued to carry these items? So she wouldn’t forget? Because forgetting comes so easily, we don’t even need to try. 

It was as if by letting go of the object, the memory might disappear as well. As if only shadows would take its place. My ex-spouse needed to hold and carry our physical copy of The Phantom Tollbooth, so he could recall the closeness of bedtime reading with his young son. The book connected them, kept this now grown son childlike. The flattened soccer ball sat on his shelf, but brought back the delight of playing with his children on Ginn Field. The boxes of antiquated telephones were a lifeline to his long dead father. Many of these carried items kept time folded like a bud.

I stayed until the museum closed, and left in almost unbearable darkness. In her artist statement, Lenox asks, “What will we leave behind? Who will remember us — and for how long?” I think about the legacy of what I carry. Will I carry the watercolor wash of the sky? Will I carry understanding? Will I carry forgiveness?

Diane Forman is a writer and educator who has published or has pieces upcoming in Boston Globe Connections, Intima: a Journal of Narrative Medicine, WBUR Cognoscenti, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere. A graduate of Northwestern University and the Harvard Graduate School of Education, Diane lives and writes on the north shore of Boston, where she also leads adult writing groups. See more at dianeforman.com.

Amira Glickman

Fire Times

I’ve taken to fire since this pandemic started. We have a plot of land just outside the city. It is wild with weeds and is empty with the exception of a 5,000 square foot. concrete pad. The only structure that remains is a beaten up, free-standing fireplace. Its skeleton is made of red bricks that peek through cracked and broken pieces of chalky white limestone.

The property itself is ten acres and the fireplace is set back about two-thirds of the way from the road, which you can easily see and hear. When facing the fire, all that has a mysterious way of disappearing. The fireplace creates a sense of being in another world, without walls or cars or technology or restaurants or pandemics. The fireplace (oddly enough both when empty with ash or roaring with flames) takes hold of one’s full attention by the power of its unassuming, singular physical presence. There is nothing on the ten acres but this.

I’ve taken up going there regularly and building a fire in the late afternoons with my six year old son, Sacha. We can be outside. We don’t need masks. We don’t need to worry about six feet of distance between us and other human beings. We can look for wood and burn things. Together. 

There is something about building the fire that makes everything else that the day has brought – worrying about a friend’s encounter with an unmasked stranger, the passing of a dear friend’s beloved aunt to COVID, a “what-the-living-fuck-am-I-to-do-to-safely-engage-my-young son-during-a-pandemic-I-have-run-out-of-ideas-because-it-has-been-10-months-of-this,” the strained state of my marriage – all of it recedes. There is a blessedly uncomplicated and immediate registering of physical embodiment in the presence of the burning wood. I do not have to create the flames or grow the wood or plan the timing of when it will all come together. I do not have to strain to accommodate how it will work, schedule it, cajole it to meet me or ask it for anything. It transports me back to my senses – the smell of the wood, the satin like feeling of smoke against my face, the crackly spitting sound of wood burning, the heat. Making fire is something that binds all humanity together: the creation of warmth and promise of sustenance from the elements, by the elements. 

The elevation and transformation of matter into spirit. Into light itself. 

We brought two grocery bags and an old cardboard box to burn. We build the fire and then sit in two rusted black aluminum chairs. The sun, blue skies and afternoon energy provides an odd backdrop. Two buzzards fly above us. Black, hard encased rolly-pollys zig zag out of the wood we collected around the property. A stray white and black dog bounds across the lower fields. I have brought four apple juice boxes. We indulge and drink them all.

After we sit, Sacha is interested in directing me to collect wood. He will be the weed boss and he is calling for one million weeds to be piled up for him to inspect, break into pieces and wildly toss into the fire. I play the subservient worker, call him ‘Sir’ and continue picking coarse, washed out grey stems of weeds I am too ignorant to know the names of. He delights in running back and forth from me to the fire, throwing the kindling wildly and without care into the growing flames.

