Tag: Fiction

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.

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.

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.

First Day of College Classes, 2036

By John Sheirer

 

“Good morning, everyone,” the professor said looking out at the enthusiastic room full of vibrant young people. She pulled up a class roster on her palm-sized tablet. “When I call your first name, please raise your hand. Okay? First up is Ashley.”

“Here,” a woman in the back row called out.

“Donald?”

“I go by Danald,” a male student said quietly.

“Understandable,” the professor replied. “Pence?”

A woman in the front row raised her hand. “I just had it legally changed to ‘Hillary.’”

“Hillary?” the professor asked.

Five young women scattered around the classroom raised their hands and simultaneously said, “Here!”

“Oh, my!” The professor laughed. “We’ll have to sort that one out later, maybe assign nicknames.”

The whole class chuckled.

“Donalda?”

“Just “D,” please,” another woman said sharply, eyes fixed on the sunshine outside the window.

“Flynn?”

“I prefer to be called ‘Duckworth,’ ma’am,” said an ROTC student in fatigues.

“Eric?”

A burly, white football player from Alabama said with a southern drawl, “I go by ‘Barack.’”

The professor squinted and stuttered the next name: “Ja … Jar … Jarvanka?” There were audible gasps from around the room.

“Call me Michelle, please,” said a student with a strong, clear voice. “Yes, I hate my parents.” The gasps turned to chuckles.

“I think we’re all with you on that one,” the professor said.

Then she paused for a brief but noticeable instant before calling the next name. “Wall?”

“Yeah, I prefer ‘Wally,’” a soft-voiced man said from the back corner.

“Wally it is,” the professor repeated. “Good work making lemons into lemonade.”

The professor hesitated again, brought the tablet closer to her face, shrugged. “Is this a misprint? Maga? M-A-G-A?”

“I’m transitioning to ‘Maggie,’” said a tall, attractive woman.

“Congratulations!” the professor beamed. “Tweet?”

“Please call me ‘Instagram,’” a stylishly dressed man replied, tapping his oversized smartwatch.

“Budi … Budda … Buja …”

“Buttigieg,” called out a bright, optimistic student who looked too young to be in college.

“Sashamalia?”

“Here!” came the energetic reply.

“All right, thanks everyone. I’m glad we have that out of the way,” the professor said, tapping a set of controls on the instructor’s console. “Let’s begin the course. My name is Professor Reagan Bush-George, but please call me by my initials: RBG. Welcome to Political Science 200: Chaos to Enlightenment, 2016-2020.”

The lights dimmed slightly, and a hologram appeared at the front of the classroom, slowly rotating for a 360-view. It depicted a life-sized man slouching in a shabby black suit and oversized red tie. His ruddy face was caught in deep grimace beneath a ridiculous flop of unnatural hair. The students recoiled an almost imperceptive degree as if they subconsciously sensed toxic radiation.

Hovering near the holograph were internet headlines reading, “Improbable Electoral College Victory,” “Record Low Approvals,” “Foreign Collusion,” “Impeachment Debate,” “Ousted in Historic Landslide,” “Multiple Counts of Obstruction of Justice,” and “First President Jailed After Leaving Office.”

When the hologram pivoted to reveal the man’s back, the students saw that his wrists were restrained by handcuffs. Their hackles relaxed as they nodded in satisfaction.

The students powered up their touch-screen desks, synced them with their handheld devices, and focused their attention on Professor RBG’s words. After class, they’d do what college students have done since college began: meet up with friends, discover the best places to hang out, blow off energy, have conversations that would pivot from deep to shallow in an instant, possibly drink too much, perhaps even begin a fun but meaningless relationship. But for this moment, they were all determined to learn everything they could to avoid the mistakes of the past and help create a better world in the future—especially the Hillarys.

 

John Sheirer (pronounced “shy-er”) lives in Northampton, Massachusetts, with his wonderful wife Betsy and happy dog Libby. He has taught writing and communications for 26 years at Asnuntuck Community College in Enfield, Connecticut, where he also serves as editor and faculty advisor for Freshwater Literary Journal (submissions welcome). He writes a monthly column on current events for his hometown newspaper, the Daily Hampshire Gazette, and his books include memoir, fiction, poetry, essays, political satire, and photography. Learn more about John at JohnSheirer.com.

Photo from the U.S. Library of Congress.

It Looks Like Dancing

By Otis Fuqua

 

The moon is not out. Deborah is not in bed. A stranger’s silhouette is not rolling toward her like a panther.

“Mish Deborah?” a child’s voice asks—Ricardo, at the front of the classroom. The esses catch on his braces.

There is no face like a saber-tooth tiger. An eely stripe of stubble does not pass through a moonbeam that does not bisect the bedroom Deborah is not in.

Deborah wobbles, steadies herself against Jeffrey’s flip-top desk.

“Ish everything okay?” Ricardo asks.

Deborah is not pinned to a mattress. No bedsprings squeak in protest. The moon is not out.

“Yes, Ricardo. Thank you for asking.” Deborah sounds upbeat and relaxed, as she wants the ten-year-olds to hear her. “I think I’m just dehydrated.” She goes to the teaching station in the corner, toasts the class with her water bottle. “Those of you with hydration units, a moment for hydration!”

Deborah drains the bottle in three staccato swigs. Some of her students sip with her, but most slip off into side conversations and distractions. Aly and Grace, the horse girls, are neighing at each other. Morgan and Savoy are clunking their feet together in a competitive game of footsie. Shana is smiling at her crotch. This means she’s taking pictures of herself. Elijah’s arm is buried in his pants up to his elbow.

Outside, a cloud moves in front of the sun. The classroom dims to a pale blue. The students’ faces look shadowy and old.

There is no chemical spreading through the air, thick and soporific. There is no hand like a manhole cover over her nose and mouth.

Deborah’s neck prickles.

“Bill Nye—” The words come out of Deborah’s mouth stronger than intended. Thirty childish faces turn toward her at the same time. She feels like she’s dumped a spoonful of sugar on top of an anthill.

No cloth scrapes against her tongue.

“—is in your future. We will watch Bill Nye, if you pull yourselves together for fifteen minutes.”

Madison scribbles something to Chris. Jeffrey farts—a soprano boink that rocks the class with laughter.

The moon is not out.

As the class laughs, Deborah removes a marble from a jar at the front of the room. A second. A third. A wave of shushing circulates through the room until all eyes are on Deborah, and there is silence.

“I don’t like asking twice, squirrels. Pull yourselves together for fifteen minutes. You’re the oldest in the school. I expect you to act like it. I’ll put these back in the pizza party jar if you can get through this activity, but please, pull yourselves together.”

The class transforms into a sea of tiny executives. Spines straighten, hands clasp, love-notes and sketchbooks and phones disappear.

“Thank you, squirrels.” Deborah slips the marbles into her pocket. They rattle. “The fifth grade community service project: Raise your hand if you’ve seen fifth-graders working around the school in years past.”

No one raises their hand.

The moon is not out. No bed. No sting.

“Well. Some of you have. Those who haven’t, every year, the fifth grade class takes on a project to improve the school or surrounding neighborhood. The gardens by the primary playground, the kindergarten mosaic, and the picnic tables out front were all fifth-grade community service projects.”

Eulalia raises her hand. “Is the new fence on the highway a community service project?”

Deborah crosses her arms. “Yes. It is. That’s a specific kind of community service though, different from ours. Those men committed a crime and are doing community service as a punishment.”

Elijah doesn’t wait to be called upon. “Did they kill somebody?”

There is no stubbled, saber-tooth tiger face. No one’s thighs are squeezing Deborah’s ribcage. No one’s breathing sour air into her nostrils. The moon is not out.

“Elijah. One strike. Don’t test me.”

Elijah slouches and looks at his toes.

Deborah pulls her lips into a smile. “Our community service project is a reward, not a punishment.”

Opposite Elijah, Mariah raises her hand. “Isn’t a reward where you get something, not give something away?”

Deborah uncaps a dry-erase marker and points it at her. “Good question.” On the board behind her, Deborah draws a table with two columns:

ME                                                      MY COMMUNITY

The marker squeaks as she writes.

There is no mattress. There are no bedsprings. The moon is not out.

“Can anyone name an effect of community service?”

The usual hands are up before Deborah has finished the question.

“The preservation of nature,” Mariah says. Deborah writes this under my community.

“Friendship!” Eulalia says. This goes under me.

“It improvesh our infrashtrucshure,” Ricardo says. This makes it under both headings.

The table fills with ideas. They come in bursts. Grace’s “stables” and Jeffrey’s “basketball court” do not make the list. Madison’s “dirt management” confuses the entire class. In general, the discussion is off topic and below grade-level. Unsatisfactory.

Fifteen minutes are up. Elijah’s pointing at the clock.

Deborah’s chest tightens. “Almost there. You’re missing one. On the me side. This is a big one. What do you get from community service?”

“Exhaustion!” Elijah cries.

Everyone, even Eulalia, giggles at this.

A voice like a broken bottle isn’t growling into Deborah’s ear. She doesn’t hear the words. Chapped lips don’t scratch her cheek. No tastes of copper and sugar burn her tongue. The moon is not out.

