Author: Editor

Diet Margarita

By Terry Sanville

 

Douglas climbed the outside stairs two at a time to his second-floor apartment over Tuck’s Liquor. He keyed the front door and slipped inside. Fugem dropped onto the carpet from her window perch and yowled, then purred when he filled her bowl with kibble.

Outside, the noise died back, only a few screams or cracks of small arms fire, but the grenade blasts continued. They seemed to come from beyond the cemetery near Linden Avenue.

“How’s my kitty?” Douglas cooed and scratched the calico behind the ears. The cat arched her back until what sounded like an RPG landed somewhere close. Fugem fled to the bedroom and hid under a dresser full of clothes and ammunition.

Douglas smiled, dumped his knapsack onto the sofa, and went into the kitchen. From a drawer he removed a slender knife, grabbed two limes, a lemon, and a small orange from the fridge and laid them on the cutting board. He’d spent half his salary already, mostly on booze, ammo and cat food.

He poured the freshly squeezed citrus juice into a tall glass, added a very healthy shot of cheap tequila, three packets of artificial sweetener, and topped the drink off with soda water and ice. He stirred the concoction with his finger and raised the glass to his lips, but his nose caught the faintest whiff of tear gas. He knew that smell from the troubles the previous year, when a crowd of embittered seniors tried taking over a Walmart during the COVID-42 scare.

He set his drink down and dashed across the room to the window that looked onto the street. He’d left it partway open to allow air for Fugem. Pulling it shut, he reached into a cabinet, grabbed a roll of duct tape, and sealed the space under its sash, then drew the curtains back.

East Flatbush spread out before him. From over the cemetery a white cloud drifted toward his apartment. He moved to the hall closet, grabbed his Vietnam-era gasmask and retrieved his margarita. Lowering himself onto the sofa, he found the remote and turned on CNN. A bearded commentator pointed to a map that showed territory occupied by the Geezer Liberation Army (GLA) and the inroads they’d made throughout New York City, with Flatbush being one of several hot spots. The harried newsman stared into the camera holding a microphone that looked like a president-sized dildo.

“This just in. Factions of the GLA have ransacked a New York National Guard Armory. Cases of AR-15s, RPGs, ammunition, and other explosive materials were taken.”

Douglas sniffed the air then took another gulp of his diet margarita, the tart liquid clearing his mouth and throat of any nasty germs. He changed channels until a soccer game between Botswana and Brazil filled the screen. The teams played to an empty stadium. He sipped his drink and decided to phone Sharon to have her come over to help him with his calculus homework.

“Hey Shar, whatcha doin?”

“Just got home from campus. Don’t know why I go there anymore.”

“Yeah, me either.”

“It got nasty on the subway. Half the seniors were packin heat.”

“Hey, they’ll be gone soon enough.”

“Yeah, including my Grandmother, you idiot. I love that old gal.”

“Whatever.”

“Have you been drinkin already?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry, I’ve saved some for you.”

“Can’t come over tonight. Streets are too weird, could get picked off.”

“Want me to come to your place?”

“No, stay put. We’ll see what it’s like tomorrow.”

“But that’s when my calculus assignment is due.”

“Ah, and I thought you cared about me.”

The signal died and Douglas groaned. He phoned Sharon back, but she didn’t pick up or respond to his texts or emails. He polished off his margarita and fixed another. The soccer game bored him so he returned to the 24/7 news channel, where the commentator droned on with old material.

“The violence started when the federal government announced it would no long support efforts to treat or eradicate the coronaviruses. According to Vice President Puntz, ‘The best way to protect Americans is to let the virus run its course and allow the populace to develop herd immunity.’ This policy has drawn fierce reactions from seniors and their advocacy groups since only relatively young and healthy people can achieve herd immunity. The violence increased after the president tweeted that the high cost of Medicare required cuts to—”

Douglas turned off the TV and slouched in his seat. He wondered how the GLA had organized so quickly. Maybe those longhaired Vietnam vets finally had enough and decided to stick it to the man. His own grandparents supported the president no matter what the idiot did.

A grenade blast sounded close, near the police station or maybe CVS Drug, and the pop-pop-pop of small arms fire forced Douglas out of his seat. He staggered into the kitchen, fixed another diet margarita, and headed to his bedroom. From a bottom drawer he retrieved his Glock and several full ammo magazines.

He edged toward his front window and stole a glance outside. A ragtag squad of armed men and women, some of them in wheelchairs, cut an erratic path down the avenue, firing at houses, businesses, and especially at anything publicly owned. They ransacked Tuck’s Liquor Store below him and continued to move on.

Douglas crept to the door and slipped onto the outside landing. His Glock raised, he braced an arm against the railing, and fired, emptying the magazine, then another, and another. The street went quiet.

Breathing hard, Douglas smiled and ducked inside, returning to his couch and his margarita. He collected his laptop, to see what other news services were reporting. Lifting his glass to his lips he noticed a red laser dot in the center of his chest. Where the hell did they get sniper–

 

Fugem scooted from underneath the dresser and trotted to Douglas’s lifeless body. She lapped at the tart liquid splashed across the coffee table. She’d have something other than kibble to eat for days to come.

 

Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California, with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and two plump cats (his in-house critics). He writes full time, producing short stories, essays, poems, and novels. His short stories have been accepted more than 370 times by commercial and academic journals, magazines, and anthologies, including, The Potomac Review, The Bryant Literary Review, and Shenandoah. He was nominated twice for Pushcart Prizes and once for inclusion in Best of the Net anthology. His stories have been listed among “The Most Popular Contemporary Fiction of 2017” by the Saturday Evening Post. Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist—he once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.

Photo by Erika on Unsplash.

Notes from an Epicenter

By John Linstrom

                Sixteen Oaks Grove, Queens, NY

 

Sixteen oaks in two rows planted
down an island in the street:

school is closed, kids transplanted,
benches here are empty, clean and neat.

Auto shops still rollicking with laughter,
a boy walks by, dribbles his ball alone.

A bird keeps trilling, and will after;
the traffic, steady still, has slowed.

Sixteen oaks in two rows standing—
walkers pause, and then they quickly go.

 

John Linstrom’s poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in North American Review, The New Criterion, Atlanta Review, Vallum, and Cold Mountain Review. His nonfiction has recently appeared or is forthcoming in The Antioch Review and Newfound. He is series editor of The Liberty Hyde Bailey Library for Cornell University Press, making available the works of Progressive-Era environmental philosopher L. H. Bailey. He coedited The Liberty Hyde Bailey Gardener’s Companion: Essential Writings (Comstock-Cornell UP, 2019), and he prepared the centennial edition of Bailey’s ecospheric manifesto The Holy Earth (Counterpoint, 2015), featuring a new foreword by Wendell Berry. He currently lives with his wife and their joyful window garden in Queens, NY, where he is a doctoral candidate in English and American Literature at New York University. He also holds an MFA in Creative Writing and Environment from Iowa State University.