We continue, he and I, pulling the weeds and then feeding the fire the coarse sticks. The fire itself seems content to be put into action, however unproductively, as it is not being breathed into life for warmth or food but some other unnamed, fundamental purpose. It is happy to oblige. 

There is something mournful covering us at the moment. We are simultaneously bound to isolation and constriction as illness sweeps across the country, the globe. The polar opposites, the energetic chaos and the shrunken field of interactive life, is particularly striking to the nervous system. 

It’s difficult to find consistent sources of regulation. I am so very often seized by rumination of possible threat and the onslaught of weighing risk. There is weariness. I am on high alert.

The fire blazes.  Yet, it is controlled, flames duly contained within the battered limestone frame. 

There is the whiteness of the rock hearth, a border to the inner crimson of the flames and the outer Mother Mary blue of the sky. At first glance, the stone itself appears a sort of frame for the whole scene. Limestone is an everyday ordinary rock here, due to its abundance in Central Texas. Formed into being millions of years ago from when the now parched land was covered in shallow, calm, inland seas, the rock is comprised of the sediment and calcium rich shells and tiny sea creatures on the bottom of these prehistoric waters. Snails, crabs, clams, coral. An intricate fossilized manuscript of life itself disguised as cheap building material. 

We sit together, he and I, at a fireplace in the pandemic, being held by fire held by ancient waters, rock, and sky.

Amira Glickman is a writer based in Austin, Texas who likes mysticism, grandmothers, sacred hospitality for all, transformative racial justice, resource sharing, and comedy. She is currently writing and facilitating community conversations at the intersections of money and whiteness. Amira is making her debut with ‘Fire Times’ in Passengers Journal and is thrilled about it. More at amiraglickman.com.

Steve Mitchell

Body of Trust

The forest has partially devoured the meditation hut, a wooden octagonal building four steps off the ground, circled by a low, rock wall.  The winding path leading through the trees has vanished in places. We step over the wall to enter the circle and once over, flat stones mark a ragged path to the stairs and doorway. The circle is overrun with weeds, sumac, and sapling trees; the hut itself littered with abandoned snakeskins and fieldmouse droppings, strung with spider webs. A few friends and I decide to reclaim it. 

In the spiritual community where we lived, we often meditated together in a large hall—in rows, nearly knee to knee—and the woman who led would walk between us, tapping our bare feet gently if she saw we were falling asleep. 

Meditation resembles nothing so much as slowly stepping backward into an increasingly darkened room. One measured step after another until the threshold vanishes and darkness overwhelms the senses. It’s a practice, but also an orientation—a way of looking at art and everyday experience. 

We don’t meditate when we work to reclaim the hut—on our knees pulling the stringy weeds that leave our hands sticky or tilting the saplings from the earth with a spade—we’re quiet, aware of the others working near us. It’s a comfort to be in a group that’s chosen this task for itself. We don’t mind the stiffness in our fingers or the ache in our backs. As the space grows more defined, our mood lightens. One day we bring beer, sandwiches, and eat lunch within the circle.

I’d moved to the spiritual community because I felt an absence. It was easy to believe I was missing something essential, or that a part of me had been torn away and needed reclamation. The absence brought an ache. The ache became impossible to ignore. I thought I was in search of truth, but I never see what I’m drawn toward clearly. My mind catches up to the gesture of attention later, always a step behind. 

I saw spirituality as a form of radical self-improvement. I thought the community might make me whole, bring me closer to a God I could never make contact with on my own. It didn’t.

I line into the hall with the rest and settle down. The room is too hot. The room is too cold. Someone always has a runny nose. Someone always has gas. Sometimes it’s me.

Some days I move far enough backward that the voices dim, the images flicker out. I keep sight of the threshold as it recedes, feeling something fundamental is at risk. The darkness is not empty. It’s vibrant. For a long time, I can only drift within its whispers.

Now and then I find myself crying. It’s not the result of an obvious emotional state. There is no sobbing, no wailing. I am simply aware of tears sliding down my face. They’re cool and oily. It’s an odd sensation, a stray phrase without a language.

