Suburban Median

By Myna Chang

 

We see the body on the way to drop our kids off at school. It’s in the median at the Parkway stoplight. We don’t recognize what it is, at first. Understanding comes in pieces: leg, arm, slender foot. Naked, of course.

We try to look away. But is it someone we know? Nestled there in the ragweed and road debris, snarled hair hiding her face.

We gather over coffee. Talk about what we saw, how we tried to protect our children from it. Close your eyes, baby. Blood pounding in our ears.

One of us admits her husband looked, driving past, looked and kept looking. His breath ragged. She doesn’t say any more, but we know. He liked it. That helpless curve of hip.

We expect the authorities to remove the body. Cover her with a blanket. Gentle the evidence from under her nails. But when we go pick our kids up, she’s still there. No police cars, no crime scene tape.

We steel our nerves. We go to the station. We file a report. We demand: Didn’t you see? Who was she? Who did this to her? We hope for help.

The police officers raise their eyebrows, say there’s no body. Maybe it was a trick of the light, they say, or a dead deer. Maybe you imagined it.

No, we say, we didn’t imagine a dead body in the median! It wasn’t an animal, it was a woman!

The men shrug. I don’t know what to tell you.

We still see her. The bend of her back. Tangle of limbs. Faceless. It could be any of us. We think it might be all of us.

 


Myna Chang (she/her) is the author of The Potential of Radio and Rain (CutBank Books). Her writing has been selected for Flash Fiction America (W. W. Norton), Best Small Fictions, and CRAFT. She has won the Lascaux Prize in Creative Nonfiction and the New Millennium Award in Flash Fiction. She hosts the Electric Sheep speculative fiction reading series. Find her at MynaChang.com, or on Twitter or Bluesky at @MynaChang.

Image credit: R. Nial Bradshaw via a Creative Commons license.


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“I can experience joy alone”

By Tristan Richards

 

I meditate on this line while hiking
away from the waterfall, and a doe
pokes her head out of the snow,
watching me, her eyes black and beady,
her body sandy, the color of spring
gravel turned mud. She is beautiful.
I freeze, my heart in my throat.
I become too aware of the ice
surrounding me, melting but still
cold enough to take me down.
She tracks me as I walk, alert
but faking confidence, toward
the parking lot. I think about how
strange it is to be so close to nature
and also surrounded by cars.
It is wild to set natural growth next
to what comes at you so quickly.
When I pass, she stands on top of
the hill and I see her full body,
white stripe running from her throat
down her belly, somehow calm and
ready to bolt at the same time.
I think each of us scared the other.
It is hard to exist in this world
as a woman and not be afraid.

 


Tristan Richards (she/her) is a poet and student affairs professional from Minnesota. She is the author of two self-published chapbooks: Not All Challenges Are For Us (2022) and The Year Was Done Right (2019). Her poems have been published in Preposition: The Undercurrent Anthology, on the Mankato Poetry Walk & Ride, and in Firethorne. In 2022, Tristan facilitated daily poetry writing workshops throughout the month of April for National Poetry Writing Month. She holds an MA in Leadership in Student Affairs from the University of St. Thomas and a BA in Communication Studies from Gustavus Adolphus College. You can find her on Instagram @tristanwritespoems or at tristanwritespoems.weebly.com.

Photo credit: “Doe in the Snow” by Richard Carter via a Creative Commons license.


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A Woman of Good Manners

By Nikki Blakely

 

It is a universal truth that a man of good fortune must be in want of a wife, and Jayne set her sights on Edward, despite his reputation for being of a most disagreeable character.

On their first date, they went to Possum Pond.

Jayne had always been told the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. She smiled coyly at Edward as she opened the picnic basket and placed the food onto a red checkered tablecloth laid out under the shade of a large elm tree—ham and Swiss sandwiches with the crusts cut off, red potato salad with tiny cornichons and tart-sweet lemonade, freshly squeezed.

Edward ate heartily, while Jayne merely picked at her food, as was befitting a woman of good manners. Afterward, she slipped off her stockings, pulled her dress to her thighs and waded into the pond, beckoning Edward with the crook of her finger to follow, and follow he did.

He came up behind her, grabbed her tightly by the neck, then pushed her face into the muddy murk of the shallow water and held it there until her body stopped thrashing.

The next afternoon, it surprised Edward to see Jayne strolling up the cobbled stone pathway to his house, looking no worse for wear, though he thought he noticed a slight smudge of dirt around the cuff of her sleeve.

“Darling, it’s a beautiful day for a picnic,” she said, exactly as she had the day before, and indeed it was.

True, Jayne was not an overtly handsome woman, her countenance left Edward wanting, but her cooking skills were a credit to her housekeeping. And, well, it was lunchtime and he was hungry. Edward pulled his hat and coat from the rack, and once more they set off to Possum Pond.

