The Machete Yelp Reviews of Sebastian’s Seabiscuits

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Jonathan D.

Davis, CA

3/5

Sebastian’s Seabiscuits was fine. I guess. Don’t get me wrong, I feel for the staff. But would I

come here again after what happened? Not a chance. I mean, I didn’t really see it. I was pulling

out of the parking lot when the guy got there. I think I saw the knife for a second. But still. Also,

racehorses aside, I still don’t have a clue what a “seabiscuit” is. The crab wasn’t half-bad though.

Rachel F.

Santa Cruz, CA

5/5

Please please please please please support Sebastian’s Seabiscuits! Like I’m begging! They need

support now more than ever! I get the criticisms– like sure, how did the guy get in? But what,

you expect these minimum wage high schoolers to risk getting beheaded so you can eat your

lobster mac and cheese? They’re such nice people. Would give 6/5 if I could. Great service! The

experience wasn’t their fault. Oh, and the food was pretty good too iirc!

Barnabus M. (Food Critic and Top Reviewer)

Sacramento, CA

0/5

Davis, California has a new restaurant and if I can say so based off of my experience (and I

really do feel like I need to say so), it’s a total f*cking death trap. Don’t eat here! It’s supposedly

a “new” restaurant, but it already has mold in the corners. The silverware looks old and has water

stains. The décor is old-fashioned if I’m saying it politely, and the breadsticks were stale.

Disgusting. And what on earth is a seabiscuit? Look, I’m not saying the deaths were their fault,

but clearly, they’re into the drug trade or owe money to the wrong people. So, actually, probably

is their fault. I didn’t even get to sprinkle some crackers in my bisque before blood was squirting

all over the place. And before people start sending me messages again, yes, this is my real name.

Delany J

Davis, CA

2/5

This place was a really weird way to start college. My roommates and I just wanted to get some

food after we got our nails done. We’re tired of our room already. I mean, three bunks in a 12-

foot space? What is this, the military? The university is totally abusing us. Anyways, we got the

grilled prawns for our appy and it was actually pretty good. Maybe too salty. I’ll have to drink a

lot of water before my workout in the morning. But not bad. I was really excited for my eggwhite

whitefish omelet. They said it comes with tomatoes, spinach, a mix of cod and haddock, and

avocado optional, but y’all know I’m a California gurlie so OF COURSE I’m getting my

avocado!!! And a good price, I think. $25. I grew up in Nevada and we don’t get a lot of seafood

out there, so it seems fair enough to me. Anyways, the guy with the sword walked in right when

my omelet got set on the counter thing where the servers pick up the food. He was dressed nice.

Sort of like Daniel Craig <3 But then he started hacking away at people and the servers just ran.

They just ran! They didn’t seem all that dedicated, and the omelet never came. Not sure if I’d

come here again. Depends how well they clean up the stains.

Curtis L.

Pensacola, Florida

1/5

Listen I paid for a f*cking service man, this stuff happens in real cities all the times but these

townies just freaked out and ran off like a bunch of rabbits or whatever. I paid for a service!

Where are my salmon tacos? They talked up the avocado drizzle. Well, you know what? I never

tasted it. They didn’t even give me a voucher for free food next time or nothing. Not that I’d ever

come back. Shouldn’t food be part of the service? Like, shouldn’t a comfortable sword-

murderer-free dining room be part of what we’re paying for? How the f*ck they gonna let some

dumba** with a machete in. Block the door. Say he didn’t reserve a table. HOW BOUT CALL

THE COPS. But no. California hates police. Let’s just let everyone take a machete to the neck

instead of trusting our bravest heroes. AND GOD FORBID WE HAVE A GUN ON HAND TO

PROTECT OURSELVES. I don’t know why my daughter wanted to go to school here.

#givewaitorsguns #impeachNewsom #f*ckcommunism #landofthefree #nationalguard

#f*ckliberals #demsrcowards

Dave

San Francisco, CA

4/5

Jeez. That was a crazy experience. I think they handled that psycho pretty well. Minor injuries, 2

deaths. But that’s the police’s fault for not getting there quicker. Machetes aside, the food was

good. I really recommend the lobster tarts. Sounds weird, but it was really good. Also, the Clam

Juice Monterey Mule was surprisingly refreshing. Yeah. I feel bad for the owners. Gonna be a

rough few months for them. I’ll go back next time I’m in town again though. I feel good

knowing that my son is going to college here given how kind the employees were to us after the

cops arrested that dude. Also, though, I’m really unclear about what a seabiscuit is. “Seabiscuits”

weren’t even on the menu, so I decided to google it, but the only thing that comes up is that

Tobey Maguire movie.

Jake Johnson is a writer based out of Davis, CA. They are an MFA Candidate in the Creative Writing Program at UC Davis and have an adorable dog named Bandit. Their work has been featured in Rain Taxi Review of Books.

The Revenge of the Potato Man

Photographer - Tobi Brun

You almost wouldn’t consider Captain Sandwich a superhero. Almost. But if you saw how fast this guy could throw a sandwich together, it would blow your mind. I mean, you can’t even see it. It’s like… like… If you’ve ever been unexpectedly hit on the head and your eyes black out for a split second. It’s like that. It’s not painful to watch. It’s just that fast. 