Photo by freestocks on Unsplash.

Dispatch from the Holding Tank

By Nancy Dunlop

 

It is my first day in—  what are they calling it? Self-quarantine? Social distancing? Shelter-in-place? I suppose, for me, it’s isolation.

But unlike many others my age, I’ve been in isolation for almost a decade, due to a disability. Today is really no different than any other day for me. Except that I sense other people are also in isolation. So, in some bizarre way I have company.

But when this virus is controlled, when “the curve flattens,” those who are newly self-isolating, and fortunate enough not to get infected, might return to a busy world. A world where people interact. Are productive. Are externally defined.

Another difference between me, an old hand at this isolation thing, and those who are brand, spanking new at it is that I’ve had a long time to deal with introspection. To look inside myself for answers. I had to re-define myself, by myself, from within. But I’m not particularly good at this. I am not good at loss: no more external validation or respect or job title or credentials or any sort of official auspices; no podium, microphone, cubicle, corner office, daily commutes, or jostling for a subway seat to distract me from any need to get quiet and go within.

If you saw my immediate surroundings, you might say, “How perfect for a writer!” The knotty pine cupboards and thick stone fireplace. Those birds racketing out the window. What the sun does to the afghans my grandmother crocheted for me, draped on the back of the love seat. If you could see what I see from my desk. My framed diploma. The photo of Stephen and me at the very moment we were pronounced husband and wife. My two gentle cats, Piper and Chloe. All the things that can bring comfort. Such a perfect retreat for a writer. A writer needs solitude, after all.

But not isolation.

It has taken almost a decade of being by myself to come to terms with being by myself. With my holding tank. So, to the young and healthy I say, “Welcome to the holding tank.”

I am following the news, social media, the stock market, the hoarding-of-toilet-paper and guns. I am following reports of people denying any problem or defying any precautions. And I get it. I know how difficult it is to go from 100 mph to zero. What it is like to hit a wall. To be told that you need to stop everything. That you’re not really essential. Oh, and by the way, nothing will ever be the same.

In the U.S., we’re told that we are a strong people. That we are the strongest people on Earth. We celebrate robustness. Vigor. Movement. Staying busy. Underneath all of that, though? I suspect fear. And anger. And a wicked need to blame. Or to scapegoat. But not a whole lot of anything more subtle or gradated. Like patience. Or acceptance. Or empathy. Not right away. Maybe not ever. Such things take work. Work that doesn’t necessarily look busy.

In addition to being strong, we are said to be ruggedly individualistic. We pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, gosh darn it, and are told to just go for it. Grab that brass ring. We are blasted with seemingly countless opportunities to be on the go.

I’ve noticed this all over social media, a well-meaning impulse to provide ways to stay exactly the way you were before you were isolated. How to work from home. Set up workstations. Put up with your family. Home-school. Learn to draw. Or knit. How to cultivate new interests, immediately. In general, how to stay cheerfully in the world when you are anything but. How to remain unchanging and robust in the midst of a situation demanding change and acknowledging we are not robust.

So, yes, I get it. I understand the sudden burgeoning of tricks and techniques and lists for how to do everything just as before. To do anything but deal with what comes with actual isolation. Like the opportunity—the actual human need—to feel vulnerable. To be soft. Or receptive. Or quiet. To practice not fearing fear. To be kind, despite.

 

Nancy Dunlop is a poet and essayist, who resides in Upstate New York. She received her Ph.D. at UAlbany, SUNY, specializing in Creative Writing and Poetics. She also taught at UAlbany for 20 years. Most recently, she has been curator of Wren, an international online forum for women in the arts. A finalist in the AWP Intro Journal Awards, she has been published in a number of print and digital journals, including Swank, Truck, The Little Magazine, Writing on the Edge, 13th Moon, Greenkill BroadSheet, and Writers Resist: The Anthology, 2018. Her work has also been heard on NPR.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash.

Heretic Hymn from the Pandemic

By D.A. Gray

 

One morning the cats who once
Crept up to our doors – stopped.
For a time the bird’s voices grew louder
Then they, too, disappeared.

We prayed on command. We were sure
The symbols would save us.
Leaving the church we made stops
At every store that promised
A cure – the backup spells of old
Superstition – just to be sure.

A man in our town has been chosen
To head the response task force.
Each day he offers a spot of wisdom.
‘The worst you can do,’ he says,
‘is panic.’ He bows before the camera.
His hair is bright white
Like a horseman from an old tale.

Most of us simply carried on.

When the least of these grew ill
We sang solemn hymns
This time to our neighbors, and the dead
We had never met. We were begging
Forgiveness for averting our eyes, away
From them and toward the sky.

I saw my parents begin to shrink, still thinking
Tragedy could be beaten with piety.
The louder they prayed the smaller
They grew. One day my father’s
Eyes jolted open. He was small enough now
He could see it coming.

Keep calm. Be civil. After the funeral we pulled
Out the box of aphorisms
Which was always here waiting our return
In case of emergency.

If we listen we can hear the sounds of hooves,
Really the sounds of breath rasping,
The remaining beastly sounds, bringing the end
Of the tale galloping closer
Like any metaphor – if you believe it too much.

 

D.A. Gray’s poetry collection, Contested Terrain, was recently released by FutureCycle Press. His previous collection, Overwatch, was published by Grey Sparrow Press in 2011. His work has appeared in The Sewanee Review, Appalachian Heritage, The Good Men Project, Writers Resist, and Literature and the Arts, among many other journals. Gray holds an MFA from The Sewanee School of Letters and an MS from Texas A&M-Central Texas. Retired soldier and veteran, the author writes and lives in Central Texas.

“Four Horsemen” by Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld, 1860.

A Modern Fable

By David Laks

 

We’re all going to die. It’s just a question of when. That is my job—to figure out when you will die. Well, not you specifically, but you as a representative of you. The digital model of you. I am a data analyst at John Adams Life Insurance Company and my job is to program big databases to determine the life expectancy of people. What we like to call in the biz, the actuarial tables. John Adams was a pretty stogy old fashioned workplace when I first got there. We were still expected to wear a jacket and tie to work every day, sit down in our cramped cubicles and click and clack away at our keyboards extracting whatever data we could find from the U.S. Census. My claim to fame was to modernize the whole approach and bring John Adams into the 21st century. Here’s what I did.