Today she brought crispy fried chicken, golden buttermilk biscuits, and ice cold beer, and, for dessert, cinnamon-apple hand-pies. Jayne only nibbled—she was a lady after all—while Edward ate his fill. Afterward, Edward picked up one of Jayne’s stockings that she had taken off, twisted it tightly around her neck, and pulled sharply. Her hands clawed at her throat, her eyes bulged, and her body thrashed until finally falling limp.

The next day, Jayne was again on Edward’s doorstep, with only a slight reddening around her neck.

“Darling, it’s a beautiful day for a picnic,” she said, and off they went.

She’d made a salad with fresh greens, crisp bacon and soft-boiled eggs. Edward washed it all down with Southern sweet tea, then finished the meal with vanilla macaroons. Afterward, he pulled out a knife he’d hidden in his sock, and stabbed Jayne in the neck, watching the blood first spurt, then trickle, the red stain spreading like spilled wine across the checked tablecloth.

When Jayne once again appeared on his doorstep the following day, Edward noticed a crimson spot on her collar, and thought her smile waned slightly, but other than that, she remained nonplussed. They locked arms and set off for Possum Pond.

As usual, they sat down under the cool shade of the elm, and Jayne removed the food from the picnic basket: beef tongue pie, pickled beets, butterscotch pudding and sarsaparilla soda. After they had eaten, they lay down, and spent the afternoon picking animal shapes from the clouds until Edward at last leaned over and kissed Jayne on the lips. Then he placed his coat over her face and pressed down firmly until her arms stopped flailing about and she was completely still.

“Darling, it’s a—”  Edward was already waiting at the door, coat and hat in hand.

From the picnic basket, Jayne pulled cold roast mutton, deviled eggs, sweet mulled cider, and a raspberry tart. When Edward finished eating, he picked up a thick heavy log and smashed it over her head, once, twice, three times for good measure, until her body collapsed and crumpled to the ground in a heap.

When Jayne again showed up the next day, picnic basket in hand, it had been five days since their first date. She looked a little bedraggled, with the smudge of dirt on her cuff, a reddening around her neck and a drop of blood on her collar. Her bun hung askew to the left, and she walked with a slight limp.

Edward considered Jayne. She was not a great beauty, nor an accomplished woman. By her own confession, she did not possess any knowledge of the pianoforte, was not skilled in the art of conversation, and almost always lost at whist. Her prospects were most certainly limited. But her figure was slight and pleasing, she ate like a bird, and, try as he might, she would not die. What she lacked in physical attributes she made up for in tenacity. If he couldn’t kill her, he’d marry her instead. He decided to propose that day, directly after lunch.

That day, as Jayne had done every day before, she shook out the checkered tablecloth and spread it out under the shade of the elm. She slipped off her stockings, and Edward, impatient to see what new delights the picnic basket held, took haste to open it before Jayne had the opportunity, His countenance revealed his surprise at finding it empty, and he looked to Jayne for explanation.

“It is a universal truth that a woman of bad fortune might be in want of a good meal rather than a good husband, and there is a much faster way to a man’s heart.”

With one hand, Jayne grabbed Edward by the throat and plunged the other deep into his chest. She pulled out his heart, still beating, and bit into it like an apple, the blood dribbling down her chin. Then she picked up a napkin and dabbed daintily at the corners of her mouth. She was a woman of good manners, after all.

 


Nikki Blakely lives in the San Francisco Bay Area, with her partner and a precocious gray tabby named Tedz. She enjoys writing fiction of all shapes, sizes, and genres, crafting stories that evoke smiles, tears, laughter, the occasional eye roll, and sometimes even a scream. Her work has been published in Sundial Magazine, Bright Flash Fiction and Luna Station Quarterly, and others. You can find her on Twitter at @nblakely99

Photo credit: “Picnic Basket” by Paul via a Creative Commons license.


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Scylla

By Bex Hainsworth

 

A nymph unburdened by beauty is a nightmare.

My barnacle flesh scratches against stone
as I curl up in my cave, full of octopus cunning;
folding many limbs around myself, cruel, content.

This was Circe’s gift: to make me a monster,
a maneater. The distant roar of Charybdis
rocks me to an easy sleep each night.

I know they will take the dangerous road,
right to my mountain door. The men,
the soldiers, the heroes. The semi-divine.

They taste of revenge, of justice
for the ripped dresses, for the temple maids
who lost the chase, the dryads who couldn’t
get away, and the goddesses who never escaped.
For Leda, and Persephone, and Helen. For Hera.

This is for my own golden bruises.

I hold vigil. My teeth are tapers, glinting in the dark,
for all my sacrificial sisters. No offerings
are made in my name, no altars, no prayers.
No matter. The sea provides settlement.

You should hear them scream for me.
I rip the last words from their throats
with claws like scythes.

Afterwards, wiggling a thigh bone free
with the stick of a ship’s mast,
I recite my affirmations:

let them know how it felt beneath their bodies,
let their hearts freeze at the thought of me,
let them know what it is to be truly afraid.

A nymph unburdened by beauty is their nightmare.