I first met him when I started working at Fatty’s Sandwich Shop downtown. They didn’t even have the guy train me because he’s too fast. He’s physically incapable of slowing down. At least, that’s what he says. I just don’t think he likes training people. 

“Oh, and this is Captain Sandwich,” the grease-aproned owner with the bulging belly said to me as an afterthought on my first day. I must’ve looked confused. 

“Y’see,” he started to explain. The whole time, Captain Sandwich worked away, making sandwiches, stocking the line, filling sauce-bottles. All extremely fast. 

“The p’cyoolur thing ‘bout him is: he’s only this fast with anything sandwich related. Can’t run for shit, can’t beat anybody up worth a damn. But man, when he makes a sandwich…” he drifted off and raised his hand towards Captain Sandwich, still working away. 

Mitch trained me. He was a cool dude, laid back. I thought he was my age. I was nineteen then. Later when it came up (I forget how) I was shocked to find out he was ten years my senior. I was also shocked to find out that not a hair on his head was real. One day, when he was walking into work, his hat (part of the uniform) blew off and took his hairpiece with it. He chased it down as I watched out the window. When he finally caught it, he placed it swiftly on his head and neck-snappingly looked around to see if anyone saw. I quickly averted my eyes and continued making sandwiches. 

Mitch and Captain Sandwich and me and Fatty (the owner). They really didn’t need anybody outside of Captain Sandwich, but he had recently converted to Catholicism and wanted

Sundays off. Mitch worked Sundays now even though he didn’t like it. I asked him why he didn’t like working Sundays and he shrugged and said: “just don’t.” Anybody else who responded in this manner could be psychoanalyzed to determine the root of this dislike. Maybe a dislike of being deprived of a morning of sleeping in during their youth. Maybe something traumatic and repressed regularly occurred on Sundays in their youth. Maybe they had been forced to work Sundays against their will their whole life. But Mitch could be taken at his word. If he just didn’t like something, he just didn’t. 

Sundays were the only day of the week I worked which was fine because I was in school. I didn’t know what I wanted to do and felt like I was wasting my time and money in school. Or somebody’s money. I wasn’t involved with the tuition payments. My parents and the government handled things. But I was wasting somebody’s money and that didn’t sit right with me. 

The only reason I had gone to college right after high-school was because that's what I was supposed to do. That’s what everybody else was doing. All the people that didn’t follow this pattern were on Skid Row, or so they’d led me to believe. “They” meaning the adult influences in my life. So it was off to school. 

My first semester I had no friends. Well, there were people you could call friends, technically. People I would talk to in passing or in a certain class, but it wasn’t like we were hanging out outside of that. 

I remember Frankie Midnight (his actual name, I’ve seen his license). He didn’t have anybody in his social circle in our sociology class and we happened to sit next to each other, so we’d exchange comments at the beginning of class. All the talk was limited to the class, though. As much as I desired to break beyond that talk, I never could. I didn’t know too much about him. Maybe I could’ve come up with something. Asking him about a movie or an album or

something. But I never did. I’m pretty sure he was content with the limitations of our conversations. 

I was doing the credit-required classes first and falling deeper into depression. I found refuge in the library. The third floor was the silent floor and there were stacks and stacks of classics to look through. I buried myself in A Farewell to Arms and A Wild Sheep Case as well as several biographies or autobiographies of my favorite writers. The bio/autobiographies depressed me though. Keouac had met all of his lit’ry buddies in college while I was sad and alone. Rimbaud had completed his works by seventeen. I was two years older and hadn’t written a worthwhile thing. Hemingway was on the Italian front at eighteen. I dove deeper into fiction. 

The sad thing about reading was that the library would always close at some point and whenever I put the book down I’d be alone again. Wisps of the characters and their worlds would comfort me in my mind, but confronting the sidewalk by myself as others around me walked laughing in twos and threes always brought me down again. 

Working Sundays was a welcome escape. Fatty’s was far enough away from campus that nobody would pass up the other options along the way to get there. Fatty’s wasn’t renowned or locally legendary. It was just another sandwich shop in the city. The only people that came in were traveling through or lived on the block. 

I’d work other days as needed. My social life was nonexistent and my free time was spent reading, so I was available to work whenever. Fatty would call me and ask if I could come in and I’d always say “yes.” I’d get to witness Captain Sandwich at work. 

Whenever I worked a shift with Captain Sandwich I never had to make anything. Well, sandwiches anyway and that’s mostly what we sold. We only had two salads and they were the simplest things in the world to make. Just a Cæsar and a Greek. People hardly ordered them.

They weren’t even listed on the menu and most people weren’t brave enough to ask for something they didn’t see. But once in a lucky penny (how often do you find those?) someone would ask. 

The thing I noticed about Captain Sandwich was that he was incredibly slow doing anything else. I mean, Fatty had told me so, but to actually see it? It was the craziest thing. There would be a rare instance, say he went to the bathroom and I had to make a sandwich. He’d come back and notice the wallet-clutching customer and decide to cash them out. He would punch the numbers at a flat tire’s pace. Beep…… beep…… beep…… enter… “your total will be $13.74.” He’d slowly take the money, like he was reaching through frozen syrup, gather the change like someone after coming stiffly inside after a freezing day, and hand it back through the syrupy barrier. 