One day, sitting at home in my Back-Bay condo, kicking back with a cold brew from the corner Starbucks, I was hacking into the Facebook database. Hey, some people watch Seinfeld reruns, I like to hack sinister social media giants for fun—don’t judge me. I was trying to see if I could search on vaping posts, and then correlate that to vaping shops in the area. That part was easy. It was a bit harder to burrow into the area hospital databases to see if we could find an increase in admissions for respiratory illnesses. Hard but not impossible. Now don’t get your privacy knickers all in a bunch. I was not looking at individual names; this was a big-data exercise. The Feds will take years and hundreds of millions of dollars to determine what I found out in my one elicit nocturnal journey: The rate of lung disease from vaping is the same as smoking cigarettes, and you can expect the same reduction in life expectancy. The next day, I showed my boss the data and told him that we need to change the insurance policy application to include vaping alongside smoking tobacco.

Let’s do the math—I love those four words—let’s do the math. It’s kind of like God saying, “Let there be light.” The world is in order, harmony. No messy indecisions, relationships, indeterminate feelings. Math is deterministic; it has structure, meaning, answers. I went through the numbers and showed that by changing our insurance policy to treat vaping like tobacco we would save $3.7B over 20 years. My career ascended. Literally. I was given an office on the 38th floor and asked to put together a crack team of software engineers that would drill down into every aspect of human behavior and genetics to quantify its impact on life expectancy. Our floor was like a tech start-up. Bring your dog to work. Free meals, beer and kombucha in the fridge. We revolutionized the insurance business. Customers filled out an application and our algorithms went through their social media footprint in an instant and calculated an insurance policy that was customized for each of them. Legal? Hmm, maybe. Read the T&Cs.

It was January 30, 2020 when I was taking an Uber from my new luxury condo at the Wharf and I read about the corona virus disease. The warnings were muted, with numbers coming out of China that had a 2% death rate. I felt a stir in my stomach but ignored it as my focus at the time was on correlating the racial changes due to Trump’s immigration policies and how that might impact our numbers. Racial profiling—that’s kinda what we do.

On February 15, I was reading that the number of virus cases was up to 67K. Now it caught my full attention. I decided to do a hack of the Wuhan, China, hospitals to see what numbers I could find. Holy shit. The death rate was not 2%, it was 50%. I did some mathematical simulations—this was a fucking disaster for us. I mean the deaths were disturbing and all, but the number of life insurance policies that would have to be paid due to the virus was staggering. I had to talk to my boss right away.

“You can go in now Mr. Little,” said Ms. Penny the admin for my boss Mr. Duck.

“Little, what can I do for you? You look kind of pale yellow. Are you OK?”

“Well, sir, I decided to do some investigation of this coronavirus, and I don’t know how to say this other than just come out and let you know that John Adams will be bankrupt by the end of the year.”

Mr. Duck staggered across his office and said, “Let’s get your whole staff to work on the numbers and see if they get the same numbers you do.”

So, I got the team all working on various simulations and each of them came to the same conclusion, that John Adams would cease to exist by the end of the year.

One of them said, “What are we to do?”

Another said, “If these windows could open, I would jump out.”

A third added, “My goose is cooked.”

And finally, I said, “The chickens have come home to roost. We have no choice but to let our CEO know.”

We all marched up to Ms. Fox’s office and demanded to see her immediately. She listened intently and asked if we had told anyone else? We said no, and then she said, “I want each and everyone of you to never speak of this again. If I find out that you have shared this crazy theory with anyone, I will fire you on the spot. Is that understood?”

•     •     •

Jan 18, 2021. Boston Globe

The stunning demise of one of Boston’s financial pillars, John Adams Insurance Company, was further complicated by the indictment of its longtime CEO, Loxanne Fox, derisively known as Foxy Loxy. It appears she knew of the negative financial impact the coronavirus was going to have on the company and secretly sold shares in a clear violation of insider trading law. It has been rumored that Fox left the country for a villa on a remote Pacific island. A former company employee said off the record, “I told her it was like the sky was falling. I guess she did listen to me after all.”

 

David Laks was an engineer and business leader during his 40-year career in high-tech electronics. He now is not.

Photo by Shane Rounce on Unsplash.

Six Feet Is All We Need

By Robert Knox  

 

Generally speaking, I’m pretty good
at keeping my distance
In fact, for days on end I’m practically
sheltering in place,
possibly even self-quarantining,
though I’m not sure where one of these nonce phrases
leaves off, and the other begins.

I did, however, break solitude to
stroll with my bestie
to the post office, where she may well have
violated her parole,
by engaging with a postal clerk
over required postage for an early draft
of our tax returns,
seeing that our customary live inquisition
was deferred
for all the appropriate public health protocols

And then, totally on my moral dime
for which I assume complete civic responsibility
we stopped at the nearly closed coffee shop,
all its tables lying sidewise against the wall,
where, in all probability,
I most infringed upon the magic circle,
pointing a blue surgically-gloved finger
at the blueberry scone
for which I felt a pounding need

transgressing that six-foot safety zone,
as if, after all these years,
once more
leaving room for the Holy Ghost
on the dance floor whose like I fear
never to know again.
to fox-trot with the pastry of my choice,
having discovered
by the bane, and boon, of enforced separation
from my fellow creatures,
that all we need in life is six feet
of safe and clean and healthy air

and at its end, those six feet under.

 

Robert Knox is a poet, fiction writer, and Boston Globe correspondent. As a contributing editor for the online poetry journal, Verse-Virtual, his poems appear regularly on that site. They have also appeared in journals such as The American Journal of Poetry, South Florida Poetry Journal, New Verse News, Unlikely Stories, and others. His poetry chapbook Gardeners Do It With Their Hands Dirty, published in 2017, was nominated for a Massachusetts Best Book award. He was recently named the winner of the 2019 Anita McAndrews Poetry Award.

Photo by Scott Nothwehr on Unsplash.

Grace in the Time of the Virus

By Melanie Bell        

Take this time
For yourself.
Everyone around you
Is doing the same,
Snatching the last eggs from air.
You start, you care
A little too much,
Don’t finish the chapter
You intended to write.
Everybody’s chapters
Are unfinished, now,
Some cut off mid-sentence,
The foot suspended midair,
The period still to come.

You are alive.
Remember, every breath,
Hold in the droplets
Lest they infect.
Act as if you are the virus.
It lives inside all of us now,
Eating our cereal, oatmeal,
That bread we were lucky to get.
So does grace.
Remember, it whispers,
Not to touch your face.
This is how best to avoid
A shelter in place.

Grace puppets your body
And motivates your limbs.
Grace closes restaurants and gyms.
Grace in the faces of loved ones on the screen,
Of tweets reaching out,
All those hearts behind the news, news, news,
All those people dancing in their kitchen
And smiling at you.

 

Melanie Bell holds an MA in Creative Writing from Concordia University and has written for various publications including Autostraddle, Cicada, The Fiddlehead, Every Day Fiction, and CV2. She’s the co-author of a nonfiction book, The Modern Enneagram (Althea Press, 2017). You can visit her website at InspireEnvisioning.com.