We work to clear the path and the hut. It takes weeks. We sweep, repair the windows, replace stones in the wall, reset the path to the doorway. We don’t always work together—sometimes there are four or five of us, sometimes two. I often bring my children, who play in the nearby forest as we work.

We’re all there, scattered within the circle, when—nearly simultaneously—we realize the job is done. I come out of the door, put down my hammer and sit on the top step. We’re quiet for a long time. We’re not meditating—we’re simply quiet—and we don’t go inside to meditate that day either. We let the space settle. It’s like bread, it seems; it needs to rest and rise.

* 

Tsai Ming-Liang has worked with Lee Kang-Sheng for nearly his entire film career. Lee starred in Tsai’s debut Rebels of the Neon God (1992) and has appeared in every film after. There’s an unearthly immediacy to Lee’s presence that Tsai allows to play out in the long, static takes which become his hallmark.

As we follow Tsai’s work over twenty years, we watch Lee age. Though it’s never explicitly stated, Lee might be playing the same character in every film with Tsai. Sometimes there are simple plots; at other times, the films are some sort of near wordless study of the way Lee moves, sits, eats, or the landscape of his face. 

Tsai’s work becomes known for its exquisitely framed static camera, its extended silences, and long takes. His characters are always displaced, either within their own society by poverty or within an alien culture and the films are constructed within this alienation and displacement. No one finds a lasting resolution.

In Stray Dogs (the Chinese title is Jiao You, Excursion), Lee plays an unnamed, homeless man working as a ‘human billboard’ to support his two young children, who spend their time wandering department stores and supermarkets. They live together in a decaying, unfinished concrete building. Three different actresses play what might be the same woman: a mother, lover, or caretaker. The film is a glimpse into a couple of days in their life.

The miserablist films of Europe and America urge us to consider the downtrodden as worthy of respect; the proving of their humanity is our catharsis. In Tsai’s films, humanity is a statement of fact, neither demonstrative nor manipulative. The films push past easy emotional identification with a quality both detached and startlingly intimate. No one need earn their humanity, by suffering or aspiration, by altruism or sacrifice. No one is called to explain themselves in a lengthy monologue. The humanity in Tsai’s films doesn’t have to be gifted by the viewer or society; it is a given. It’s irreproachable. 

In earlier films, Tsai’s shots can be long and often uncomfortable, not simply due to their static nature but because they focus on trapped lives and mundane situations. In Stray Dogs, Tsai pushes further: the last two shots are collectively twenty-one minutes long. For some, these shots—and this type of work—are seen as a provocation, a brash act of avant-garde cinema. For some, they’re interpreted as an indictment of the current state of film—especially Hollywood-influenced film—with its flash cuts, CGI, and constant explosions. 

The first shot is fourteen minutes long, the second seven. By way of contrast, most English language films cut to a new shot every 2.5 seconds; even a very short scene might be comprised of over a dozen separate shots. In these films, the fourteen minutes of Tsai’s take could be made up of more than 336 separate shots.

There are the films in which time is constructed for us through editing, and those where we enter the present of the film itself. There’s the attention I bring to bear, focusing on an object or a task, then there’s the attention that rises within me. The first I direct, the second appears from the darkness; I find myself engaged, one could say, in spite of or outside of, myself.

Tsai’s attention—and that’s what I am held within—makes no allowances for me. The shot goes on and on. The moment hangs before me, the present blooming outward in all directions like ink into water. The duration demands a shift in my awareness. This expansion of the present is sometimes called boredom.

In boredom, in meditation, there is always the body: uncomfortable in stillness, cramping here, tingling there, suddenly ravenous or churning from lunch. Once it grows silent or numb, all the body wants is sleep. Deny the body its interests, the mind its noise, and sleep descends relentlessly. I don’t feel it come over me; I only know when my head snaps upright after falling to my chest. Or the teacher taps the soles of my feet.