“Every weekend I read to the seniors at Dignity Village. I don’t build anything. It’s not super fun. I don’t have any friends there. The place looks the same when I leave as when I came. But it has this one specific effect on me. Can any of you tell me what that effect is? It goes on the me side.”

Most of the class is staring out the windows. The first flurries of a new storm are falling.

A blurry ring forms around Deborah’s vision.

A man’s silhouette doesn’t grow until all she sees is darkness. The moon is not out.

“Thursdays and Fridays I volunteer at the American Legion. I cook dinner for the veterans and do the dishes. Do you think I do those dishes for the exercise? Do you think I’m friends with those dishes?”

Eulalia laughs nervously. On opposite ends of the room, Elijah and Brandon begin to chant at a whisper, “Bill. Bill. Bill.”

A rivulet of sweat runs down Deborah’s spine.

No sour air, no soporific chemical, no body odor pounds her nostrils. The moon is not out.

“No. I’m not. This should be easy. You’re smarter than this. For a marble in the pizza party jar, why do I do those dishes?”

Mariah raises her hand. “Because no one else will?”

Deborah jabs her fingers into the nerves at the tops of her hips. “Mondays and Fridays I visit an old woman.”

The chant snakes from pod to pod. “Bill. Bill. Bill.”

The moon is not out and no one is in it.

“This old woman has no friends or family, and is very sad and angry. She says some really hurtful and sometimes even painful things.”

The flurries outside turn to dense sheets of snow. Shana’s voice joins the chant. “Bill. Bill. Bill.”

Deborah is not trapped beneath someone gigantic. Her voice is not stifled by something wet and scratchy.

“I don’t like this woman, but I bring her fresh groceries, I change her oxygen tanks, I clean her house, I drive her around town. I even give her a shower. Twice a week I do all of this. I do all this and when I leave I feel good. I feel good. Now class, why do you think I feel good? For a marble in the pizza party jar, why do I feel good?”

Jeffrey farts, and the chanting swells to a wailing. “Bill! Bill! Bill!”

Nothing compresses Deborah’s chest until she fears it will collapse. Nothing forces her eyelids closed, the air from her lungs, the world to disappear. The moon is not out.

“Quiet!” It is an unfamiliar voice that comes from Deborah. A squeal. A death metal scream.

The chanting stops.

“You don’t deserve to watch Bill Nye! No! We will not be watching Bill Nye! No Bill Nye!” Deborah rests her forehead against the white board. “I’m fine, Ricardo. Thank you. Everyone just put your heads down. Someone turn off the lights.”

The students fold onto their desks without a sound. An icy wind whines through a crack beneath the door.

Beneath the me heading, Deborah writes self-worth in messy letters. She drops her arm from the h. Its tail runs off the board.

Deborah lets them watch Bill Nye for the last half hour of school. As they bundle up and leave, she catches snippets of plans for snowball fights and play-dates. It’s unpleasantly silent when they’re gone. Deborah returns the marbles to the pizza party jar, with three hollow clicks.

On the drive home, Deborah doesn’t blink once. The town melts into a blur of color behind her. The Christmas lights on her building look like a city veiled in fog.

Inside, she slumps in her chair with a bottle of wine. A thumping house beat registers behind her head, and she realizes she’s left the radio on.

“How long were you on?” Deborah asks the radio. She reaches around and turns it off, then back on, louder, until each beat sends a prick of pain through her ears. With her mouth full of wine, Deborah pushes herself to a stand. She shuffles her feet to the clank of the drums, wiggles her elbows to the thrum of the strings. It is work, keeping the moon from rising, but to the woman Deborah sees reflected in the TV, it looks like dancing.

 

Otis Fuqua is a Colorado native with his head out of the clouds. Fresh from school, he’s taking some time at home before diving into the whole writer-in-New-York thing. When he’s not hunched over a story trying to get the words right, he’s hiking, writing sappy songs on guitar, and doodling. Past works have been published in Laurel Moon and can be expected in the forthcoming issue of Horror Sleaze Trash.

Photo by aj_aaaab on Unsplash.

North Pole Bombshell: Elves to Be Shelved! by Marcy Dilworth

MEMORANDUM

TO:                 The Elf Consortium

FROM:           Kris Kringle, aka Santa Claus

RE:                 Downsizing1

DATE:            November 24, 2019

******************************************************************************

After extensive thought and countless sleepless nights, it is with great sadness and disappointment that I announce the downsizing of our North Pole headquarters. Physical, marketplace, and socio-political changes factored into our decision, as outlined below.

Physical

Our physical headquarters sits on a mass of ice. No one can deny that both the thickness and the breadth of our ice-home have shrunk over the last couple of decades, more rapidly over the last several years. Our prayers and support remain with the families of the elves lost when the Mr. Potato Head facility submerged through unprecedentedly-thin ice that fateful August night.

Efforts to lobby “the most powerful country on earth” to lead the world on a better path appear to have backfired; all evidence points to them worsening the warming. We will continue to commit resources to the solution of this global problem, but with their current leadership, we remain pessimistic. In fact, the U.S. administration suggested that we relocate our operation to Florida, purchasing our land through them. Their “science” resources don’t acknowledge that melting ice turns into more water in the ocean—and that water will continue to encroach on and flood Florida’s coastline.

Marketplace

You know it, I know it: Amazon. We deliver countless gifts, on-time, every-time, one night a year. They offer one-day service (same-day service for select items, for heaven’s sake) every %$+*@& day. Instant gratification is no longer the exception—it’s a way of life. For those with plenty, there’s not much left for their Santa wish list.

Socio-political

The well-being of our business and the Santa Claus brand is fueled by customers’ belief—the sleigh runs on it! Unfortunately, the erosion of faith in long-trusted institutions has bled over into even our loving, giving organization. And then last week’s fake news happened.

Grinch News aired this ridiculous announcement: “U.S. President is Santa Claus! All good2 boys and girls to receive double the gifts this year.” To our astonishment, more than 40% of the country believed it, and re-routed their gift demands from The North Pole to the White House. On Christmas morning, when these promises go unmet, we’re confident the White House will announce that the blame lies in a conspiracy cooked up by the Democrats, Stephen Colbert, and me. Instead of believing in Santa, after a lifelong and joyful association, the 40% will believe that.

Recommendations for your next challenge

The skills you elves have honed over centuries will serve you well in the modern world. Here are a few suggested bullet points to add to your resumes/job applications:

  • Career-long history of on-time delivery.
  • Logistics expertise.
  • Adept at discerning and fulfilling customers’ desires.
  • Deep product knowledge in toys, consumer electronics, and jewelry.
  • Capable of working long hours.
  • Great teammate—cheerful, gregarious, hardworking.

I’d be delighted to serve as a reference for any of you.

A specific recommendation: Take a look at Target. They value customer service and warehouse-related skills such as package organizing, handling and distribution. Plus, they require that their employees wear red attire throughout the year. Who’s got more red coats, sweaters, polo shirts, and pants than Santa and the Elf Consortium? Nobody!

Additionally, for any of you who may have been bitten by the acting bug: Given the wealth of movies and TV shows featuring folks of your description, demand for your services has never been higher. Break a leg!

Looking to the future

As long as we can safely do so, we will conduct operations out of our North Pole location. Large manufacturing will be outsourced and/or moved to places that have declared themselves not for sale to the U.S. president (Greenland being one such example). We will focus less on toys and, within our limited budget, more on providing the basics to those who have the most need.

As devastated as we feel today, let us keep our hope alive. I believe we can effect positive change regardless of our place of work. I pray we will prevail soon. I have faith in the many truly good people in the world. Let’s make it better together, and take care of each other during the holidays and all the rest of the year.

A subdued but heartfelt “Ho Ho Ho” to each and every one of you,

Santa

1 “Downsizing” is not a height-ist term; it is widely accepted as the appropriate word for what ensues when circumstances force an organization to reduce workforce, capacity, etc.

2 “Good” definition applies to those children with parents who have: standing monetary commitments to the president, at least gold-level Frequent Guest cards for the president’s properties, and incomes greater than $250,000. Santa’s Note: Only a tiny percentage of the folks directing their Christmas letters to the White House will meet these criteria; the rest will not benefit.

 

Marcy Dilworth writes short fiction and non-fiction. Her stories have recently been published in Blink-Ink’s 10th Anniversary edition and Literary Mama. She earned her English degree at the University of Virginia, and her sense of humor at the hands of four older siblings. She lives in her recently emptied nest with her husband and their precocious rescue pup, Kirby. Marcy can be found on Twitter @MCDHoo41.

Do Stupid Things Faster With More Energy

By Sasha Ockenden

Stanley pressed the “on” button on his monitor, pulled the keyboard towards him and entered an uninterrupted series of keystrokes for fifteen minutes, followed by six mouse clicks. Then he stood up.

Two people worked in the office: Stanley, whose ID card on the desk in front of him read “Communications Innovator,” and Charlotte. Assistant Communications Innovator Charlotte wasn’t at her desk. This was odd, because the company’s mandatory working hours, under the latest “Making Work Work For You” directive, began at 9:30. The digital clock high up on the wall read 9:45.