Photo by Wesley Tingey on Unsplash.

Whiteness in Bloom

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By Jill McDonough

Thinking about whiteness, what it is and what
it does, we go to the MFA to see Art
in Bloom. Groups of white suburban women,
garden clubs, look at art, arrange some flowers
to look like the art. Or something. Lilies scattered
over scaffolding: the Rape of the Sabine Women;
a column of callas: the Dead Body of Christ.
Older white women figuring out the flowers always
crack me up. One group looked at a boat of flowers
under a portrait of an Asian guy and was like huh?
So one of the ladies read the description, pointed to it,
said “You can read about him. He’s a tradesman
from China. So kinda. . . that’s a boat.”  I text that
to myself, say it again, delighted. This is the kind
of whiteness I’ve come to see. We go every year, think
it’s hilarious, like seeing parodies of our slightly
older selves, a little richer, continuing to come
here but without irony. There are phrases
from my southern youth about whiteness I remember:
Mightly white of you; Free, white, and 21.
Whiteness was aspirational. Sometimes I wanted more:
more whiteness like more money, the whitest kids
with ski passes from Vail on jacket zippers all winter long.
Invited to be a debutante, join a sorority, I said no,
explained I couldn’t join an all-white group. They have
their own groups, other white people told me, exasperated,
leaving me in confused tears. It’s embarrassing, talking
about whiteness. A hard job, imagining who you want
to be as an adult, barely knowing what it is
you don’t want to have ever done.

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Jill McDonough is the author of Habeas Corpus (Salt, 2008), Oh, James! (Seven Kitchens, 2012), Where You Live (Salt, 2012), Reaper (Alice James, 2017), and Here All Night (Alice James, 2019). The recipient of three Pushcart prizes and fellowships from the Lannan Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, the Fine Arts Work Center, the New York Public Library, the Library of Congress, and Stanford’s Stegner program, she taught incarcerated college students through Boston University’s Prison Education Program for thirteen years. Her work has appeared in Poetry, Slate, The Nation, The Threepenny Review, and Best American Poetry. She teaches in the MFA program at UMass-Boston and offers College Reading and Writing at a Boston jail. Her website is jillmcdonough.com.

Image credit: Hand-colored photograph by Ogawa Kazumasa, 1896, via Public Domain Review.

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To Face Ourselves

By Claudia Wair

 

Most people keep their masks in a kitchen drawer or hang them up on a rack next to their keys. The masks are then easily accessible in case of visitors and when you’re on the way out of the house. My mother is different, though. She keeps hers in the top drawer of her bureau and wears it even in the house.

The law only requires that people don their masks at home when outsiders visit, not in front of the family circle. My mother, however, took hers off only for my father in the privacy of their bedroom. As a small child, I never questioned her habit, but as I grew older and understood more about the world outside, I was saddened and a little offended at my mother’s insistence on wearing her mask around us. Only once have I seen her face. That was the day her own mother died. I was nine. Her face was lovely—flawless brown skin, high cheekbones, full lips—and I remember thinking that it was wrong that she had to hide her face.

The next day, Mother’s mask was back. And that was also the day I began wearing my mask about the house. At first, I think it was in childish sympathy, a daughter’s desire to be like her mother. But now I wear it to remind me of what they’ve done to us. To keep me from thinking of the person I’d be without it. And because, if I take it off for more than sleep, I’m afraid I’d never put it on again.

We are taught to be ashamed of what’s underneath. Shame followed my mother into the house like smoke, coalescing into an unnatural shell that surrounded her, her true self shrinking within it.

Individuality is ugly. Conformity is beautiful. Uniformity is cleanliness. Creativity is the result of a bad upbringing.

My brother, always an impetuous boy, joined a militant group of bare-faced people. We see him seldom, and then only at night when he can spend a few hurried hours with us. Before the Law catches up with him. As family members who harbor a bare-faced relative, we are accessories to his crime. He’s never asked us for anything; he may be headstrong but he’s a good boy. He and his friends stage protests in front of public buildings; ripping off their masks or carrying pictures of bare-faced people. Whenever there is a press conference on the steps of the capitol, he and others like him crowd behind the politicians making sure they’re in view of the cameras. They wait for a particularly important moment in the speech, then they remove their masks. Sometimes they rip the masks off and shout their slogans of “Bare-faced and proud!” or “Back to the way we were born!” At other times, they slowly, quietly slip the masks off, so deliberately that it takes the cameramen from the State News Agency a long time to notice that bare-faced people have been filmed live; that good, honest, hard-working people have been subjected to such sordid exposure, and it’s too late to censor the broadcast. There is risk in every show of defiance, so the protesters run, separating to make it harder to capture them all. Escape routes are planned well in advance.

We worry that the police will knock on the door and tell us my brother’s been taken to one of the prison camps. We’d be lucky to ever see him again. The few political prisoners who are released come back with bodies and minds so broken that they need permanent care. The politicians say, “See? These criminals flout the law, and then live off the taxpayers’ hard-earned money!” And the taxpayers agree, even when it’s their own sons and daughters being hauled away.

To express doubt is to admit heresy. To propose change is sedition.

I’m most angry at the people who sit silent. They hold the keys to their own shackles, but have bought into the lie that their chains make them exceptional. They recite the approved litany without comprehending the meaning of the words; each utterance is confirmation of their enslavement.

This has to end. I want to join my brother and his freedom fighters. I have nothing of value to fear losing. There are sympathizers everywhere: the bare-faced, if not able to find shelter, are always sure of at least a meal from the compassionate who, like my mother, are too afraid to remove their own masks.

But when I see strangers’ true faces around me and am confronted with revealing mine, can I look into the empty eyes of my mask and run, leaving it to dry rot and dust?

 

 Claudia Wair is a Virginia-based writer and editor. Her short stories appear in anthologies including Dread Naught but Time, Fantasia Fairy Tales, and Winds of Despair, as well as in Fiction War magazine. Learn more at claudiawair.com, and follow her on Twitter, @CWTellsTales, Instagram, @CWTellsTales, and Facebook.

Photo by Ruslan Zaplatin on Unsplash.

Elongation

By Annette Januzzi Wick 

 

Liz Warren drops from orbit

Venus still lit but out of reach

Back to the old man in the moon

Hope doesn’t float when scorched

 

Annette Januzzi Wick is a writer, teacher and community connector. She makes her home in Cincinnati’s Over-the-Rhine, with her husband, who calls her the “worst introvert ever.” Visit annettejwick.com to learn more.

Image credit: NASA

 

 

 

Women’s Day

By Cooper Gillespie

 

Cooper Gillespie is a writer and musician. She was raised in the wettest parts of the Pacific Northwest but escaped to California as soon as she was able and was overjoyed to discover the sun actually exists. She plays bass and sings in LANDROID and is an MFA candidate at UC Riverside-Palm Desert. Presently, she resides in Landers, CA with her husband and their two enchanting hounds. Learn more at coopergillespie.com.