Whatever sandwich I had made would be long done, waiting on its anxious owner to get their change and devour them. Then he (Captain Sandwich) would smile the biggest smile in the world. It looked like it hurt, with his eyes squinting and all of his teeth showing, and bid them a good day. He’d hold the smile until they walked out the door, casting uncomfortable or shivering glances over their shoulder, then he’d sigh and let it drop like the final rep at the gym. His face would return to normal, he’d pat me on the shoulder without looking at me and then return home to his station. 

I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, but I knew what I didn’t want to do. I didn’t want to be a clock puncher or a pencil pusher or a corporate drone. I didn’t know exactly the meaning of these phrases at the time, but I understood the idea they represented: conformity to a single thing for a lifetime. Whiling away the time until retirement, then being too tired to do anything when retired and wasting away prime years of life. Thinking of doing any single thing

for the rest of my life terrified me. The only things I really wanted to do was… well, I didn’t know. 

I didn't want to be a rockstar or an actor or a lawyer or doctor or teacher. All I wanted to do was be left alone to read and write. Whatever I wrote and submitted was rejected. Maybe my time to be a writer was gone. Maybe I wasn’t even born to be a writer. What did I want? Maybe I could just marry into money and become a house-husband. That’d be easy if I knew any rich women and how to talk to them too. 

My second (which would be my final) semester ticked away. I was already wasting time in life. I needed to get out, I needed my freedom. Time was freedom and if I could control my time I could control my life. That’s what I thought then at least. Why was I learning things I didn’t care for or had already learned in high-school? I was planning on going on leave to sort things out. I needed to know what I wanted before I wasted any more time or money. 

Fatty’s grew on me. If I was spending time doing something I didn’t want to, at least I was making money doing it. But I enjoyed Fatty’s. All sorts of interesting people came in and Captain Sandwich was there too. I’d become mesmerized watching him work on any large orders, the way his hands moved, the way the ingredients flashed away. It was like watching something in fast-forward, but about a thousand times fast. 

One Sunday, Mitch told me the origin of Captain Sandwich’s powers. It had been itching away inside of me, the need to know. I waited and waited until somebody told me, but as time went by, nobody ever did. I finally asked Mitch. His eyebrows raised and he nodded. 

“You’ve been here so long now that I didn’t realize you didn’t know,” he said. I was leaning against the sandwich line and he leaned against the salad line opposite. There were no orders and everything was clean enough. He looked off, thinking…

He looked slowly back at me. 

“Apparently he was born like that,” he said with a shrug. Just then, a customer walked in and Mitch nonchalantly walked over to take their order. I was left incredulous and disappointed. I planned on asking Captain Sandwich (real name unknown) myself one day, but never got the chance. 

After a month of mentally building myself up, I finally decided to ask him. I finished class and skipped the library. Fatty had asked me to come in when I could. That was in the morning before my class. In fact, his phone call had woken me up. 

“Busy today kid?” he asked. Fatty was straight to the point. No ‘hello,’ ‘good-morning,’ or ‘did I wake you?’ I didn’t mind it. 

“Not after class,” I responded, equally to the point. 

“Come in when you can?” He said with a slight note of asking. Somewhere towards a demand like a speeding car, with the added question like hitting the brakes too late when passing a cop. 

“Sure” 

“Thanks” 

He hung up. 

When I arrived at Fatty’s it was no longer Fatty’s. There were fire engines lined all down the street, cop cars, ambulances, lights flashing, hoses spraying and misting. Ironically, the mist from the fire hoses made a rainbow in the air. Before the remains, outside of the emergency responders buzzing about, were the infuriated, fist-clenched Captain Sandwich and the greasy-aproned fat-bellied Fatty, trying to hold back tears. 

Before I could say anything (I had no idea where to start), Captain Sandwich’s

fire-eyed gaze met my helpless and confused one. 

“Come with me,” he said and began to walk. I followed behind. Fatty stared at the smoking blackened remains of his once not-so-renowned restaurant, oblivious to anyone else. The sun glinted off of Captain Sandwich’s blackout ‘77 Mustang. He got in and reached over to open my door. I slid in. It smelled like a new car. The leather interior was spotless and the sun gazing down from the blank blue sky hardly penetrated the tinted windows. “It’s about time I ended this,” he said, staring forward angrily and firing up the engine. Before I could ask what we were ending or what happened or if he was really born like that, we were peeling out and zooming down the street. 

When I said he was slow at everything else, I was wrong. Apparently he was a fast driver. Captain Sandwich was an enigma full of surprises. And not only was he a fast driver, he was precise too. He drifted around corners on a dime. He weaved in and out of honking cars, his only focus on the road ahead. I felt at ease, despite the speed and ferocity with which he was driving. “Potato Man,” he brooded, “Po-tay-to Man.” 

He rounded another corner and there was a long empty straightaway. At the end of the straightaway stood the city’s renowned restaurant “Potato Man’s: Burgers, fries ‘n stuff.” “What makes you think he did it?” I asked, unease creeping up on me. The packed parking lot of Potato Man’s lay ahead. We entered and Captain Sandwich slowed, stopped, then reversed quickly into an empty spot. 

He put it in park and fished in his pocket for something. 