Stanley went over to the laserjet printer and entered three more keystrokes. He laid the card with his clean-shaven, smiling face on the printer, which emitted three beeps and began printing. Stanley extracted the page from the tray: blank. He sighed, and repeated the process, with the same result. He looked up. The clock still read 9:45. Why did these things never work the way they were meant to?

He walked back past Assistant Communications Innovator Charlotte’s desk, which had an empty mug with the words: “Drink Coffee: Do Stupid Things Faster With More Energy.” He passed his silver flatscreen computer with its ergonomic keyboard and went out to the corridor. Or, rather, he tried to, but the door wouldn’t open. He banged on it in case anyone was passing, but head office had soundproofed the doors to improve concentration. Well, he could get something done in the meantime. Stanley looked around the grey-walled office, and back at the mug. There was always time for a quick coffee.

The coffee machine offered six types of coffee. He pressed the button for a black Americano and placed a paper cup under the spout. The cup filled up, overflowed, and Stanley snatched it away, scalding his hand. He looked for a stop button on the machine, but there wasn’t one. Ridiculous. He set the cup down and pressed buttons at random as coffee splashed off the metal and soaked into the geometric patterns of the carpet.

Stanley returned to his office chair and opened up his company email account. As the coffee puddle continued to grow, he dashed off a message to his line manager, importance: urgent.

Am locked in office. Coffee machine won’t stop: risk of serious damage to carpet and office. Please send help.
Best wishes, Stanley.

And then, as an afterthought:

P.S. Printer also malfunctioning.

Next: the office phone. He dialed 0 for technical support, but the automated options only covered call forwarding and how to change the ringtone. Stanley didn’t know any of his colleagues’ numbers by heart, and he couldn’t find a directory. Stupid machine.

By 9:45, the piping hot Americano had subsumed the entire carpet and crept up to ankle height. Stanley took refuge on his revolving office chair. At least the room smelled nice, better than that artificial rose air freshener that Assistant Creative Innovator Charlotte was always complaining about. A beep: one new mail.

Oh no! We couldn’t deliver your message. Please check the address and try again later.

Underneath was a sad-face emoji. As the brown-black sea reached the bottom tray of the printer, it began beeping, too. Another blank page was ejected with such force that it overshot the top tray and floated down to the floor, where it began to melt into coffee.

Stanley began Googling the brand name and model of the coffee machine. He found a manual which explained how to make the milk frothier, but nothing about stopping the endless caffeinated lake from rising up the now-ruined grey walls. Using two binders as paddles, he sailed the chair back over to the coffee machine. He looked for a plug in the wall, a cable to wrench out: nothing. Hot angry coffee continued to flood out of the metal spout. In frustration, he smacked the machine with one of the binders. It spluttered for a second, released a puff of steam, and then boiling milk began to waterfall out of the second nozzle.

The sea of coffee, a lighter brown now, had almost reached the ceiling. The printer, floating free, was still beeping and firing out occasional blank sheets. The desk, monitors, and keyboard were jetsam on the bubbling surface. Only the telephone had sunk.

Well, Stanley wasn’t sorry to see it go. Stupid machine. He was more concerned with the merciless tide of Americano surrounding the posture-optimised seat of his chair. His legs were tucked up under his chin, and he was still grasping his cordless mouse out of habit. He’d removed his shirt, tie, jacket and trousers to cope with the sheer heat rising from the surface. His joint-favourite suit, too. The only thing in its rightful place was the clock at the top of the wall, in the few feet of scorching air between coffee and ceiling. He looked at the display as his plastic ID card rose to the surface for a moment and sank again—

A crackle from the intercom. A familiar female voice.

This is a message for Communications Innovator Stanley.

Startled, Stanley lost his balance for a moment and the chair tilted. His mouse dropped into the scalding liquid, which breached the soft black material of the seat. He shifted his weight to the other side just in time.

Please report to Head Office by 9:45 to collect your complementary medium-sized coffee, brought to you by the “Making Work Work For You” directive.

The sodden chair began to sink.

Thank you, and have a productive day!

 

Sasha Ockenden studied French and German literature at the University of Oxford, where one of his stories was published in the Failed Novelists Society’s Failed Anthology and he won an international DAAD prize for creative writing in German. His flash fiction pieces have appeared or are forthcoming in (mic)ro(mic), Flash Flood, Bending Genres, and Riggwelter. He is currently based in Berlin and still working on becoming a failed novelist.

Photo by Karl Bewick on Unsplash.

Monarchy

By Matthew Nelson Hendryx

The warrant for my informant’s arrest meant meeting in a public place where we could keep track of anyone approaching. We settled for the revamped carousel on the National Mall. He could watch in all directions as we rotated. I, freelance reporter Stacy Prickelton, was meeting with a prominent member of the Operation Zap opposition, who suggested I refer to him as “Crazy Cake,” to protect his identity.

He arrived carrying a Bugs Bunny mask. “A good disguise for a children’s area, don’t you think?” he said.

“I don’t think the mask is necessary.”

“You sure?” he asked.

“We’re safe,” I said, not interested in debating the pros and cons of a bunny mask.

The informant was in his early forties, dumpy build, and wide-eyed as a Jack-a-lantern, but he looked scared instead of scary. With my notepad resting on the top of a horse’s head next to his camel, we quickly got used to the fact that he was up when I was down.

“Start the story from the beginning,” I said. “Don’t worry about repeating common knowledge. It’s important for me to hear it all in your words.”

“It started,” he said, “with President Rump’s press conference, the same day the New York Times exposé came out about bug zappers installed on Rump’s Wall. When asked about the Times piece, the president said, ‘I’m taking action to stop the largest wave of undocumented Mexicans of any president.’”

Crazy Cake paused to look around. “At the time, no one knew what he was talking about. Then came the ‘Eleven O’clock Tweet’: ‘The Oyamel forest should be bombed.’ It puzzled everyone. Finally, Jan Gather realized the Oyamel forest is in Mexico, where monarch butterflies stay each winter. Then they fly north, across the border, in the tens of thousands, possibly millions.”

“So, butterflies created a policy problem?”

“An inside source, called ‘Tuning Fork,’ leaked the White House position. None of the monarchs applied for visas and they constituted the majority of undocumented immigrants coming into this country. To stop them required Operation ZAP—Zap All Pests.”

“What do you know about Tuning Fork?”

“The Post knows the details,” Crazy Cake said, “but the scuttlebutt is she’s young and attractive and fed up with his groping. Wants revenge.”

“And your take on the Posse Comatosis?”

“It’s one of those sleeper militias. No surprise they issued a statement that it was about time a president took a stand against wet-back butterflies. But Press Secretary XXIV calling them a reputable organization shocked a lot of people.” Crazy Cake paused for the carousel to do one rotation as he peered across the mall before continuing “That’s when the U.S. Butterfly Society—actually the Lepidopterists Society—pointed out that in the Monarch’s life cycle exactly three generations are born in the U.S. Each Fall the third returns to Mexico. Those three generations are U.S. citizens. Zappers would be killing American citizens returning to Mexico.”

“The Secretary of the Interior sounded befuddled when he announced the On-in-Spring-and-Off-in-Fall policy. What was that about?”

“According to Tuning Fork the Secretary believed the policy was for safe passage of all children of exiled Kings and Queens living in the U.S.”

The merry-go-round stopped, and I went over to give the attendant another couple of tickets.  When I returned, I said, “Give me more background on this visa thing.”

“Monarch butterflies, if they were citizens, were to acquire and carry visas.  All monarchs would be stopped, and those without documentation would be treated as illegal immigrants and deported immediately, without appeal. A sub-committee of the Lepidopterists Society formed the Committee Opposed to Monarch Eviction.”

“They didn’t know that people would abbreviate it to COME?”

“It was intentional—‘COME’ as in ‘welcome.’ COME pointed out the documents were beyond the lifting capacity of any butterfly. The administration countered that monarchs could purchase small drones to perform the task.”

Crazy Cake studied someone in the distance, then his face relaxed. “That’s when I joined COME, just as they filed for an injunction in the Minnesota District Court—their state insect is the monarch. The court issued an injunction against ‘stop and detain’ measures, but the rest of Operation ZAP was allowed to proceed. In other words, the bug zappers would stay in place.”

“Tell me about February thirteenth.”

“The administration announced the success of Operation ZAP. All the zappers were up and running. On the 14th, COME wanted to bring a massive number of monarchs across the border. That’s why the announcement, ‘Valentine’s Day Massacres ZAP.’ The San Antonio Express reported numerous sightings of monarch butterflies and included a photo of one sunning itself on a statue of Sam Houston. The monarchs had obviously found another way across the border.”

“The administration didn’t comment?”

“No. Tuning Fork said they knew it would be a public relations nightmare if the multi-billion-dollar wall failed to prevent the largest wave of immigrants.”

“Do you have any proof that COME was responsible for the smuggling?”

When his camel was in the down position, he grabbed his satchel. Fumbling around in it, a granola bar and a pair of soaks fell out. He was a man on the run. Ignoring the spilled items, he extracted three crumpled pages.

“Here’s a transcript.”  He handed it over.  “You can read it.”

Crazy Cake: Do you know how we’re bringing the monarchs in?