Photo by Victoria Strukovskaya on Unsplash.

This poem

By Rachel Norman

 

is a product
of our time.
It wakes up,
gasping
after
dreams
where it
drowned
in ice-melt.
It believes
we can still
change.
I saw it
yesterday,
running,
and asked
why it ran.
It had no
words to
answer with,
only a song
it wrote for
a child
who cried
last night.
It heard
and cried
back in
chorus
— like a wolf,
it said, only
sweeter.

 

Rachel Norman is a high school student. Currently living in Cambodia, she will be attending the University of Pennsylvania next fall. She has been published in Isacoustic and Falling Star Magazine. She is admittedly idealist, but hopes that eventually we will all take the time to listen to one another, to give each other space to speak, and to be willing to walk towards one another rather than away. Beyond that, she doesn’t know very much.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash.

Beating Wanderlust

By Mileva Anastasiadou

 

It’s not like you chose the destination. But you step onto the car, or the plane, or the ship, attempting to find a comfortable seat. You don’t choose the seat, they tell you, so you sit where indicated, not bothering with questions. And it all seems a miracle in the beginning. The landscape unfolds before your wondering eyes and for a minute or two you see magic out there. The world lies ahead, like uncharted territory for you to discover.

•

You have to learn, they say, for this trip is educational. So they start throwing information into your brain. Facts, dates, numbers. It’s important that you remember, they say, but you want only to watch the scenery through the window. You’re still eager to enjoy the journey. Perhaps I can learn more looking out the window, you think, yet you don’t dare speak. They detect your doubt as if they have been expecting it and show you people in other seats. You want to be like them and get a better seat, they explain. But you don’t mind your seat. Those better seats come with privileges, they add, only you don’t know the meaning of the word, and even though they explain, you still don’t get the point.

They finally convince you those better seats are worth fighting for. Or perhaps they don’t. So, you are now the kid in the front seat. Or you remain in the back seat.

Once or twice, you take a glimpse at those better seats. You either admit it or you may not, but it’s already in you; you imagine having a better seat, like when you’re really young and secretly believe older people are stupid, but also secretly envy them and want to enter their world to make it better.

You may or may not be able to memorize their facts. Some passengers are lucky enough to choose their teachers, but chances are you cannot. Either way, you already feel unsafe. You tell them, and they wink jokingly at you as if asking: Aren’t we all? The car may crash any minute now, the plane may fall, the ship may sink. You wish you knew from the start. Why did they bring you here? It’s the trip that counts, as long as it lasts, they promise. You trust them. As if you had a choice.

•

Either way, you’re now traumatized, so they send a therapist your way. You don’t enjoy the trip because of the trauma, he explains, and you nod, because therapists know better. So they tell you. You’ve been too stressed too soon. Your self-esteem came to depend on your performance. You take it all too seriously. You either admit it or you don’t, it doesn’t make a difference. That only shows traits of your personality, but is of no importance. You need unconditional love, he finally says. And that becomes your next goal. Before you know it, you create bonds. Some of the co-travelers are interesting, but most of them are boring. Some come sit next to you, only to leave the next second, for a better seat. Then you do that too. You think it’s normal, yet disappointing at the same time. You expect unconditional love after all. They say you deserve it, but it’s hard to find. So you demand it. You act crazy sometimes, but not on purpose. Not consciously. You only want to give them the chance to prove their unconditional love you deserve.

Co-travelers come and leave. You come and leave. You can’t settle down. You even forget to enjoy the view. You’ll have plenty of time later, you say to yourself. You suspect you may have commitment issues. So now you ask for the therapist, who says you need boundaries. You say that’s the opposite of unconditional love. Of course it is, he answers in a way that implies that he doesn’t have more time to waste on you. So you discover boundaries.

•

They ask for your ticket. If you’re lucky enough, you’ll find it in your pocket. Yet chances are you’re not that lucky. You search for the ticket and sometimes that takes your whole time. Meanwhile, you have to somehow pay for the trip. A stowaway, they yell before you know it, so you say you want to go out of the car, or the plane, or the ship, but they insist there’s no alternative. You yell and you scream you didn’t choose this trip, you didn’t choose this car, or plane, or ship, but nobody listens. You take a glimpse out of the window and you see the desert, or the sky, or the sea and you wonder where the magic’s gone and if you can survive, or fly, or swim. You may want to jump out sometimes, only to land onto a smaller car, or plane, or boat. Yet you cannot be sure. You may jump into nothingness instead and you fear nothingness. You never knew it existed. So you probably stay in and try to pretend you enjoy the experience. You remember the therapist’s advice; you shouldn’t take things too seriously.

The trip is expensive, they tell you. You somehow have to pay. If you belong to the majority who weren’t born with tickets, you must pay however you can. They ask for your qualifications. You tell them they should know, because they taught you. Oh well, unfortunately, you’ll have to do something else, they say most of the time. You complain for a while, but usually not for long. So you do what they tell you, which may be tiring and exhausting, but the alternative is even worse. So that’s why they’ve been trying to convince you trips are pleasant, you think. You’re supposed to like the experience. They’ve even created myths and songs about them. But you don’t. You only want to step out of the journey. You want to go home. Only you don’t have a home to go to.

Day after day, they ask more of you. And you remember boundaries. So you say no and they look disappointed, as if they knew you were useless all along. Once again, they insist you need therapy. You tell the therapist what you know about boundaries. Boundaries don’t work like that, he says. You ask why. You have to be flexible, he says. You have to be competitive to get the best seat. Get serious, he implies, only he doesn’t say it aloud and you feel like raising your hand to present your objections but you don’t. He rolls his eyes, like you’re stupid or lazy. At the moment, you think you are. Or this is a very confusing trip. It will make sense in the end, they promise. But you don’t believe anything they say. Not anymore. Or you do. For their voices are loud. So you bow your head and move on.

•

So you do as they say, and sooner or later, you find a seat that fits you. A seat you don’t want to leave, for there beside you sits a person you can have some fun with. At least in your free time. And you stick around. You don’t feel so trapped anymore. That trip has finally started being a little pleasant again. Or bearable at least. And you almost hear that old yearning from time to time, still beating inside, like a heartbeat, that longing to explore the world and keep moving ahead, enjoying the view.

Time flies. Before you know it, you’re post-everything. Post youth, post lovers, you’re almost post life. If you’re pre-something you’re only pre-death, but that doesn’t matter much, because you’ve been pre-death, since day one. This could have been a wonderful trip, you realize. If only it weren’t about those stupid seats. Who made it about those seats?

You’re still not post-love, you think, squeezing the hands of the passengers beside you, the ones you’ve chosen to travel with. One can never be post-love, until the very last minute. You take care of them with all your effort, which makes you the opposite of lazy, you realize.