“THIS,” he said, removing his hand dramatically from his pocket to reveal a single french fry. I didn’t get it.

“THIS,” he said, bringing the fry slowly in front of him, his gaze focused venomously on it, “Is the Potato Man’s calling card.” 

“We’ve been enemies from the start,” he said to himself, then looked me in the eyes, “But today I end this.” 

We marched in. Captain Sandwich marched straight to the front of the long line. Several people raised voices in objection, but we paid them no mind. Well, Captain Sandwich didn’t. I gave them apologetic shrugs and helpless hand gestures. 

“Bring me to the Potato Man,” Captain Sandwich demanded the freckled, potato-hatted cashier. The cashier nodded nervously. 

We were brought through the busy kitchen to a door that looked like the door to a walk-in cooler. 

“He’s through there. Or, uh, he should be. I gotta get back to work.” 

He quickly moved away. 

The door opened inward to a dark wood paneled and floored hallway. It was lit overhead by warm lights hanging at intervals from the ceiling. Captain Sandwich entered and I followed. The door shut behind us. 

At the end of the hallway there was a potato-skinned door with a golden plaque that read “Potato Man.” We entered without knocking. 

The Potato Man (I assumed) was behind his desk. He stood when we entered and between the short time between him standing there and him raising the revolver, I gathered that he was short, fat, bald, and wore a white suit with a Potato Print tie. He fired and I winced, shutting my eyes. I heard a thud. It was a gut shot to Captain Sandwich. 

My mouth hung open. My mind raced. What the hell was–

There was a second shot and the bullet thudded into my gut like a boxing glove hitting a heavy bag. I was down for the count. I looked over to Captain Sandwich and he looked at me. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth. Is this really how it ends? I thought. Captain Sandwich smiled. I was confused. 

“Y’see,” he strained, “he thinks he’s won.” 

The Potato Man still stood, only the top of his bald shining head visible over his desk from where we lay on the ground. 

“But he’ll never, never–” 

There were two more shots and everything went dark.

Riley Willsey is a 23-year-old writer and musician from Upstate New York. His short story, "Bus Station," was published on Half and One's website. Sporadic posts and bursts of creativity can be found on his instagram page, @notrileycreative.

‘THE BANANA WHISPERER’ & ‘BITTER HALF’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

THE BANANA WHISPERER

by

Daniel Weitzman

Ben is the apostle of perfectly ripe bananas. 

Does Ben have his mother to thank for cultivating this talent?  She may have played a part, had relied on the child Ben to let her know when bananas had attained the right shade of brown to be turned into banana bread. 

Does Ben have his streetcorner fruit vendor to thank for his prowess?  There may be a connection, the scrambling man is forever laying out unripe bananas for his customers — only to invoke Ben’s disapproving eye. 

Maybe Ben was just born a Banana Whisperer; regardless of how he achieved this distinction, it’s only done so much for him.  For reasons that escape Ben, potential employers aren’t terribly impressed by his knack for identifying banana ripeness — even though he customarily gifts interviewers with a Ben-approved banana.

Once, Ben’s then-girlfriend Elsa called him out for his banana-centric skill set, convinced he was just trying to work a banana into their bedroom maneuvers.  Ben denied the allegation vehemently — while still suggesting that a greener banana would be the banana of choice for such activities.  Elsa was gone shortly thereafter — but not without terming their breakup, “The Banana Split.”  Ben was not amused, moped around his studio apartment for weeks afterwards.  Ben reached out to his older brother Joel for comfort; Joel accommodated accordingly, inviting Ben to spend a long weekend at his swanky beach house.  Ben was only too happy to accept, was having a lovely weekend until he apprised Joel’s six-year-old son, Alexander of a classic banana peel shenanigan.  Alexander tossed a banana peel on the floor to see if — as Ben had suggested — someone would slip on it in true cartoon style.  The gambit was summarily derailed by Joel’s wife Melissa, who a) spotted the banana peel before anyone could slip on it and b) had Ben disinvited for the rest of the weekend for being a bad influence on Alexander.

No job, no girlfriend, no support network.  Things are not looking up for Ben.  Ben wonders if there is a way to “monetize” being a Banana Whisperer.  He imagines launching a career where he travels the country, advising cooks, grocers and shoppers on banana viability matters.  Surely, he could be a featured guest at Whole Foods or alike!  Ben goes so far as to design a Banana Whisperer outfit/apron to help him build his brand and impart his knowledge.  Ben digs deeply into his already-scanty savings to promote this initiative, which turns out to be more of a de-monetizing idea.  There are no takers for a traveling (or stationary) Banana Whisperer.

This is discouraging for Ben, but he will not give up on his dreams.  He puts a banana under his pillow at night, perhaps it will whisper pulpy intelligence to him while he sleeps.  For his troubles, Ben’s pillow smells like a banana — not an awful turn of events, but not the outcome he is hoping for.  The ‘pillowed’ banana has attained a lovely yellow hue overnight, Ben deems it suitable for a morning peanut butter and banana sandwich.