Secretary: Oh, yes. I’m good friends with Mary [Fuddleston]. COME needed a container that had air holes and was big enough for butterflies. Just after we elected Mary for president, she came up with the idea while helping her daughter, Frizzy. Frizzy was in tears because her Suzuki violin teachers said she played “Twinkle Little Star” out of tune. Anyway, Mary realized Suzuki violins would provide the perfect solution. Did you know violins are made with a glue that breaks easily to allow repairs?

Crazy Cake: No.

Secretary: I didn’t either. But it meant taking the back off and putting it back on was easy. Mary experimented with five volunteer monarchs and found the ‘f’ holes allowed sufficient oxygen for the butterflies to remain comfortable. We diverted all Suzuki violins coming from Japan headed for the U.S. to first go to Mexico. The operation started on Valentine’s Day.

Crazy Cake: Didn’t Immigration become suspicious with hundreds of violins coming across the border?

Secretary: It was thousands. They didn’t bother to look inside because each violin had a different shipping address. We pulled it off by having supporters across the country start Suzuki classes. Every time Customs checked to see if the sale was legit, they found a kid’s parents had actually purchased it. The kids loved the fact they were supporting the cause.

The carousel made one of its periodic stops, and five children with birthday hats got on.

Crazy Cake pointed at the kids and whispered, “Spies.”

“Not likely,” I said, “although they might be Suzuki violinists.”

“Then they should be careful.” He gave them a final check and returned to me.

“So how did the administration learn of the smuggling operation?”

“Rump ordered the FBI to investigate. We spotted the agents too late to cover out tracks.”

Crazy Cake scrutinized the Mall as we revolved, his right hand in a nervous quiver. “It was mid-March when Rump surprised everyone with his executive order making owning a violin illegal. All violins were to be turned in at the nearest police station. People found owning a violin after April 1 would be arrested. Most people thought the president was pulling an April Fool’s joke, but given his tweets, it became clear he wasn’t. The FBI acquired warrants for suspected violin owners—orchestra violinists and violin teachers. There was confusion whether the order covered violas, cellos, and basses, but Rump amended the order to include all stringed instruments. Then amended it again to exclude pianos and harps.”

“What was COME’s response?”

“We organized the parade of Suzuki violinists marching up and down the Mall and around the White House playing ‘Twinkle Little Star.’”

The carousel stopped, and I was out of tickets, but the attendant indicated we could stay on. “COME was responsible for the march?” I asked.

“Definitely. I was in a meeting with Mary Fuddleston in the final planning stage.”

“You’re willing to go on the record as a source?”

He hesitated. “Yes, but you can’t use my name until I’m out of the country.”

“Go on.”

“COME thought they had the administration cornered. How do you oppose fourth graders? What a mistake on our part. The Washington D.C. police arrested over one thousand of the violinists until the jails were full. The AP released photos of the police cuffing fourth-graders and smashing their violins. President Rump brushed it off with a tweet: ‘Liberal parents are cowards making their kids break the law.’ We sought support from other organizations around the country. Numerous groups started petitions against ZAP—even the AFL-CIO, which argued there was not one instance of an American worker being replaced by a butterfly. Within a day of Rump’s executive order, members of the House raised objections that the president’s actions were the equivalent of legislating laws, and therefore under the purview of Congress alone. The president tweeted ‘Fuck Congress. See if I care.’ Everything sped up then. The House and the Senate introduced bills to eliminate the ZAP policy. Opposition was limited to the members of the RARE caucus.”

“The Rump is Always Right on Everything caucus?”

“Yes. Despite the caucus, the Speaker and the Senate Majority Leader guaranteed passage before dinner. Rump vetoed that evening, and the next morning, the vote to override passed.”

“Then the courts got involved?”

“Not yet. It was the infamous Black Wednesday tweet: ‘They can’t make me stop ZAP.’ The Congressional leadership asked the Supreme Court to address the constitutional breach without going through the appeals process. The Court didn’t want to do it, but COME found evidence that some justices had recently engaged in sexual harassment. We went to the Chief Justice and said, ‘Hear the case or we release the evidence.’ We never expected the 9-0 decision against the President. At that point everyone thought ZAP was dead.”

“That’s when Rump said he’d ignore the court?”

“Yes. And the Supreme Court ordered the U.S. Marshals to use the bug zappers for target practice.”

“The TV coverage was brilliant.”

“No one in COME or Congress or anywhere else expected President Rump would call up the Posse Comatosis to defend his policy against U.S. Marshals.”

“When did COME members know they needed to go underground?”

“It was the tweet, ‘COME members are terrorists.’ We issued a general warning to the membership. Then the FBI arrested the first dozen or so members and any children violinists, including Mary and Frizzy, and sent them to the detention center on Guam. The administration won’t say how many. Nearly all COME members decided to disappear. I’ve been on the run ever since, but they’re closing in on me.”

At that moment, the carousel tune went ‘Pop! goes the weasel,’ and I saw someone looking our way through a pair of binoculars, from the other side of the mall. “We need to leave,” I said. “Put on your Bugs Bunny mask.”

Matthew Nelson Hendryx writes short stories, novels and poetry. He studied at Indiana University, London School of Economics, and the University of Wisconsin. Currently, he is focusing on short stories, but plans to dive into redrafting his first novel. Although he is a resident of Fort Wayne, Indiana, he spends a couple of months a year in New York City. His best writing occurs when one of his four cats is in his lap.

Photo credit: Catseye Pest. Really.

The Last Straw

By Corey Miller

 

The entire world was transfixed by the TV. In all languages, the broadcasters described the atmosphere in the room. The camera zoomed in on the lucky woman chosen; next to her, a polished glass and a bottle of Coca Cola. All went quiet. Earth held its breath. The woman cracked the bottle open and decanted the smell of sassafras and caramel. She brought forth the last straw. The humans at home tensed their muscles and observed, not wanting to scare the endangered species.

The woman tore the end of white wrapping paper and the straw poked out of its home. Flashing lights and the sound of awe surrounded the straw. The woman slowly slid it out like a sword from its sheath to slice the Earth down to its fiery core. The straw dove to the bottom and attempted to float its way back out, longing to hop the rim of its cage and return to its unnatural habitat. The woman kinked her head to use the tool that moves liquid six inches and began to suck, her throat pulsating from gulping the sugary juice. The world watched in silence, while the Coca Cola disappeared like the ball dropping on New Years’ Eve. At last, a loud gurgling noise ended an era.

The humans sprung into the air cheering. People ran into the streets shouting and kissing their neighbors in jubilation. Parties broke out and alcohol was consumed. They would tell their children where they were the day of the last straw.

Without notice, while the humans looked the other way, the straw bent and rolled itself out of sight and out of mind. It floated down rivers past parties of people embracing like reunited lovers. It floated past politicians congratulating one another. It floated into the ocean searching for answers. Searching for its origin.

The waves pushed and pulled the straw like an accordion, creating dynamical tones, moving it deeper into the sea. Schools of fish knew all about plastic and carried the straw as servants would carry their ruler. Turtles with plastic belts and snappers with tummy tucks led the way. More and more plastic congregated with the currents. Eventually, the straw washed up on a netting of plastic bags interwoven to catch the guests of Trash Island. Greenhouses constructed from smooth beach glass, hotels of soggy corrugated cardboard, and convenience stores of non-recyclables formed the infrastructure.

The streets were immaculate and travelers constantly flowed in. The beer bottles howled as the wind blew across their lips, the shotgun shells would shoot the shit, and the used condoms got a private beach. The crazy straws arrived by pelican stomach like smuggled inmates who broke out of prison.

They gathered and assembled, first an island, next a castle, then a city for the ecosystem. Straws of all colors connected like Lego bricks to create walls, houses, and districts. The last straw was clear. A looming force banded together. The tides had changed.

 

Corey Miller lives with his wife in a tiny house they built near Cleveland. He is an award-winning Brewmaster who enjoys a good lager. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in X-R-A-Y, Barren, Cleaver, Bending Genres, Hobart, Gravel, and Cease Cows. When not working or writing, Corey likes to take the dogs for adventures. Follow Corey on Twitter @IronBrewer.

Photo credit: MetroUK.

How to Not Be “Racist”

By Tara Campbell

 

Neighbors,

These are difficult times for True Patriots. With election season coming up, the lamestream media is going to start sniffing around our peaceful Neighborhood, asking for our opinions on things. You never know when an Enemy of the State is going to stick a microphone in your face, waiting for you to say something “Offensive” to make their bosses happy; or worse yet, catch you unawares, undercover with a hidden microphone, and splash your First Amendment Speech all over the news for Socialists to mischaracterize as “Racist.”

It’s always one thing or another, isn’t it? First, they said we didn’t respect Women, even though we let one run the PTA for Pete’s Sake. Then, it was how we treat Illegals, and now we’re supposed to be Racist.

Well, I’m tired of these Outsiders coming around, taking up our parking spots in front of the Diner and eating the last piece of pie while doing their Gotcha Journalism. That’s why I produced this Flyer, printed on 100% genuine American Flag letterhead so you know it’s True, and put it in your mailbox to tell you how to Arm yourselves against unfounded accusations of Racism and Bigotry.

When you see an Enemy of the State, or anyone else who isn’t from the Neighborhood (because remember, undercover), use the following phrases with caution:

“I’m not Racist but…”

When you hear yourself starting a sentence this way, stop and think: Is the person you’re speaking to really White-white, or do they just look White? Things have gotten to the point in this Country where you can’t be sure, and if you’re not certain, you’re probably not in a safe space to finish this sentence.