If only it hadn’t been for those stupid seats, you’d have been able to care for all passengers. After all, you’re in the same car, or plane, or ship together, sharing the same destination, which none of you has chosen.

 

Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in many journals, such as the Molotov Cocktail, Jellyfish Review, Asymmetry, the Sunlight Press (Best Small Fictions 2019 nominee), Ghost Parachute, Gone Lawn, Ellipsis Zine, Queen Mob’s Tea House, Bending Genres and others. Follow Mileva on Facebook and Twitter.

Photo by Reza Aulia on Unsplash.

Teaching Poetry In Prison

By Susan Kelly-DeWitt

 

I think of him
as a victim
(a veteran)

of war—
every day was
the enemy

in a house-
hold that thought

children should
be punished
with barbed wire,

belts, burns, punches,
pinches, slaps, kicks,

starvation. Where meth
was the vitamin,
sex was the money,

where poverty was
the neighborhood,

poverty was
the country

and nobody ever
called him honey

until high school
freed him to be

part of something
larger than himself,

a gang. They robbed
a convenience
store, someone got

shot, killed—he did not
pull the trigger yet

here he is twenty
years later, life

without parole—
shaking my hand,
smiling at me,

thanking me
for helping him learn

one new word.

 

Susan Kelly-DeWitt is a former Wallace Stegner Fellow and the author of Gravitational Tug (forthcoming 2020), Spider Season (Cold River Press, 2016), The Fortunate Islands (Marick Press, 2008) and nine previous small press collections and online chapbooks. Her work has appeared in many anthologies, and in print and online journals at home and abroad. She is a member of the National Book Critics Circle and the Northern California Book Reviewers Association. For more information, please visit her website at www.susankelly-dewitt.com.

Photo by Aswin Deth on Unsplash.

I See You

By Laura Martinez

 

First you are “pollo”
chicken.
Then you are “illegal”
just so much contraband
or “alien”
strange creature from another place
to be feared.
Less than human.

I walk with you
through the streets of Nogales,
sit with you as you prepare
for your journey,
as you pray the rosary.

I see you in the desert
exhausted and thirsty,
and I see your haunted eyes
as you are detained, chained and
branded a “criminal.”
The smell of broken dreams
permeates the air.

You are a human being,
someone’s husband, mother,
daughter, son,
who lives, loves,
suffers, endures,
never deterred from the promise
of a better, safer life.

 

I am a retired social worker and volunteer with a local humanitarian aid group that supplies water to migrants in the desert. I also am with a local group that coordinates nationally to end the criminalization of migration. My poems have been published locally in the Tucson Weekly and Arizona Daily Star. I am a regular contributor to an online magazine, Downtown LA Life.

Photo credit: Jasper Nance via a Creative Commons license.

Please, Be Safe

By Tyhi Conley

 

Before they arrived, we were laughing, telling stories outside of the convenience store. Over the years, the store’s owner got to know us. He’d sold to us since we were kids buying dollar Arizona’s and 50 cent honey buns every summer day on our way to the pools, courts, or houses of friends whose parents let us in.

The people knew us. They’d stop and talk as they came and went. The older women wondered what we’d do with our lives, and called us handsome. The older men asked us which sport we played, and if we were being recruited. All of them warned us, almost begging that we “stay safe.” At the time, we didn’t understand why our elders used the phrase to say goodbye, or even how they all knew to say it. In hindsight, I’ve concluded it’s something our elders expected we’d need to hear.

See, our elders predicted that they would come, and that when they arrived they wouldn’t see laughing teenagers enjoying their day. They aren’t proud like the older men and women of our community. They’re scared. They hold a false sense of duty. They mischaracterize.

“Look at where they live,” they say while driving by. “What do they have to laugh about?”

“Why are they together?” they question. “Too many of them in one spot is bound to cause a problem.”

As they pull in, our smiles vanish quickly, like a small flame in the wind. We contemplate running, but reconsider, as we haven’t committed any crimes.

“What are your names? Where do you live?” The interrogation begins.

“Here,” we answer. “We live here.”

“Where were you guys last night?” they continue.

Last night, we were doing what regular teenagers do. No, we weren’t selling drugs or breaking into houses. We were with our girlfriends, or playing video games, or working to buy sneakers.

Despite our declaration of innocence, the backup appears. One at a time, until the parking lot becomes crowded and lit with flashing blue lights. Curious about the cause of the cop cars, the drivers passing by slow down, snarling traffic. The people around the store, instead of coming and going, stop and stare and pull out their phones. Our predicament becomes clear.

We understand that we are staring into the face of death; that witnesses don’t matter, and neither do cameras. The crowd is helpless, like an audience watching a horror movie: No matter how much they wish a character hasn’t gone in that room, the best they can do is scream once the violence occurs. At worst, if they decide to act on their fear, our deaths will result in a couple months of paid leave.

We finally discover what it meant when our elders begged us to “stay safe.” The farewell was a reminder to move in a way that would ensure our survival.

“Bookbags?” they say. “It’s summer time; there is no school. You guys mind if we check those?” They frame their commandment as a question.

Knowing things will escalate if we deny the request, we open the bags. In them, are towels or cleats or video game controllers. Not weed, guns or stolen objects. After a few more questions, they grow weary of the harassment and let us go.

Although we’re free, the summer day is ruined. No more swimming, playing basketball, or hanging out, telling jokes in front of the convenience store. We’d rather go home and celebrate the teachings of our parents, along with the blessings that boredom can bring.

We grow, forever moving differently with a newly acquired perspective. Years tread by and we start our own families. Now, it’s our duty to give our children the speech. Now, we’re the elders coming and going from the convenience store, proud to have seen our community grow. Now, when we see the teenagers laughing out front, we feel obligated to tell them, “Please, be safe,” because we know they’re coming, and we know they need to hear it.

 

Tyhi Conley obtained a B.A. in journalism from Kennesaw State University and is working in Atlanta as a personal assistant. 

Photo credit: Steve Pisano via a Creative Commons license.

Poem Where I Mix-Up Fairy Tales

By Courtney LeBlanc

 

Sometimes the wolf shows up in a suit,
hair neat and tie perfect, teeth tucked
into his mouth to mimic a sly smile.
Sometimes he’s a friend, sometimes
a stranger, sometimes a lover.
Sometimes I crave the beast’s
hands on my skin, sometimes I want
his bite, sometimes I don’t want
to be rescued. I wish this sleep could
last forever, my still body tended
by the forest and the animals, hidden
from the prince’s kiss — why wake
up in a world that constantly kicks
and takes away my rights. I’ll take
the beast to get his library, I’ll take
the spindle to finally catch up
on my sleep, I’ll take the wolf
to avoid future errands. And
that house of sugar? I’ll lick
every windowpane and wait
for the witch. She won’t push me
into the fire, instead we’ll sit
around it, spiked drinks in hand,
munching on cookies, toasting
our luck at finding one another.