 


Bex Hainsworth (she/her) is a bisexual poet and teacher based in Leicester, UK. She won the Collection HQ Prize as part of the East Riding Festival of Words and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Heavy Feather Review, Ethel Zine, Atrium, Okay Donkey, trampset, and bath magg. Find her on Twitter @PoetBex.

Illustration of “Pesce Donna” from Giovanni Antonio Cavazzi’s Istorica descrizione de’ tre’ regni Congo, Matamba, et Angola, 1687, via Public Domain Review.


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Reputation

TW: SA

By Frances Koziar

 

He speaks of his reputation
while I think of fates worse than death,
his name, when I would gladly give up mine
for a good night’s sleep, to see those nightmares
shaped like ordinary men slain
before their groping hands reach me; he speaks
of having a life ruined, not knowing
what that really means, not understanding
how men can form packs like wolves
at the first sound of a woman’s
assertiveness, ready
to tear that voice from her neck, carnage
be damned, not seeing our loss of reputation
every time we speak our names, our shame,
even when the evidence convinces anyone
who’ll let it; I laugh
when I want to cry, hold still
when I shake with fear, walk with poise
when I am running away, because attention
is the most dangerous thing of all. Smile
they tell you while you bleed out from the throat;
Speak, Pretty One,
but only if you say frivolous things; Sing—
but I can only hear screams.

 


Frances Koziar has published poetry in over 35 different literary magazines, including Vallum and Acta Victoriana. A young (disabled) retiree and a social justice advocate, she lives in Kingston, Ontario, Canada. Visit her website and follow her on Facebook.

Photo credit: “Eve in Shame” by Stanley Zimny via a Creative Commons license.


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Everyone Tells Me

By Alma A.

 

Everyone tells me
It wasn’t my fault,
That karma will get him,
Will leave him to rot.

Everyone tells me
I should have fought harder,
And why did I wear that,
I was asking for trouble.

Everyone tells me,
That ‘no’ isn’t binding,
It’s fluid, it’s blurred,
I am overreacting.

Filthy, contaminated,
Shameful, guilt-ridden.
I could have stopped him,
A dim future, unwritten.

Everyone tells me,
That I’m not okay,
But maybe I will be,
Maybe someday.

When hell freezes over,
And rapists stop raping,
Only there might I get
My chance at escaping.

But when my words reach no ears,
And the fighting ceases,
I’m the one who will be there
To pick up the pieces.

 


Alma A. is originally from Boston, and now resides in Canada with her cat and dog. She is a student with a passion for writing, and she aspires to do it on a professional level. She mostly writes science fiction in her spare time and sells her crafts on the side.

Photograph by Jane Fox via a Creative Commons license.


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Fury

By Skye Wilson

 

I want to break his bones for what he did.
No metaphors, just snap against my skin;
pain blooming in his eyes like burns on flesh.
I’ll scorch all of the skin he touched me with.

I want to grow to twice my usual size,
drink in the pain and terror in his eyes,
feel the power as I tower in starlight,
inhale the fear he sensed on me that night.

Tell Salome the Baptist’s head won’t do,
I take more than half a kingdom to subdue:
I need rivers of the blood of all the men
who kill their lovers and who hurt my friends.
Give me the lives and wives they don’t deserve.
Give me a platter: on it, place the world.

 


Skye Wilson is a bisexual Scottish writer, living in Newcastle. She has an MSc in creative writing from the University of Edinburgh. Her work is preoccupied with the body and belonging. Find her words at skye-wilson.com or on Twitter @skyegwilson.

Image by Sharon Brogan via a Creative Commons license.


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Honduran Refugees in My Classroom 2

By Alexander P. Garza

Editor’s warning: assault, violence against women

 

“Mira a mi tia.” Look at my aunt.
“La mataron.” They killed her.

She shows me a photo on her phone:
a black honduran woman, motionless,

face down, half-naked, ass exposed,
top torn. The girl tells me her aunt’s just been

raped and murdered, left dead.
She got the photo via text from a family friend.

The image forever ingrained in my brain
during our history class, right then.

“Another one down,” she says in Spanish.
“Glad we got out,” she says.

 


Alexander P. Garza is a writer, actor, and educator from Houston, TX. His work can be seen in Veil: Journal of Darker Musings, Thirteen Myna Birds, Black Poppy Review, and others. He was awarded the 2019 Dark Poetry Scholarship Award by the Horror Writers Association, was commissioned by the Museum of Fine Arts Houston and Tintero Projects for work inspired by their Latin American Exhibit: Play and Grief, and he has worked on and offstage at the Alley Theatre, Houston Grand Opera, Main Street Theater, and Mildred’s Umbrella Theatre Company. Visit him on Instagram/Twitter, @alexanderpgarza, and on his website http://www.alexanderpgarza.com.

Photo credit: LasTesis performs the feminist anthem “Un violador en tu camino” (“A rapist in your way”), in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, from Honduras Tierra Libre.