“How was ‘[insert your statement]’ Racist?”

Never ask this question around someone who has experienced Racism, or any kind of Bias, because frankly, they are too close to the issue to give you an objective answer. They are way too Biased to be trusted with a question of Bias.

“It honestly didn’t even occur to me to interpret it that way. I’m Colorblind, I guess.”

Caution: Be prepared to show more than two forms of Minority friend as proof—and no, your babysitter or your lawn guy are not valid for this purpose, no matter how nice you are to them.

“They’re the ones creating Division by talking about it.”

As true as this may be, it only makes the other side angrier when you point it out, opening the way for more trouble for you in the form of Facts and Evidence. Locate an exit in advance, so you can storm out of it easily if they react in this manner.

“He didn’t really mean that.”

Have a Plan. The other side will often be able to provide verbatim quotes, and follow up by asking you how to interpret that phrase, leading you to make statements you will have to apologize for later. Be prepared to either say he misspoke, or to tell them why they shouldn’t take it so seriously. If you choose the second tack, be sure not to use examples of threats that have actually come to pass.

“Go back to their Country”

Even if you say nice things about whatever Country it is, that phrase just ticks people off, and then they start talking about History, and Indians, and Pox Blankets, and that doesn’t end well, so just forget it.

Please note, the following words are also to be used with the utmost care.

Racially-charged

It’s elegant, yes, but it is beginning to lose its power due to the other side calling it insufficiently “accurate” or “rigorous” or “True”

American

Yes, we know what that means, but the other side will pretend not to, goading you into an actual explanation that will make you say things that you will later have to say you didn’t really mean. We know what this word means, so there is no need to explain ourselves.

Freedom

Again, crystal clear to those of us who already have and cherish it, but the other side tends to expand the definition too far beyond Firearms, Capitalism, and Christianity to have a meaningful discussion about it.

One last note, Neighbors: I’ve been careful to distribute this Flyer to everyone but that one family on Elm St., and I trust that you know which family that is. They will likely not be able understand the true intent of this Flyer, which is certainly NOT “Racist,” but Educational. If they encounter this Flyer, they may misunderstand it, and explicitly disallow their use as proof of Minority friends, and none of us can afford that.

And lastly, if anyone has any Questions—I’ve found it’s best not to ask.

Respectfully,
Your Neighbor

 

Tara Campbell (www.taracampbell.com) is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction editor at Barrelhouse. Prior publication credits include SmokeLong Quarterly, Masters Review, Jellyfish Review, Booth, and Strange Horizons. She’s the author of a novel, TreeVolution, a hybrid fiction/poetry collection; Circe’s Bicycle, and a short story collection, Midnight at the Organporium. She received her MFA from American University in 2019.

Photo by James Kenny on Unsplash.

 

A Moment of Silence

By Rebecca Lee

 

The bus station smells like stale cigarettes and something milky mixed with a sour aftertaste. Babies and homeless people. They are completely opposite from each another. One has lived too much and the other, not enough. Together, they sit in the row of blue plastic seats in front of and behind me.

Overcoats are wrapped tightly around us all. It’s cold and the concrete floor feels chilly even with boots. I am wearing a black zip-up with fur and lace lining the hood. I bought it eight years ago, and it’s no longer in fashion, but other women wear similar things.

We sit and wait, not looking at one another. We busy ourselves with gadgets.

On the wall in front of us is an electronic clock with the estimated time of arrival for each bus. I watch as the number of minutes clicks down in precise synchronization with the incoming buses. It’s like I am God.

Number 7 is coming in three minutes. Number 5, which was coming in three minutes, will now be here in two seconds. I can see it curving around the street just a block away. This is how it will go hour after hour. In a world where babies and homeless people have places to be, there is order in the sanctity of scheduling.

People sit next to me, but there’s always a chair between us. I’ve seen the same women on the same bus for years, but I don’t know their names. The older woman who takes tiny, deliberate steps, sits at the edge of the row so she doesn’t have to maneuver around everybody else’s legs.

We are alone in our own worlds. I have my earbuds jammed inside my ears so that the entire bus station looks like an orchestrated skit moving to Bob Seger.

When a man sits directly next to me, I pretend not to notice even after he waves for my attention.

“Miss,” he says, pretending to take something out of his ear. “Miss,” he says again.

His jeans are weighed down by everything I cannot see. His parka makes him look like the mascot for Michelin Tires.

I no longer feel like God. Two more minutes until the 7 will be here and then I’ll be somewhere else. I take out an earbud, but leave the other in.

“Yes?”

“You know when the 4 gets here?”

I point to the electric screen at the front of the station where all the arrival times are posted. He doesn’t look.

“Where you going?”

The woman at the edge of the row doesn’t make eye contact and the women with babies are busy. I smile and put the earbud back in.

“You’re not going to say?”

I can hear his voice and I know it registers on my face. I wish I had turned the volume up louder.

“You don’t want to talk to me?”

The unspoken bus station boundaries have shattered all around me, and I can smell his cigarette smoke mixing with mine. Menthol and Cowboys tangled together. I know why the babies are crying.

One minute before the bus comes and I can leave this plastic seat.

“Where are you going?” he repeats, but I’ve already faced front.

If I stay still, his words can’t penetrate my music.

He turns, brings his hands up in the air, and then slams them down onto his knees. His sigh is audible to everyone in the station, but I still pretend not to hear.

An elderly man is staring out a window. A child is playing with his mother’s phone. I watch the 7 silently glide into the front of the bus station as I get up to walk outside. I can see people’s mouths moving. Someone is miming laughter. We’re all together going somewhere else, but their voices are drowned by my volume.

 

Rebecca Lee has published in a variety of magazines and journals, including, Able Muse, The Virginian Pilot, and Existere Journal. Her essay, “Rules of Engagement,” was listed under notable essays in The Best American Essays anthology.

Photo credit: Tadson Bussey via a Creative Commons license.

The Safety of Stairs

By Sue Katz

 

No one could explain why she kept falling down their flight of stairs. Her mother and father couldn’t remember when it started, but Lynne would never forget that night when her sister Brenda was five and she herself was four. While their father was saying good night—as he did every night—Brenda squirmed out of his embrace, ran out to the hall, and flung herself down the steps. She screamed at the bottom so that their mother, who was downstairs washing dishes, ran to her.

It had been a broken elbow that first occasion. But as time passed, Brenda seemed to figure out how to fall so that she only got bruises, not breaks. Their father kept tucking them in at night while their mother was usually downstairs. Just sometimes, Brenda would start fighting with him to get away, rush to the stairs, and throw herself down.

After about three times, their mother took Brenda to the doctor. She was tested for epilepsy, for multiple sclerosis, for sleep-walking. Once or twice she was asked what happened, but no one listened when she said that she fell down the stairs so that she would be safe.

When their father decided that Brenda was getting to be too much trouble, he paid more attention to Lynne. One night when he tucked her in, Lynne said, “That’s not nice, Daddy.” Brenda realized what was going on and ran out to the hall and threw herself down the stairs. The counselor suggested therapy three times a week. Her daddy spanked her with her pants down. Her mother washed the dishes.

 

Sue Katz’s business card identifies her as a “Wordsmith and Rebel.” Her writing has been published on the three continents where she has lived, worked, and roused rabble. She has been a martial arts master, promoted transnational volunteering, and partner danced more than her feet could bear. Her journalism and stories have been published for decades in anthologies, magazines, and online. Her fiction, often focusing on the lives of elders, include A Raisin in My Cleavage: short and shorter stories, Lillian’s Last Affair and other stories, and Lillian in Love.

Sue’s new fiction collection, A Raisin in My Cleavage: short & shorter stories, was released this summer by Consenting Adult Press. Visit her website for more information.

Photo credit: Get directly down via a Creative Commons license.

How to Disappear Completely

By Mileva Anastasiadou

 

She’s not that young, already in her mid-twenties, when the double lines appear on the test. She is careful enough most of the time, yet that’s how it goes; life happens and spoils all plans.

At first, she’ll panic. That doesn’t mean much, her boyfriend will say; everybody panics at the prospect of responsibility. She’ll have to take some time to think about it before she makes up her mind. She doesn’t need to, for the decision is already made, yet she pretends to consider all options, because that’s what’s expected of her. Being a mother was never her dream. Nor was being an astronaut. Or a lawyer. So she’s not an astronaut, or a lawyer. Does she have the right not to be a mother, though? She’ll wonder for a while if motherhood is a choice or an inevitable fate, yet she’s certain and firm. Her partner is not negative about a pregnancy, as usually expected in stories like this one. She won’t blame it on an irresponsible boyfriend. We could start a family, he’ll say. It’s up to her and she knows it. She’ll shake her head. She can’t even picture herself as a mother. He’ll hold her hand and ask her if that’s what she wants. She’ll nod.

She’ll make the arrangements next morning. She’ll remain detached, not out of second thoughts, as expected in stories like this one. She only regrets not being careful enough. She doesn’t enjoy unnecessary medical procedures. No one does. Nor does she enjoy her body being invaded by an alien creature, even if it’s her future offspring. She’ll sing inside that Radiohead tune about how to disappear completely. She’ll recognize it’s a sad song.