 

Courtney LeBlanc is the author of Beautiful & Full of Monsters (forthcoming from Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), and chapbooks All in the Family (Bottlecap Press) and The Violence Within (Flutter Press). She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and has her MBA from University of Baltimore and her MFA from Queens University of Charlotte. She loves nail polish, wine, and tattoos. Read her publications on her blog: www.wordperv.com. Follow her on Twitter, @wordperv, and Instagram, @wordperv79.

To the Racist in Line for Chinese Food at Safeway

By Ty.Brack

 

Yes, you are racist.
I know this because of the way you reduced
Estefania and America to colored women.
I know this because Estefania was helping me
and America was helping you.
You and I ordered the Express Special at the same time.
Estefania returned with my container
before America returned with yours,
and Estefania asked, Rice or chow—
You cut her off with a grumble, Chow mein,
like you were so sure this was America
and she belonged to you.
When Estefania looked at you with confusion,
you looked at Estefania like she was your America,
and you grumbled again, this time with seething chauvinism,
Chow. Mein.
Estefania’s confusion changed to composure
as she said in her smoothest customer service voice,
Sir, I was actually helping the other gentlemen;
America will be right with you.
I watched the creases in your forehead
flatten into lines of seasoned microaggressions,
revealing your familiar fragile rage
over the blanks between the lines.
So I filled in the blanks for you,
Dude, you’re racist.
But I don’t think I offended you enough.
So now you’re in a poem.

 

Ty.Brack is a poet and teacher from Portland, Oregon, who believes each word should aid in the dismantling of the white heterosexual, cisgender, male supremacy. He performs his work through Portland Poetry Slam, Slamlandia, and Wordlights, and he doubles as a hip hop recording artist, with several singles available on major digital streaming platforms. Follow him on Instagram: @ty.brack.poetry.

Photo credit: DijutalTim via a Creative Commons license.

Clutching at the Last Straw

By Dini Armstrong

 

After consulting with the elders, they chose to buy Oideacha, approaching life on this tiny Scottish island with all the naivety and determination of youth. Quaker values still rang true to them when they signed on the dotted line: peace, simplicity, integrity, stewardship of the earth. Hamish had years of experience volunteering on building projects in Malawi, so he took on the lion’s share of any construction work—using reclaimed materials whenever possible. Maria covered the roof with grass and sowed wildflower seeds. The inside of their little hobbit house was deceptively spacious, with water and heating provided by an air source heat pump. They used fleece insulation, 95 percent of which consisted of recycled plastic bottles. Triple-glazing and the use of A-rated kitchen appliances further lowered their carbon footprint. Maria procured a boat that was made from recycled plastic litter. Their secret shame was a four-stroke outboard motor, but the mainland was too far to row the distance.

The young couple soon found their rhythm. Each day began by feeding three sheep, a goat and five chickens. Next on the schedule were gardening, cleaning and renovating. They were hoping to grow organic vegetables within a year. After dinner, they went for a stroll along the beach. It took roughly two and a half hours to circle the island, especially as they brought empty burlap bags to collect plastic litter, washed in by the tide. They found soda bottles, torn shopping bags, drinking straws, food cartons, a surprising amount of tampon applicators, even a plastic leg.
On Sundays, they travelled to the mainland, attended Meeting and did some shopping. Hamish, with the strength of an ox and a fiery red beard, might as well have come over on a longboat. Maria, not petite, felt dainty next to him. Although she fiercely loved their little paradise, her Maltese skin was riddled with midge bites and she ached for sunshine.

Weeks into their stay, on discovering an article in The Guardian, she let out a high-pitched yelp.

Scientists accidentally create mutant enzyme that eats plastic bottles
The breakthrough, spurred by the discovery of plastic-eating bugs at a Japanese dump, could help solve the global plastic pollution crisis.

Six months later, like children waiting for Santa, too excited to sit down, they hovered in front of their laptop, balanced precariously on the edge of the kitchen counter, where WiFi reception was most reliable, awaiting a special broadcast by King Charles.

“God, he looks old,” Hamish blurted out when the first picture appeared.

“Ssshhhh!” Maria hissed, her eyes fixed on the screen.

“Twenty-twenty has been a sad year for us all,” the monarch began, his voice heavy with solemnity, “The United Kingdom was cruelly robbed of her beloved Queen, my mother.” He wiped an invisible tear from the corner of his eye, took a sip of water and continued.

“But it has also been a year of beginnings and a year of discovery. Scientists all over the world have worked tirelessly to bio-engineer bacteria—as well as fungi—capable of producing an enzyme that can break down even the most resistant plastics into their base components. One might say it was their PET-project.” He paused and allowed for any laughs. “For this thrilling breakthrough, we owe our deepest gratitude.”

He drifted off into an expansive, upper-crust version of “I told you so,” in which he recounted all the decades of his own personal crusade against plastic litter – among other environmental pollutants. At this point, Hamish began to embrace Maria from behind, gently kissing her neck. She could feel her body relax against his, when King Charles declared:

“We have all seen them over the years—videos of whale carcasses being cut open, releasing tons of plastics that the poor gentle giants ingested, photos of seagulls, dying with their wings twisted in plastic netting, turtles, trapped in ghost nets. All this will be a thing of the past, like the monstrous torture instruments in the Tower museum. Which is why we feel we are ready to release these clever little bacteria into the oceans—and to set free these glorious spores into the atmosphere. May they help mankind atone for their sins against nature!”

Roaring applause could be heard, although, considering he was still in a studio, it was unclear where this originated.

Hamish turned Maria around and kissed her, gently at first, hovering a few millimetres away as if seeking permission before touching the softness of her lips, and she responded with increasing enthusiasm. When he lifted her up onto the kitchen counter and slowly pulled down her knickers, neither bothered bringing up the issue of a condom. With Hamish’s tongue expertly teasing her sweet spot, Maria whispered, “Maybe.”

Within eight weeks, they found less and less litter during their circadian walks around the island. Joyous disbelief was gradually replaced by a solemn gratitude for witnessing history in the making, an evolution in reverse, until, finally, they found their last straw. Just when Hamish felt sure he had reached a pinnacle of happiness, Maria broke the news of her pregnancy. He lifted her up high, twirled her around and kissed her over and over.

“I have to show you something,” he declared, and she noticed he was blushing with pride. He took her hand and practically dragged her back home and into the garden shed. In the corner stood a cradle, made from driftwood. Pieces of sea glass, suspended as a mobile, gyrated and refracted the sunlight into tiny rainbows.