Before moving to the spiritual community, I study spiritual disciplines including Zen. I know about the abandonment of desire, the pursuit of a state of Nothingness, but I think Nothing is a Something. I think Peace is a collectible that, once acquired, will never leave my grasp.  I think epiphanies are what I want—objects to be gathered and catalogued like baseball cards and orgasms.

At every backward step in my meditation, there are images, voices, memory. I push through the mob of my selves; they’re all talking at once. The images and noise are souvenirs; it’s like Charles Foster Kane’s U-Stor in here, only there’s no Rosebud to explain it all. 

I thought I was supposed to explain it all. I’d given up writing years before the community because all my ideas felt leftover, like objects littering a warehouse floor. I thought in order to write I had to be clear; I thought I was supposed to write what I knew. The relief of turning away from writing was palpable—a liberation in itself, like abandoning God.

Freed from Him, meditation might become a discovery of self, but instead of a labyrinth of affirmation I’m locked within my warehouse of trivia, every object demanding its own validation. The only response is to gently step past the clamor and continue toward the darkness. I’d never entered this darkness, but I’d sensed its presence, and feared it.

Most days in meditation nothing happens—I mean nothing, as opposed to Nothing. The place of stillness can’t be reached. I sit, biding my time as if waiting for a bus. I file into the meditation room and take my place—in a row, nearly knee to knee—believing my own body and thoughts, and the very presence of others, are the distractions blocking me from revelation.

*

I own a copy of Moby Dick for twenty years before I ever finish it. In fact, I probably own multiple copies during that time, lending them, losing them. It's possible I buy four or five copies before I ever complete it. 

I start the book countless times before I make it through. It’s a book I have to walk around from the outside. I have to get to know it gradually; I have to play hard to get. Yet, it’s a book that makes an impression. It’s not something I can forget; it lingers unread at the edge of my vision.

No one forces me toward Moby Dick. There is no class or exam. I feel no obligation. No friend has pressed it into my hand. Yet, I return to it over the years, searching for an entry point. It calls to me now and then. It is steadfast.

Why a fourteen-minute static shot, or a long, digressive book centered on whaling? Why did I sit in meditation day after day, fighting metabolism and sleep? I held to my delusions and would have defended them, knowing they were delusions. I sat day after day because I held a kind of trust I couldn’t name or explain. I couldn’t define this trust; I could only feel it. It was an easing back, instead of a stepping forward. It was the opposite of an urge; it was act of fashioning a space something else might fill.

The fifth, seventh, or twelfth time I pick up Moby Dick, it overtakes me. The change is inexplicable. I find the music of the language and the rhythm of Melville's thought, and I’m completely absorbed. It’s raw and deep and tormented and beautiful. I can’t stop reading.

Moby Dick waited for me, like the lover in a rom-com who knows she's destined to be with the object of her affection and bides her time patiently until the dolt discovers it for himself. And, when the dolt finally discovers it, they simply turn around and she is there. She’s always been there.

Moby Dick changes me. Even the 125-page section on whaling; this section is the final surrender. After that, I have no defenses left. I submit. These are the things we do for love.

Thich Nhat Hanh schedules a weeklong meditation retreat at our community. Over 150 people will be coming, as well as his entourage. We don’t really have the capacity to feed and house that many, but we don’t say no—it’s Thich Nhat Hanh. 

There’s a lot of work to be done. We clean the buildings, repair broken windows, bring in new kitchen equipment, plan menus, section off camping grounds. Everyone is involved, small swarms buzzing around each challenge.

Someone decides that, in order to prepare for weeklong Buddhist meditation, we’ll schedule a round-the-clock community meditation chain for the week before his arrival. At least one person will meditate for each hour, relieved by another, so as not to break the chain. We’d reclaimed the meditation hut by then and it is the natural place. A sign-up sheet is tacked to the Community Board and community members are invited. There is no pressure to do this, no expectation, yet the roster fills hour by hour and line by line.