The doctor will see her partner standing beside her and won’t know what to tell him. In his mind, it’s the boyfriend’s fault. The girl would love to be a mother, he thinks, had she found the proper man. Wouldn’t every woman? She’ll keep her boyfriend away, go and fetch some sandwiches, she’ll tell him. Now that they’re alone, the doctor will feel more comfortable asking her. Are you sure? She’ll nod.

She’ll come home to sleep. Not out of regrets, as expected in stories like this one. She’ll be exhausted but glad the whole thing is over. I’m more than just a womb, she’ll say to herself. She’ll wonder if love is only about procreation. She’ll know, though, she did the right thing. She’ll be happier without a baby, so will be the unborn kid. What would life be like for a child growing up with an unwilling mother? Next day, she’ll go to work like nothing happened. Her colleagues will ask if she enjoyed her day off. She’ll nod.

She’ll still be child free at forty, privileged enough to live a life of choices. She’ll have been careful enough to not go through the same situation again. She won’t see the ghost of her unborn daughter, as usually expected in stories like this one. Strangely enough people only imagine unborn daughters, not unborn sons. People will wonder why she doesn’t have kids. Not all people are made out to be parents, she’ll say. They’ll assume there’s something wrong. Physically or mentally. They’ll ask questions and offer unsolicited advice. To avoid further explanations, she’ll nod.

In an alternate universe, the girl won’t have a choice. She’ll have to keep the baby no matter what. She’ll look at it and every single time she’ll be reminded of the life she hasn’t lived. She’ll hate it, only she won’t be able to admit it. People never do. She’ll raise it like a committed mother and little by little she’ll love her kid, like all parents do. Or most of them.

By forty, she’ll have completely disappeared, enslaved in a life unchosen. That’s when the ghost of the life she could have lived will come to haunt her. The doctor will hand her the appropriate pills, asking her to calm down. She’ll take them without hesitation and she’ll nod. Not out of determination this time, but that nod will be the white flag signaling acceptance of defeat.

 

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

Photo credit: Carlos Ebert via a Creative Commons license.

Mamichu

By Robert Walton

 

“Mamichu, it’s cold!”

I looked at Ivar. I looked at his knobby lump of a head, at his lips lying beneath his broken nose like twin dead slugs, at his eyes glistening beneath his granite ledge of a brow, eyes so small I never knew their color. There was no pleasure in looking at him. I looked away. “Why do you say this?”

“Because the wind cuts like a gypsy blade.”

“No, why do you say ‘mamichu’? What is mamichu?”

“Just a curse—a Zagreb curse for when you have to look up to see hell.”

“What does it mean?”

Ivar’s brow lowered, extinguishing his eyes. “It’s the worst curse of all.”

“The worst of all?”

“The worst!”  He chuckled like a diesel engine starting on a frozen morning. “It blasphemes sisters, mothers, grandmothers even.”

“Oh,” I recoiled in mock horror, “even grandmothers! Saints preserve us!”

Ivar shrugged. “It should be reserved for the worst of the worst. I say it about the wind, but I don’t mean it, not really.”

“You don’t mean it? Why say it?”

“Habit. Curses become a habit. The morning wind, this camp, they’re not so bad. My grandfather told me of the true gulag, Stalin’s gulag. One in twenty lived. My grandfather was the one.”

“Bah! Old men’s stories. Stalin’s gulag couldn’t be worse than here.”

“Peter, do we have soup?”

“The soup is snot.”

“But we have the snot.”

I did not reply.

“Do we have bread?”

“The bread crawls with weevils.”

“But we have the weevils. Munch them. Savor the snot. You live, man. You live! This Putin camp is paradise. We could be in America, in a ‘tender care center’!”

“Ha! Mar-a-Lago, maybe.”

A troop of guards carrying Kalashnikovs approached the gate. Two dragged a man between them. The camp commandant followed behind. Six guards peeled off, three to either side, and leveled their weapons. Two more slung their rifles and opened the gate. The prisoner’s feet made twin furrows in the mud as he was pulled into the compound and dropped on his belly.

Three hundred men in the compound stood motionless.

“Who is it?” I whispered.

“Yuri—our mate.”

“How can you tell? His face is gone.”

“It will heal. Believe me.”

The guards turned and paced back through the gate. Ivar stepped forward then. He went to Yuri, knelt, rolled him gently onto his back and cradled his head.

The camp commandant stared at Ivar. He was a short, slender man, like a banker or a pimp—a man whose work is to make others work.

“Drop him.”

Ivar didn’t move.

“Drop him.”

Ivar stroked Yuri’s blood-matted hair. “Outside the wire, we are yours. Inside the wire— we may care for each other as we can. It is the law of the camps. The unwritten law.”

“I am the law.”

Ivar didn’t reply, but continued to cradle Yuri’s head in his battered hands.

“You’re the one called Ivar?”

“I am.”

The commandant nodded to the guards. “Bring him.”

Two guards handed their weapons to men standing beside them. Four more aimed vaguely at the motionless prisoners. All six entered the compound. The two gripped Ivar.

Ivar glanced at me. “Peter?”

I nodded.

Then he carefully laid Yuri’s head on the mud and rose on his own. When the gate shut behind them, we were forgotten. A dozen others followed me to help Yuri.

They took Ivar, but they did not bring him back. Only his screams returned—until they ceased.

•

A line of thirty guards formed in front of the wire the next morning. The camp commandant—chin lifted, eyes bright— stepped in front of them and stared at us. It was a challenge.

Mamichu.

It may have drifted on a forest breeze from pine needles nearby, or sparked from sunlight glinting off barbs on the wire.

Perhaps I whispered, “Mamichu.”

“Mamichu, mamichu.” We prayed, “Mamichu.”

“Mamichu, mamichu.” We chanted, “Mamichu.”

Raw throats opened wide and we roared, “Mamichu. Mamichu!”

Mamichu.

 

Robert Walton is a retired teacher and a lifelong mountaineer and rock climber, with many ascents in the Sierras and Pinnacles National Monument, his home crags. His writing about climbing has appeared in the Sierra Club’s Ascent. His novel Dawn Drums won the 2014 New Mexico Book Awards Tony Hillerman Prize for best fiction, first place in the 2014 Arizona Authors competition, and first place in the historical fiction category of the 2017 Readers Choice Awards. Most recently, his short story “Uriah” was published in Assisi, a literary journal associated with St. Francis College in Brooklyn. Learn more about Robert at his website and follow him on Facebook.

“The New Order” painting is by Noel Counihan, 1942, National Gallery of Australia.

The Gun-Seller

By DS Levy

 

A young man travels out of state where it’s possible to buy a gun, no questions asked. He buys an AK-47. The transaction is easier than getting the driver’s license that allows him to navigate across the desert highway. If you want his story, read his manifesto on Instagram. This story is unbelievable, as are all true stories. The man who sells the gun has a daughter who attends the same university as the young man who buys the gun (hereafter known simply as “the shooter”). One morning, the shooter storms the campus, and as he scatters shots randomly the gun-seller’s daughter comes out of her English class and in a synchronous flash that Hollywood would turn into a dramatic slo-mo shot steps into the path of a bullet. Killed instantly. The young man continues his rampage, his AK-47 a scythe mowing down anything that moves. Of course, this story ends, as they all do, with the shooter getting killed. Afterwards, news agencies rush to the campus; if it bleeds, it leads. TV screens flash hand-wringing families and friends, offer the politicians’ sound-bytes of thoughts and prayers. The next day the sun comes up. A new day. Headlines scream “Gun Control Now!” The next day, we want to know who the shooter was and why he did what he did. By the third day, we worry about Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, whether they’ll ever get back together. For the bereft gun-seller, the days are one, long, interminable day. For him, there are no jump-cuts, no “and in other news” transitions. In his heart, he knows his loss is divine retribution, that he’s sacrificed his own flesh and blood for greenbacks. Weapons, bump stocks, bullets in exchange for burnished gold. TV journalists clamor for interviews. But he’s not speaking. Not even to his wife, who finally walks out the door and never looks back. The gun-seller becomes a hermit, lives a miserable life. He gives up his gun business. Still, he keeps an arsenal in his dark basement. Every afternoon he goes out to the field behind his house and aims at a target with the shooter’s image. A marksman, he plugs the kid between the eyes every time. The old oak tree swallows the bullets. Eventually, the gun-seller goes to the basement and fires a pistol into his mouth. They bury him next to his daughter. The oak tree lives on, pushes up new green, tender limbs between the seeds of lead.

 

DS Levy’s writing has been published in the Alaska Quarterly Review, Columbia, New Flash Fiction Review, Little Fiction, Brevity, The Pinch, and others. Her collection of flash fiction, A Binary Heart, was published in 2017 by Finishing Line Press.

Photo by Taylor Young on Unsplash.