Still seeking a way to leverage his Banana Whispering skills, Ben wonders if he’s been culturally insensitive in pursuit of career actualization.  Might he fare better if he included plantains in his scope of Whispering?  He spends the next few weeks focusing on plantains; the streetcorner vendor allows Ben to sniff and fondle the odd plantain.  It makes for an interesting sight — Ben up to his nose in plantains while customers go about their habitual melon, kale and carrot acquisitions.  Still, Ben’s efforts to diversify fall woefully short.  Seems his gift doesn’t translate for plantains — which he discovers tend to remain green even when ripe.  Unable to account for this variance with his prognostications, Ben is forced to move on.

Accordingly, Ben widens his scope of inquiry, visiting the monkey house at the zoo.  Here, he hopes to find inspiration, identify a telling interaction between monkeys and bananas that will inform his pursuits.  Sadly, there are no revelations to be had among his fellow primates (though Ben does have a modest breakthrough, realizes he prefers orangutans to chimpanzees). 

Ben’s research continues, he trains his thinking on certain banana icons: banana cream pie, Banana Republic, J.D. Salinger’s short story, “A Perfect Day for Bananafish.”  Still, he is unable to close the loop, find a rationale for Banana Whispering as a tenable occupation.  While Ben is tempted to drown his sorrows in a banana daquiri, he is not so far gone as to recognize the cycle of self-destructiveness this may unleash.  

Instead, Ben finds himself in the throes of another potentially self-destructive act, agreeing to visit his mother for an afternoon catch-up.  Ben, thoughtful Banana Whisperer he is, comes prepared — bearing a bunch of bananas perfectly-suited for his mother’s banana bread. 

Ben takes a deep breath at mom’s door, waits to be admitted.  She throws open the door, ushers Ben into her living room.  Here, a surprise awaits — as Ben’s brother, sister-in-law and Elsa close ranks with his mother, surrounding Ben.  Ben wonders if he’s forgotten somebody’s birthday or if his mother has gathered the family to announce that she is finally ready to downsize to a smaller apartment. 

As it turns out, the get-together is all about Ben, whose family has united out of concern for Ben.  Ben has walked into an intervention.  For years, they’ve tolerated his Banana Whispering.  But his recent attempts to make something more of his gift, to turn it into a bona fide business?  Ben has crossed the line, has taken his Banana Whisperer preoccupation too far.  There must be something else he can do with his life; he did, after all, graduate a reasonably good university with a B.A. in Media Studies. 

Ben looks around the room, absorbs the would-be succor. 

His mother offers to take him to the theatre to help clear his mind.

His brother offers to bring him into his restaurant supply business.

Elsa offers to take him to lunch, maybe they can mend fences. 

Ben recognizes that all present have honorable intentions.

Still …

For all their troubles, it’s clear to Ben that those nearest and dearest to him have no idea who he is.  Ben is The Banana Whisperer — and that’s not about to change.

Ben departs his mother’s, bananas in hand.

BITTER HALF

by

Daniel Weitzman

“Who are you?” said a particularly hefty tween, bellowing at Landon Raff from among a throng of alligator worshippers. 

“Just the creator of “Ali Alligator,” said Landon, a few beads of sweat running down his concave face. 

“What do you mean, ‘creator?’ said tween nightmare, flapping his costume Ali jaws. 

“Where are your parents?” thought Landon.  “And can they just show up and drag you away?”  Landon knew that wasn’t about to happen, more likely, mom and dad were among the attendees of today’s Ali-thon.  The show was just getting started, and Landon was already primed for it to end.  One of these days, he would walk. Today?  Probably not, he was already present and accounted for — even if he felt unaccounted for.  Such was the life undiscovered, unappreciated, unknown.  

“I wrote Ali into existence, he’s my brainchild,” said Landon, peering down at the imperious tween from a podium asparkle with lights and glitterati all paying tribute to Ali.  At least it wasn’t a big city humbling; today’s show was taking place in the mid-Huron valley, where press coverage was less suffocating than it would be in any given Gotham. 

“Whatever,” said the kid.  “When will Ali be here?”

Landon was tempted to tell his audience exactly what they didn’t want to hear, something like … “As soon as I fire up my imagination and dream up Ali’s next adventure,” but reason prevailed. “Soon,” he said.  “He’s just getting his Ali rap together — getting pumped for you guys.”  More likely, Derek Solomon, the man who donned the Ali suit for live events, was getting his stomach pumped after another bender of an evening. 

It was just another day of abject humiliation for Landon — the man whose blood, sweat and life savings had gone into giving life to Ali, but who remained an anonymous figure to the army of Ali allies whose patience was wearing thin — almost as thin as Landon before his Ali submission somehow found its way out of The Bokar Syndicate’s slush file and into the spotlight.

If only Meredith Bokar could’ve prepared Landon for the life of callous disregard that came with the territory. 

Ali was a multi-media sensation:

His syndicated exploits appeared in almost three thousand publications.

His animated show boasted streaming numbers that wrung sponges dry and shellshocked ninja turtles.

Of course, there was a movie in production.

Ali was the best-selling plush plaything in toy stores, nationwide.  He was also gaining momentum internationally; could an anime Ali be far behind? 

There were Ali pajamas, diapers, string cheese, breakfast cereal.

There was talk of an Ali ice skating extravaganza.

And as if Landon didn’t feel expendable enough, A.I. Ali had made a cameo on the Internets.   

It was Ali’s world, and Landon was just living in it.

Barely.