For a week, hour by hour, we replace each other at the meditation hut, entering quietly, taking a cushion from the stack, settling in across from the one already there. Sometimes there is more than one—people drop by unscheduled to be a part of the chain. 

It’s loaves-and-fishes time at the community as we try to figure out how to use our limited equipment and kitchen space to feed the throng, wash the dishes, clean up after. We designate a lower field a campground and rent portable toilets. We buy extra sheets and towels; we sweep out rooms and make beds. We move the cows to back pastures, plant more flowers, develop strictly vegetarian menus.

It’s nearly 3 AM and it’s unseasonably cold. The moon is high and bright. I don’t really need a flashlight in the woods—most of the time I can make out the path in the moonlight. Someone has lit a candle in the window of the meditation hut—I can see it from a long way off, flickering through the shutter of trees. I’m only wearing a thin windbreaker and, as I approach the steps, I’m already cold.

I take my place on a cushion along the wall, the gray light of the single candle flickering on the floor before me. The other person quietly exits. I settle into my body, which begins to shiver.

In my younger days, the moment of darkness before a film began thrilled me. The black screen was an undiscovered world waiting to unfold and anticipation would course through my body. I had faith then; a faith I can still find.

Sometimes, I cry in movies, not because they’re sad but because they’re beautiful. The tears are like those shed in meditation, cool and oily. They come with the gasp of breaking surface from deep underwater. I know what I’m feeling only after I’ve felt it and the moment between feeling and knowing is a glorious void. There is always the body, but the body in darkness is not the same form as the body in light.

I remain still, except for the shivering. I’m trying to find the doorway behind me, to feel its presence. My own attention is alien to me. I know how to focus my mind, but this isn’t that kind of focus; it’s a matter of orientation and listening. I turn my body in a direction and wait to see what happens.

Trust reveals itself in the darkness. I don’t make the journey; I find myself there. I don’t know the space; I don’t know who I am in this space. I move in darkness, learn its language. In fourteen minutes. In 125 pages on whaling.

I trust immediately, or I don’t. There’s very little I need to know in order to know everything. There’s no list-making or scale-balancing.  I trust because I do, and the organ of my trust is mostly hidden from me.

The meditation chain ends as the retreat begins. 150 people descend upon the property and everyone in the community works around the clock, though we take a break now and then to attend a lesson or meditation. There are problems but everyone is trying to be Zen, so no one makes much of a fuss. No one uses the meditation hut.

Thich Nhat Hahn and his entourage bring a quiet joy to the community, a joy that is active, immersive, and never intrudes. This is a world they bring with them and one we share for a week. I don’t learn anything about God from Thich Nhat Hahn. I learn about being human.

Rain drips from large fronds near a collapsed wall, the rake of it on the cement is incessant. In memory, the two people in frame are the only two people in the world. The city around them has vanished. In spite of the rain, the stillness is alternately a terror and a comfort.

In the penultimate scene of Stray Dogs, Tsai locks down the camera in a two shot of Lee Kang-Sheng and Chen Shiang-chyi staring forward nearly motionless, without speaking, for fourteen uninterrupted minutes. Chen Shiang-chyi’s character may be the mother of Lee’s children. Or she may be the one who took the children away. It’s difficult to say what has brought them together into this shot, or what will happen when it ends. We do not see what they are looking at and nothing in their faces reveals a clue.

I don’t create my trust, I simply notice; the way sunsets and smiles are noticed without overture. Noticing is always an affirmation.

In the abandoned building, Lee and Chen stand together. They don’t look at each other, they don’t touch; Chen gazes forward, Lee behind her. I cannot know what they’re thinking or feeling, in the same way I cannot fully know a lover. The unknowing is central to the moment. It’s a thrill of wonder.

When Tsai Ming-Liang aims his camera at Lee Kang-Sheng, it’s an act of love. I imagine Tsai could watch Lee’s face for much longer than he holds this single shot. I am only partaking in his enchantment, possibly his obsession, for a short time. Tsai lures me into his own enigmatic stillness.