American Ouroboros

By Myna Chang

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

ScaredMom.com
Outfit Your Kindergartner in Safety and Style 

ORDER SUMMARY

ITEM:

1 ShooterProofTM Toddler Vest, Happy Dinosaurs print, size 4T . . . . . $400.00

  • Fits child up to: 34 pounds // 32 inches in height
  • Protects your child’s fragile body with state-of-the-art, lab-certified steel mesh. Lightweight*, breathable & moisture wicking.
  • Guaranteed to repel popular American projectiles, including 357 Magnum, .45, and hollow-point ammunition.**

*Actual weight: approximately 4 lbs.

**Does not protect against armor-piercing rounds or AR-style ammunition.

Shipment option: Expedited

Product Note: Vest covers torso only. Add the fashionable hood to protect your child’s precious head. Attaches to vest with hidden velcro placket.

Complete your kindergartner’s safety wardrobe.

Products frequently purchased with ShooterProofTM Toddler Vest:

  • Safe at School Mittens — Steel filament lining protects hands and wrists from defensive wounds. Water resistant.
  • School Days Neck Gaiter — Protection for that tiny throat. Now with patented SafeFlexTM fabric for comfort.
  • ShieldMeTM Backpack — Bullet-resistant protection in Candy Pink or Little Boy Blue.

Thank you for shopping ScaredMom.com

A Subsidiary of the American Ammo Corporation

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Outfit Your Kindergartner in Safety and Style

RETURN FORM

ITEM:

1 ShooterProofTM Toddler Vest, size 4T

Return or Exchange? Return

Reason for Return:

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If 03, please explain defect: ____vest failed to perform as advertised__

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Refund Note: In cases of product failure due to projectile damage, a complete ballistics report is required before refund procedures can be initiated. A list of approved GetProof Ballistics* labs is available on our website. Please allow up to one calendar year for processing.

*GetProof Ballistics is a subsidiary of the American Ammo Corporation.

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We’re sorry! Due to a higher than expected volume of returns, ScaredMom.com is unable to complete your refund at this time.

In lieu of cash, please accept this store credit in the amount of $25.*

*Store credit is paid at 50 percent of original purchase price, minus NRA tithes and PAC contributions. Shipping, handling, and merchandise restocking fees are also deducted.

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Myna Chang writes flash and short stories in a variety of genres. Her work has been featured in Daily Science Fiction, The Copperfield Review, and Dead Housekeeping, among others. Read more at mynachang.com.

Editor’s note: The photo of a child with a weapon, marketed for children, is used for purposes of noncommercial commentary, satire, and education under the Fair Use Doctrine.

Tallent Neal’s Hungry Belly

By Ron L. Dowell

 

You’re on Compton City Hall’s council chambers steps, a fist-sized Black Lives Matter button pinned conspicuously on your t-shirt, your belly distending and nearly blocking out Congresswoman Imelda Herrera and obscenely stretching Elizabeth Eckford’s 1957 photo that’s on your tee. Elizabeth’s lovely brown face is downcast, looking cautiously through dark sunglasses, clutching her books, wearing a white cotton piqué over her petticoat, in stylishly pressed hair curls, keeping ahead of Hazel Bryan and legions of other whites whose mouths seethe and follow her with venomous, nullifying words, their minds filled with imagined superiority on Eckford’s first day at Little Rock’s Central High School.

Your iPhone selfie tells the story.

Far right is Turner, teen mentor, researcher, prison guard. He exhibits a picture of young Emmett Till lying in his casket, body swollen, teeth missing, ear severed. At sixty-three, stomach tumors forced you to retire your dustpan and broom. Your gut burns like a fire whirl. Your abdomen knots and twists into closed fists and forces words up your throat. “Same old shit,” you say to diminutive Congresswoman Herrera’s wide eyes on this early spring evening. She smells of Chanel and, in full 2018 campaign mode, postures between you and Turner.

Years ago, you made yourself a promise to never allow you a belly like your daddy lugged around—one full of hog maws, potatoes, and greasy chicken. At seventy-five, he died from too much blood pressure and sugar, a supersized prostate.

Turner’s gut matches yours but for this shot he sucks it in and angles his Shoot the Police t-shirt toward the camera. You don’t because you can’t. You turn slightly toward Herrera.

“Tallent Neal and I will support you,” Turner says to her.

“Good luck,” you say. She heads inside.

“Man,” you say to Turner. “I never noticed how big my gut’s grown. I look six months pregnant.” You’d assumed based on four to five days a week gym time that you looked pretty svelte for a graybeard. No.

“Damn,” Turner says. “I thought my stomach was fat.”

When did your body change?

“Forget it. We have what we came for,” he says. “Can you upload it to Facebook?”

“I think I’ll up the cardio,” you say.

•

Burdened by protest signs and the heavy Killer Cops banner, you and Turner squeeze through crowds into the council chambers. Four-by-ten feet, the canvas standard is a stark optical showing killer police agencies, names and ages of people murdered in Los Angeles County since 2005. Not long ago, you’d nailed it up at the rear, next to the public entry doors in perfect view of council members from the dais. You considered that an act of free speech. The mayor considered it public property defacement. She called you a vandal, had sheriff deputies snatch down your banner, grip your upper arm, and escort you outside. Deputies said you tripped and fell on damp pavement. You said that you were shoved. They threw the banner your way and said, “Next time we’ll arrest you for trespassing.”

You’re back. Having, at nineteen, acquired a felony conviction from back in the day, you don’t really want to face another judge, but this is a campaign rally, not a council meeting, so officials aren’t present, no deputies visible. Whew! You’re lightheaded with an unexpected release of tension.

You and Turner hang the banner, stand on each end of it with signs. Yours reads, “Black Lives Matter—Stop Killing Us.” Turner’s says, “What if We Shoot Back—with cameras?”

The chamber overflows, eyes focusing on your banner, riveting to your signs. You switch the sign from hand to hand but still your arms tire. You set it down and lean on the stick like it’s a cane. That won’t work so you hoist it up and rest the stick in the folds of your belly, which seems to have grown over the past several minutes. You sigh. Like a tent pole, it fits within pudgy gut creases, holds fast, the fit, perfect. You wave your hands around, move your feet, do old school dances, the Jerk, the Swim, then you Twerk. You enjoy communal energy and shout, “Black Lives Matter.” Turner follows, “Shoot the police.”

In front of the dais, Congresswoman Herrera looks startled by your display. Into the microphone she says, “It’s true that black lives do matter and there are far too many black and brown men killed by police.” Still, she’s a politician and modifies the subject. “That’s why I advocate a ban on assault weapons—I’ll eliminate bump stocks—we’ll put metal detectors in all schools, require lockdown drills.”

The audience is silent until someone shouts. “Hell, yeah!”

A sheriff’s deputy peeks in. Chest tight, you breathe faster. Your belly, acting on its own, bounces the sign up and down, waves it side to side, forcing words from your gut, despite your resistance, up to and through your esophagus, to your mouth, “Off the pigs,” you shout.

•

Two sleepless days later, your belly gurgles and protrudes from underneath your navy blue county jail shirt. Court’s spilling over with defendants at your preliminary hearing. Their supporters and victims clamor for seats. Turner’s waving his ‘Free Tallent Neal’ sign.

Pasty-faced Judge Hardass is on the bench, smiling smugly and broadly like a lion about to pounce on an antelope. His eyeballs linger on your belly, as if he knows something that you don’t, signaling that maybe he’s already decided your fate, finally asking after a long, uncomfortable moment, “How do you plead?”

You turn to your portly public defender who, in bright red bowtie, mouths, guilty. He’d promised the plea deal would get you thirty days jail time plus probation. That’s easy for him say. He doesn’t get strip searched or have to walk with his back to walls to avoid shanks or hard dick attacks. The pit of your ever-expanding gut feels empty. You mumble “Fuck you” to him.

Hardass says, “Speak up, Mr. Neal.”

The DA says to the judge, “He has priors, sir.”

The crowd hushes when the bailiff eases over, clutching the Taser on her equipment belt.

The public defender whispers, “Guilty—say guilty. Unless you raise bail, you’ll stay in jail until trial.”

Mouth dry, you glance at the clock on the wood-paneled wall to the judge’s left. When you turn back, your chest opens. Your lower esophageal sphincter snatches the public defender’s neck and forces him into your stomach, where he’s attacked by enzymes that especially like fatty foods. “Say guilty,” he says again before he dissolves into chyme. The bailiff reaches to pull him out, but is also swallowed by your burgeoning belly. Gut flora breaks them down and digests them both. Your liver and pancreas send juices to help push them into your large intestine as shit.

The DA’s eyes widen, Hardass smashes his gavel, “Order,” he says. “Order!”

Even if you’re in jail, who’s going to mess with someone with a hungry belly?

You say, “Scuse me, your honor—Black Lives Matter—and I. Ain’t. Guilty.”

 

Ron L. Dowell holds two master’s degrees from California State University Long Beach. In June 2017, he received the UCLA Certificate in Fiction Writing. His short stories have appeared in Oyster Rivers Pages and Stories Through The Ages Baby Boomers Plus 2018. He is a 2018 PEN America Emerging Voices Fellow.

Photo credit: Jorene Rene via a Creative Commons license.

 

 

 

Portfolio

By Christopher Woods

 

The house stands at the end of the road, near a river. He stands in the night street appraising the house, the ghost glow, the promise, a hopeful omen. He gathers his bags with the tools of his trade and begins to climb the stairs when he hears the cry from inside. A child’s wail, loud and desperate.