Rendered speechless, Maria caressed every intricate detail, every curve—when she found herself on the ground, her face pressed beneath Hamish’s chest. All hell broke loose around them. Tools fell from their hooks. Outside, something hit the ground with a heavy thud, then a violent shattering, again and again —more than something, many things, in almost perfect synchronicity. When the noise began to die down, she tried to wriggle.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I will be when you get off, you big oaf.”

Hamish let out a sigh and reluctantly obeyed. He squinted and blinked.. Tears streamed down his cheeks; his eyelids were red and swollen. “I think my contacts shifted, I can’t see a thing,” he muttered. His hair and back were covered in fine powder. She drew a deep breath and began to cough. It smelled of mushrooms. Not unpleasant like mold in a cellar, but more akin to the perfume of a freshly cut chanterelle from the forest.

“What in the …” She pointed through the open door of the shed. “The windows!”

Maria ran towards the house. Hamish tried to stumble after her, but soon capitulated and remained in one spot, rubbing his eyes. The triple-glazed panels lay in shards on the ground. Glass only, no frames. Following a hunch, Maria stretched up to a windowsill and sniffed. Ice-cold sweat trickled down the back of her neck.

“It’s mushro—” The words stuck in her throat when she turned and saw Hamish. From the corner of his eyes, two vertical red lines marked his face like war paint.

“Come on, let’s get you inside and cleaned up, you mucky pup,” she said. She was unsure why she did not mention his eyes. He nodded, and, fighting through a treacle pit of dread, they made their way inside, arm-in-arm.

The sofa had collapsed into an empty shell—draped with blankets. Water was gushing from the cupboard under the kitchen sink. The scent of chanterelle was competing with the fetid stench of sewage, wafting up through cracks in the floorboards. Hamish’s shirt started to disintegrate and fell off his torso in patches. Maria’s vegan shoes dissolved, leaving only shoelaces, draped over her socks like a bizarre pair of earthworms, still in the crisscross patterns they were threaded into, a bow at the top.

“The light switch is gone,” she mumbled weakly. Even if WiFi and electricity had survived, their laptop no longer had keys. With a faint flicker of hope, she moved towards the telephone, but, like an intricate little sand sculpture, it disintegrated on first touch.

They stood in silence. The chanterelle air was thick with dust and fear.

“Check the boat, I’ll find something to rinse my eyes,” Hamish stated as if suggesting a shopping trip.

She left him standing. Away from the house, the garden looked almost normal, and she could pretend to herself that all was well. The greenhouse finished, they had planned to buy seeds on their next trip. Walking towards the pier, she savoured every step as a prisoner might, on the way to execution. All that was left of the boat was a hemp dock line, still secured to the piling with a cleat knot.

Back at the house, Hamish was crouching on the floor, an empty glass bottle in his hand. The war paint was gone, but his eyes were shut. He did not ask her about the boat.

“How about the pantry,” he enquired, his composure betrayed by a tremble in his voice. They had only ever planned a week in advance.

Thankfully, all food cans seemed intact, as did six jars of homemade preserves Hamish’s mum had forced on them last autumn. Juice and long-life milk, kept in tetrapacks, had leaked onto the shelves below, spoiling both flour and sugar packs. All fridge and freezer items lay on the glass shelves, contaminated by the remains of their plastic containers.

“There’s loads,” she shouted, “We’re fine!”

It was weeks before the first signs of malnutrition sneaked up on them in the disguise of fatigue, depression and poor concentration. Lack of fresh vegetables caused constipation; they were chilled to the bone. Hamish remained blind, and puss was oozing out from under his eyelids. Both had been vegetarians since childhood, leaving them without the faintest notion of the intricacies of fishing. There was no nylon to use as a line. They had heard of some cultures using animal gut, but both agreed they would never steep as low as to harm their livestock. Maria tried to use a makeshift spear, but in her condition, did not want to risk wading in too deeply. Rather than produce the fast results they had seen in castaway movies, her attempts consumed the last of her energy.

Three months in, Maria felt the baby stir inside her, a faint bubble at first, then more decisive kicks. She did not tell Hamish. Lately, his large frame, once so attractive, had become a source of concern to both of them. He tried to pretend he could last on the same portions as she, but both knew better. His ginger mane fell out in clumps. In a trance, she used a kitchen knife to slit her goat’s throat, but without the protective plastic handle, it slipped, cutting her hand. The wound was not healing.

•

Shielding her eyes from the evening sun, she raises her hand, wrapped in dirty strips of cloth. She cannot remember who suggested the trip to the mainland first. All she knows is Hamish is out there, floating towards a shore he will never reach. She takes one last look at the crystal-clear ocean—then turns back to home.

 

Dini Armstrong, now Scottish, has worked in journalism and psychology. She is currently completing an MA in Creative Writing and has published short stories and flash fiction. Her pithy style got her into trouble from age six, when, after writing a particularly seditious piece about a vengeful cat with explosives, she promised never to write again. She lied.

Visit Dini’s website at DiniArmstrong.com, and follower her on Facebook, @GermanScotsAuthor, and Twitter, @ArmstrongDini.

Photo by Ishan @seefromthesky on Unsplash.

Indian Doll for Sale at the Thrift Store

By Heather Johnson

 

A middle-aged woman, orange hair tightly
permed, bones jostling within a threadbare

corset, manhandles the wide-eyed Native
doll—hands pet imitation-buckskin fringe

dress, sewn with plastic beads. A smile parts
lips like the sheer cut of a razor

as she rubs her thumbs over the doll’s sprayed-on
brown skin—as his fingers explored

and claimed the landscape of my body—Your skin looks
great against mine: brown on white. But the doll’s

skin is flawless, no evidence of cutting
scars at the wrists, thighs, shoulder, or at the hollow

between the breasts—he mapped the shimmery
ridges of those scars, too. The doll’s hand-painted

eyes are brown with black flecks, glaze
and shade like mine. The woman clutches

the doll against slack chest, hand cupping
the back of her head—synthetic

black hair parted down the middle, tied
in pigtails, with a headband snug

over her brow, restraining memory. He wrapped
my hair around his fist, pulled until my back

bowed, until he came hard—Can you grow it longer?
I amputated my hair, dyed it punk-red, and the color

bled out slowly in the shower.

 

Heather Johnson is an androgynous Diné writer from the Navajo Nation, currently residing in Albuquerque, New Mexico. She is at work on a novel, a memoir, and poetry. Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming in, Prairie Schooner, the Sigma Tau Delta’s The Triangle, Anti-Heroin Chic, and HeArt (Human Equity Through Art). Her poetry will be anthologized in the Dine Reader: A Guide to Navajo Poetics. Previously, she was a blog contributor to Blue Mesa Review. Her subjects are surviving personal and historical traumas, the experiences of marginalized identities, the complexities of mental health and well-being, and the landscape as sacred. She is also a founding member of the Trigger Warning Writers Group.