Sure, he was making stupid money and had redeemed himself in his mother’s eyes (the monthly check Landon sent her had shut her up about his life of Bad Choices and Missed Opportunities), but he couldn’t help but feel like an afterthought.  One might speculate (and Landon did) that his relationship with Dear Mother had forever doomed him to feeling like a second-class citizen.  That said, forever hadn’t happened yet, and Landon pined and sighed for first-class status.

How that was to be attained was anybody’s guess, Landon hadn’t a clue.  Of course, he could shutter Ali, walk away — but could he, really?  Ali was a cash cow, Landon wasn’t likely to fill the void as a dog-walker, barista or podcast host.  Better to feel jealousy than nothing at all, reasoned Landon — a sentiment sorely tested by his current surroundings.

“We want Ali … we want Ali … we want Ali!” 

The rafters shook, the auditorium redolent with worship — none of it for Landon, who — per script — grabbed the mic and shushed the crowd, the emcee who stood between Ali and his acolytes.

“Hello, Huron!” said Landon, playing his part to obsequious perfection.  These moments were scant consolation — but would have to do until Landon could devise a way to share in the spotlight with Ali.  Equal partners — he could live with that.  Right now, the scales were sorely out of whack; not only was Landon an unknown, he served to introduce the man in the Ali suit.  Oh, how the fit was preposterous; what fit?!?

Still, he had signed on to be Ali’s party-starter, had to put on his conciliatory pants and get the show started. 

“What do we say when Ali’s in the house!?!”  What, indeed?  Landon had burned the midnight oil — well into the following morning — coming up with a catchphrase.  But boy, had it been worth it!  For Ali.  And to adorn t-shirts, bumper stickers, the banner that accompanied the Ali float for the Thanksgiving Day Parade.

“It’s now — not later — for Ali Alligator!” 

The auditorium buzzed, a sea of fanboys and girls singing Ali’s praises with carefully hewn phrases!  Oh, how Landon loved his work, his way with words! 

“It’s now — not later — for Ali Alligator!” 

The auditorium buzzed, a sea of fanboys and girls oblivious to the work that had gone into inventing Ali.  Oh, how Landon hated his work, his way with words! 

“It’s now — not later — for Ali Alligator!” 

What a bunch of fools and tools — if only Landon could bring himself to go rogue.  One of these days, Landon would put Ali in his place and elevate his own place.  Not today.  Not as the curtains parted and the star maker to the star maker to the star appeared.

What in god’s name was Meredith Bokar doing taking the stage; this was unprecedented?

Less unprecedented was the appearance of Ali nee Derek, riding Meredith’s coattails. 

The arena exploded; Meredith took it all in stride — as if she’d been born to bask.  In fact, she had been; daddy was the prototypical media mogul, had handed down the reins to someone just as capable and probably twice as bloodthirsty.  When Landon had floated the idea of a bigger payout, she had countered with the notion of diminished compensation; hadn’t Landon profited enough from Ali — and the corporation that sponsored him?

“We’ve got a special guest appearance today,” said Landon, cueing the crowd as Meredith cozied up to him.  “To what do we owe this pleasure?”  Meredith lived and died by the script, what was she doing interceding in today’s Ali-thon?  Why?  And why in God’s name did she insist on wearing alligator skin stilettos, wasn’t that a bit off-brand? 

“Hello, Landon … hello, Huron … hello, Ali,” exclaimed Meredith, wresting the Ali-clad Derek to her accommodating side.  “What do you have to say for yourself, Ali?”

“I say that today’s Ali-thon is a great place to break the news!” barked Derek, pumping his webbed wardrobe arms in the air.  Speaking of off-brand, an upright alligator was an anomaly no turn of genetic events could have ever concocted.  But the low-to-the-ground version of Ali had tested poorly—so, there was Landon’s brainchild, subverting evolution and snubbing him.          

“What news?” said Meredith, who clearly knew the news — and was allowing today’s main attraction to break it.  Landon waxed hopeful, had one of his recent story pitches gathered momentum?  ‘Gator-Haters Anonymous’ was one that he took perverse pleasure in.  Also, ‘Crock-Pot Journal,’ which would launch a new nemesis for Ali Alligator — a crocodile who fought Ali tooth, nail and jaw for the rights to reptilian greatness. 

“You heard it here first!” said Derek, egging on his Ali allies with stubby leaps and snappy prehensiles.  “You, my dearly beloved Ali lovers, are standing on the very site where we will soon be breaking ground for an amazing new Ali venture!”

The first to create, the last to know.  Landon shook his head, a bulbous bead of sweat splashing the podium.  What now?  Hadn’t Ali already broken the bank, wasn’t every possible version of him already in existence — or well along in the development process?  How else could Landon’s progeny lap him? 

“You tell ‘em, Ali!” extolled Meredith.  “Sure, we could’ve leaked the news sooner, or chosen a bigger media market to tell everybody — but we decided to tell the world on the exact grounds where our biggest Ali attraction ever will be located.”

“We?” wondered Landon.  He had zero recollection of being consulted on whatever it was that was about to turn Ali fans into fanatics — if they weren’t already.  Not that Bokar owed him the courtesy, by terms of his contract, he had been acknowledged as Ali’s author (a lot of good that had done him) but the iterations of Ali that found their way into the public eye belonged to Bokar. 