A haggard woman opens the door and shows him inside. A weary smile on her face, she seems too old to be the child’s mother.

“Thank you for coming,” she says, and she tries to stifle a deep cough. “My son is upstairs. I think it is almost time.”

“I hurried. I had a feeling,” he says. But he does not tell her how he stopped several times along the river road. Such a strange thing, the sight of glowing trees. Even the grass seemed lit. He had stopped to take photographs.

“You’ve seen the trees,” she says. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“I have.”

“Wasn’t always this way. But the people started their work up river. Nothing is the same now.”

The stairs are narrow, but strangely illuminated, though he can’t see a light or a lamp, a source. Once they reach the second floor, he feels as though they are drifting toward the room at the end of the hall. It is a dizzying thing, but he takes it for what it is. He holds his camera close to his chest in a protective way.

When they enter the bedroom, he sees the boy, all aglow, on top of a quilt of many colors. He sees that the quilt is a pattern of trains, the old steam engine kind. The steam rises from the train engines and gathers in clouds near the ceiling. The clouds glow softly. The trains and the clouds are not going anywhere in the small room. Yet.

“Should I stay?” the mother asks.

“It’s fine,” he says. “What is the boy’s name?”

“Isaac.”

She again stifles a cough, then backs toward a window to make room for him to do his work. She folds her arms tightly around her chest. With light from the window behind her, he sees that the boy’s mother is translucent. Her bones are visible and white. They shine through her woolen sweater and pants.

“Isaac, I have come to make your memory portrait,” he says soothingly.

“Yes sir,” the boy whispers, obviously in pain. “But I might not smile.”

“I understand. Just relax and I’ll be finished soon. Then you can sleep.”

He can feel the boy’s fever in the air, but he does not back away. Instead, he carefully takes the camera from its case and focusses on the glowing boy, the white effervescent sheets, and the smoking quilt.  As he does, he wonders how soon he will return to this house on the river road, to take the memory portrait of the mother. He is not good with time, but he thinks it has only been a month, or maybe six weeks, since he was there to take the portrait of the boy’s father. And maybe four months since he began the memory portrait series of the river people.

“Smile for me, Isaac.”

But the boy merely stares blankly into the camera. Dazed, all of them.

These river people do not pay him for their portraits. Instead, he receives envelopes of cash from someone he does not know, a person who wishes to remain anonymous. His work at the camera store as a clerk doesn’t pay much, so he has begun to appreciate the cash from the mysterious stranger. He has puzzled over this, who the employer might be and what it all might mean, but he has become so busy taking the memory portraits that he has almost stopped thinking about it. What he can be sure of is that he is living better because of the cash, though he is unsure how long he has been receiving it. Four months? Five?

As he clicks the shutter, he feels that numbness in his fingers again. The numbness comes and goes, but lately it has become more pronounced. His skin also seems much paler than before. When he is finished taking the portrait of the boy, the mother steps toward the bed. She strokes the boy’s forehead. Her bony hand moves like a soft light across the boy’s face. The boy’s eyes are closed now. He is gone. Elsewhere.

“I’m sorry,” he says to the mother. She nods and lowers her head. She is quickly becoming accustomed to this, to grief.

He leaves the house and walks toward his car. The stars have become more and more faint lately; the grass and trees have become brighter. He wonders what is happening up river. So far he has not tried to investigate. If he does, he might lose his job. The only instruction he has received from his mystery employer is to take the photographs at designated houses, but to never drive up the river road. So he has not, nor has he asked anyone about it. He has wondered all along if he should ask someone, if he should drive up the river road. Down deep, he has wondered if his employer is some kind of mass murderer, a wealthy one who is collecting memory portraits for a private exhibition.

He starts the car and he notices another change in his hands. His fingers are now ghostly things, nearly translucent. He drives a mile or so and then pulls to the side of the river road. His first impulse is to keep driving up that road, to find out what is happening upstream. First, though, he must do something else, something important and lasting.

He takes out his camera. He takes a self-portrait.

 

Christopher Woods is a writer, teacher and photographer who lives in Chappell Hill, Texas. He has published a novel, The Dream Patch; a prose collection, Under a Riverbed Sky; and a book of stage monologues for actors, Heart Speak. His work has appeared in The Southern Review, New England Review, New Orleans Review, Columbia, Glimmer Train, and others. His photographs can be seen in his gallery.

Photo credit: “Night Palace” by Christopher Woods.

“Portfolio” was previously published by Devilfish Review and Canary.

Want Fries With That?

By Jon Wesick

 

The smell of reused, vegetable oil made Uncle Sam’s mouth water as he examined the backlit menu above the brushed-steel counter. When the cashier in the multicolored baseball cap motioned, Uncle Sam stepped forward.

“I’ll have a cheeseburger, fries, and root beer.”

“That’ll be $6.25.”

The harsh overhead lights exposed the acne the cashier had tried to cover with over-the-counter zit cream.

Uncle Sam reached into his striped trousers, found his wallet empty, and whispered, “May I see your manager?”

The assistant manager approached the customer in the star-spangled suit, fingering his sparse mustache, something he did when annoyed. He needed to shut this down quickly so he could return to his office and complete his algebra homework.

“Help you?”

“Listen, that $3 trillion war to eliminate those nonexistent nukes left me a little short, so,” Uncle Sam removed a yellowed parchment from his lapel pocket and unfolded it, its handwritten words flaking from the surface and falling to the linoleum floor, “so, how about I trade you for this?”

The assistant manager squinted at the document. Even a first-year, community-college student knew you don’t spell Congress with fs.

“It’s the last copy of the Bill of Rights,” Uncle Sam said. “Freedom of speech and religion, your right to protest and to a fair trial—I’ll give up all of that for just one of your tasty burgers. Hell, I’ll even throw in a woman’s right to control her own body. I sure do love those burgers—the juicy meat, golden cheese, and tart pickle!”

The assistant manager told the cashier to give Uncle Sam what he wanted and slipped the Bill of Rights into a FedEx envelope addressed to corporate. They’d surely reward him by taking him on full-time or maybe even promoting him to manager.

Uncle Sam carried his meal to a fiberglass table. In his eyes, the rights that soldiers died protecting were not even worth lobster or steak Delmonico but only a gray hockey-puck of previously frozen meat topped with processed cheese, “secret sauce,” and wilted lettuce, all on a stale bun.

When the assistant manager heard the last slug of soda burble through Uncle Sam’s straw, he approached with a proposition.

“Care for dessert? How about sweet apple filling wrapped in a tender, golden-brown crust? I’ll give it to you for the low, low price of your schools, libraries, and the codes to your nuclear weapons.”

 

Jon Wesick is an editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual. He’s published hundreds of poems and stories in journals such as the Atlanta Review, Berkeley Fiction Review, Metal Scratches, Pearl, Slipstream, Space and Time, Tales of the Talisman, and Zahir. The editors of Knot Magazine nominated his story “The Visitor” for a Pushcart Prize. His poem “Meditation Instruction” won the Editor’s Choice Award in the 2016 Spirit First Contest. Another poem, “Bread and Circuses,” won second place in the 2007 African American Writers and Artists Contest. “Richard Feynman’s Commute” shared third place in the 2017 Rhysling Award’s short poem category. Jon is the author of the poetry collection Words of Power, Dances of Freedom , a short story collection, The Alchemist’s Grandson Changes His Name, and several novels. Visit his website at jonwesick.com.

 

The Wall that Trump Built

A dystopian cumulative tale by Robbie Gamble

 

This is the wall that Trump built.

This is the base that supported the wall that Trump built.

This is the anger that stirred up the base that supported the wall that Trump built.

These are the migrants, the “rapists and thugs,” such a shadowy danger disturbing the base that supported the wall that Trump built.

This is the border, impossibly long, so porous and broken, allowing the migrants to enter the shadows and rile up the base that demanded the wall that Trump built.

This is a trade deal, it’s complex and cruel: It regulates cross-border movement of goods, forcing loopholes and quotas to broker an edge for tycoons with free assets, ignoring the base that turned out for the wall that Trump built.

These are the jobs in old factories and plants that were culled out through high economic design, pushing robots or outsourcing, labor be damned! Low-skilled workers get broken and pushed to the edge by tycoons who contemptuously leaned on their base to deliver the wall that Trump built.

Now look! Here comes the scapegoating, racist and raw, pumping Rust Belt resentment through cynical rants, perpetrated by pundits decreeing false fears of the Muslim, or Mexican, wild-eyed and brown, terrorizing communities over the edge of what once “made us great,” now an insecure race, huddled back of the wall that Trump built.

And this is our hemisphere, wary and sore, home to natives, conquistadors, entrepreneurs, and then waves upon waves of the tired and poor, out of steerage, from bondage, from privilege too. An evolving community, fractious yet proud; wracked with growing pains, now on a small-minded course. Will we go it alone? You can see it from space: that raw scar of a wall that Trump built.

 

Robbie Gamble’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Scoundrel Time, Solstice, RHINO, Pangyrus, and Poet Lore. He was the winner of the 2017 Carve Poetry prize. He works as a nurse practitioner caring for homeless people in Boston, Massachusetts.

Trumpty Dumpty image from the U.S. Library of Congress.