Within that present, observation—the observation of a lover—becomes an act of resistance. I resist the urge to turn away, to distract myself. I resist the insistent world. I choose to remain. Tsai gives me only their faces; this is his revelation. 

There is no catharsis in this shot—there’s no catharsis in this film. I don’t have anything when the shot is over. Yet, when the camera cuts away after fourteen minutes, it comes as a physical shock. I’ve fully entered Tsai’s gaze and lost myself there, only I’m not lost at all.

Sometimes, my friends and I have a dance party in the hall where the community does meditation. It’s late at night and someone brings a portable CD player. Someone else brings beer and chips. It’s the 90s, so we play U2, Kate Bush, and Afropop. Our kids build a fort from meditation cushions in a corner, then fall asleep inside.

We play the music loud—there’s no one to disturb—and dance wildly, flinging our limbs with abandon, sliding in socked feet along the polished wood floor. We grow sweaty and breathless. We crash into each other and laugh. We take a break, have a beer, start over. Thankfully, there is always the body.

Before I begin to write again, years ago—before the spiritual community, before the divorce—I read books and articles about writing. I think writing is about having Something to impart. I think being a writer is like stepping into a new life to rounds of applause, and that the life would form itself around me to protect me. 

I feel a great relief when I give up the Muses and God and Capital Letter Words, even though there’s a rush of breathless anxiety as I notice them slipping away. I extend shadow senses, flex shadow limbs. I come to trust my darkness, but the trust makes it no less dark. I grow comfortable with the way I move without light. Maybe—I think—that’s what a Self is: trust, questions, and darkness. Maybe a self is defined by motion. Maybe a self is motion.

Years later, when I begin to write again—after the forest has reclaimed the Meditation Hut, after the spiritual community has become a business, after the divorce—I mount a large whiteboard on the wall. We mutually dare each other somehow, the whiteboard and me. I write sentences long and wide. I stand before them. Sometimes I put the music on loud and dance with a phrase, marker in hand, up to the board. I’m stamping myself into a new skin, and dancing before a whiteboard with a glass of Scotch is just a logical extension of meditation practice. 

Some days the words of the previous night might be code, left behind by a shadowy lover. Some days, unfinished sentences hang on the board like fresh laundry, rattling, whipping there, still wet. They ease themselves into my mouth and linger.

There’s a distance between the words I have and the words I want, and it’s breeched by moments of pure, expansive joy when words become music become air become blood, when there is simply some jazzed up juiced up fucked up burn going on inside me and I know I’ve lost my footing. 

This essay wasn’t supposed to be about love. Look what it’s become. How do we create anything unless we are in a swoon? A swoon arising from the darkness. Stepping backward, I never know exactly where I’m going until I arrive.

Steve Mitchell, a writer and journalist, has published in CRAFT Literary, entropy, december magazine, and Southeast Review, among others. His novel, Cloud Diary, is published by C&R Press. His book of short stories is The Naming of Ghosts from Press 53. He is a winner of the Curt Johnson Prose Prize and the Lorian Hemingway International Short Story Prize. He has a deep belief in the primacy of doubt and an abiding conviction that great wisdom informs very bad movies. He’s co-owner of Scuppernong Books in Greensboro, NC. Find him at: www.clouddiary.org

Body of Trust is part of a series, titled Mirrorbox, which combines memoir with film writing as personal exploration, in this case Tsai Miing-Liang’s Stray Dogs. Ultimate Trip (2001) is forthcoming in the North Carolina Literary Review, Wheel of Sleep (Melancholia) was recently published in CRAFT Literary, Peace and Noise (Eyes Wide Shut) appeared in entropy. Exorcism by Proxy (Billy Jack) appeared in Drunk Monkeys, and Never Far Enough (Bonnie and Clyde) was published in Red Fez. He’s currently working on an essay which incorporates Exorcist II: The Heretic.