D/Ali (Landon’s term for the mash of Derek and Ali) snatched the mic and hatched the news.

“You, the fine people who make Ali possible, are standing on the future home of Ali World — where all things Ali will be happening!”

If Landon thought the crowd couldn’t get more boisterous — in fact, he didn’t, and they did.  A tumultuous cry rang out through the auditorium, Landon spotted the torturesome tween doing a flop of a backflip — which toppled a few of his equally enthused neighbors.

Ali World!  Wasn’t it already?  Landon had suffered a legion of Bokar babies; this one would be truly insufferable, the straw that broke the alligator’s back!  The death roll that dismembered Landon and relegated him to irreversible oblivion!  What happened in mid-Huron wouldn’t stay in mid-Huron; a few shakes of Ali’s tail and there would be an Ali World Europe, an Ali World Japan, an Ali World Saturn. 

It was time for Landon to take action … time to dial up his visibility … time to get the respect he so sorely desired.  Needed.  Was owed!  If it cost Ali some of his Landon-created popularity, so be it.  The scales of justice demanded it! 

And what might that action be?

Months later, when Landon was squirreled away, preaching the word of Landon to his listeners, he would reflect on how he’d fomented such an outlandish idea.  In fact, there was no thunderclap, no “ah-hah!” The idea just came to him — much like the idea for Ali had those tumultuous years ago.  The idea?

He would kidnap Ali, hold him hostage until the world paid his creator the attention he was long overdue.

How would that work out?  Landon wouldn’t know until he tried.

And so, he did.

It was now — not later — to make off with Ali Alligator.

If you happen to spot a hollow-faced gent shepherding an alligator wannabe — quite likely, against their will — you are encouraged to contact the authorities. 

The alligator is in great demand.

So is the man who created him.  His mother misses her monthly check.

Copyright © 2024 by Daniel Weitzman.  All rights reserved.

Daniel Weitzman is co-author of ‘Odd Gods’ (HarperCollins, optioned to be turned into an animated series). His children’s stories have been featured in ‘My Dad’s a Punk’ and ‘Stone-face.’ His film and TV credits include ‘The Pirates of Central Park’ (Children’s Film Winner, New York Film & Video Festival) and ‘Row Your Boat Ashore’ (Nicholl Fellowships Finalist). “Grown-up” material includes ‘The Only American’ (Every Day Fiction) and ‘Oh, Brad’ (Free Spirit). Daniel is author of a number of digital initiatives, including his personal favorite, a multi-media effort created for the US Forest Service. To check it out, visit https://discovertheforest.org/ 

The Idiot Savant

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Idiot Savant

Nineteen years of eating bats and salamanders. Nineteen years of painting walls. Nineteen years of humping the stalagmites when he was horny. Nineteen years of shitting in the corner by the rocks. Nineteen years.

Yes, nineteen years have gone.

The idiot savant is getting old these days. His head has balded, his feet have splayed, his spine has crooked and bent. At night he cackles. Wouldest thou see him there in the dark, thou would not even recognize him for a man, for a man he is no longer. A creature of the cave he
hath becometh, and with that, he grunts, he has finally done it. Today is the day the idiot savant enters the prime of his artistry. He wakes up and lights his torch with flint and stone and mashes up his berries between two rocks in its light. Then he takes the paste he’s made, rubbing it into his hands, and, going up to an empty wall, he starts painting. His subject, a horse, which came to him in a dream, prancing across a prairie he himself had never been.

“Grhm,” he grunts. The horse is goblin-like. It looks as if it shouldn’t prance. Rather it should romp.

“Grhm,” he grunts. Come to think of it, he doesn’t know what a horse looks like. He only knows what it doesn’t.

“Grhm.” He can’t tell what the painting even is.

“Grhm.”

“Grhm.”

“Grhm.”

He stops, standing back and looking at so far what he’s done.

Am I a brainless lizard? he thinks. A dilettante thug? Do I have any talent at all?

“Grhm,” he grunts once more, meaning no.

. . .

They found him there in the cave fifteen thousand years later, then just a shriveled mummy in the corner by a mound of fossilized shit. According to the lab where they tested him, died of malnutrition. Though, it was also suspected that, due to the phrenologically distorted crown of his skull, there lurked something else, an injury perhaps from his youth, although that they could not determine.

“He’s a savant,” one said, shrugging his shoulders and scratching his head with his micro-pipet.

“Sure.”

And so from then on in the eyes of modern science, he was a savant, the idiot savant. What was more a miracle than the mummy, however, was that, as for the art he made, it was still there, a bit grimy in parts but all still there. Archaeologists documented over two-thousand individual paintings, many of which on canvases that seemed to have been repeatedly scored. In one of their reports, they wrote that the paintings were the most lurid, the most sublime, the most visceral they’d ever seen, this coming from a part-time curator for the Uffizi and the Louvre and the Vatican. Another wrote that the paintings were so much what their colleague had said that, for weeks on end, lions and cave bears lurked in their dreams. They took special note of a horse in a field they said they but dimly recalled as though it was their earliest memory.

And so on and so forth until the hearsay had confounded, the reports had ballooned, and the money, the money, that which pervades all, too, had pervaded this. The company had planned to open the cave for tours to the public.

COME, they said. SEE THE SAVANT. FORGOTTEN DREAMS LIE WHERE HE RESTS.

By the time the archaeologists had searched the cave wall to wall once then twain and the company had opened the cave up, within no more than a single month, that month being February, everybody, everybody in the whole world seemed to have come. Ernest Hemingway,
Winston Churchill, Amelia Earhart, the Dalai Lama, to name a few. Picasso came once too, and when he emerged from the cave’s jaws as if straight from a woman’s womb, grabbing a hold of his wet tan fedora and wet tan suit, he turned to his wife and said, “Fifteen thousand years of
mankind and art.”

“Yes?” said his wife. “Yes, honey?”

He coughed. “And we’ve learned nothing.”

Condor Wrights -- Writer, student, cheeky little monkey with a stick. Lives in Nashville, TN and Oxford, GA. Reads in his spare time and lies around with Billy, his dog. Stokes the fire when he can.

A Solitary Affair

Photographer - Tobi Brun

A Solitary Affair

The man had been a famous writer in his day. He’d won the Booker and the PEN Faulkner and was a consistent bestselling author since his debut. His realm was the short story. They said he brought the form back from the grave. The boy was an aspiring young playwright. He had
boarded the man’s boat, again, seeking his advice.

"You didn’t say this writing business would be so lonely."

“Yes.”

“Yes? Well what do you mean?”

“Have you ever met a writer?”

“Of course.”

“Have you ever met a socialized one?”

There was a pause.

“I suppose not. I see your point.”

They were sitting in a jacuzzi in Aruba on the man’s boat while a little Guatemalan girl
fanned them with a banana leaf. She had gecko eyes. They blinked from the side.

“Oh, Plata.” Plata was her name. It means silver in Spanish.

“Yes?” she said.

“Will you please stop it with that fan and get me my drink, please?”

“Sir, right away.” She folded in the banana leaf and set it by the corner.

“This feels nice, doesn’t it?” The man was leaning against the tub. His back was against the bubbler. “Ahhhh, isn’t it nice?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

His arms sank into the water. He scratched his stomach, twirling his belly button hair around his thumb. “So what makes you want to be a writer, kid? Is it the women? Is it the money? Is it the fame?”

“No. Not quite.”

“Well, you’re not a writer if you don’t want something.” The man sat up. “Cervezas, niña,” he said. “Pronto.”

“You see what I did there?”

Not long after the girl returned with the drinks. The boy stared into her eyes. She blinked, handing him his glass.

“Thank you,” said the boy.

“Yes. Thanks, darling,” said the man as lifted his glass to his nose then to his lips. “Mmm. Grhhmm. So kid, why do you want to be a writer? Tell me, what is it that truly brings you to such a craft?”

“It’s not that I want to write,” said the boy then took a sip. “I have to. I just have to. It’s in my blood.”

The man shook his head. His jowls jiggled along, “What? Margharitas in your blood, not spirit.”

“Margarita.”

“Yes. Rum is in mine.” To this the man finished his glass. “Welp, kid, you know, I have no real advice this time. Just chase it with a hatchet, and buy your boat in Aruba when you can afford one.”

The boy stood up. He waded through the hot bubbly water, thick as it was, crawling out of the tub. The girl handed him a towel.

“Thank you,” he said.

The towel soaked the water up.

It was evening. He looked back over at the man. The man was chewing ice from his drink, staring off into the sea and the sun. He sat alone.

“Sir, can I get that towel for you?”

The girl was behind the boy. Their eyes met. She blinked.

“No. No, I’m fine,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Really?”

“Really. I can get it myself.”

He threw the towel in the bin by the sliding glass door.

The boy’s room was shaped like the inside of a conk, cavernous, marbled walls, mother of pearl. It sounded like a conk too. When one put one’s ear to the wall, the sea could be heard. He was packing his bags when he heard the knock. It was the girl. She poked her head into the room.

“What is it?” he said, walking up.

“There is dinner. Hermit crab, plantains and wild rice. He is waiting for you. Would you care to join?”

“No,” said the boy. “I prefer not.”

She smiled. It was a sad smile. “That’s too bad.”

He could see the light of the sun shining through the porthole streaked across her face.

“Here. Take this,” he said.

He held out a dollar coin in the palm of his hand. She reached. For a moment their hands clasped as she did. The coin was still there when she drew her hand back.

“I can’t accept this,” she said.

He looked at the coin. It glimmered in the light.

“Right.” He set it against his chest, wiping the grease from it, then slipped it in his pocket. “I best get back to what I was doing
then.”

“What was it you were doing, if I may ask?”

He stood there for a moment, looking down. “I was writing,” he said. Then he turned
back up without looking at the girl.

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” she said.

The boat had shifted. The sun was gone.

“It was—I mean, it was nice to meet you as well.”

She smiled. “Good bye, sir.”

He nodded then shut the door.

Condor Wrights -- Writer, student, cheeky little monkey with a stick. Lives in Nashville, TN and Oxford, GA. Reads in his spare time and lies around with Billy, his dog. Stokes the fire when he can.

TACENDA

Photographer - Tobi Brun

WINNER OF ‘THAT’S ABSURD!’ ANTHOLOGY CONTEST; COMING MAY 31ST, 2024

JAMIE GOOD

She wakes from the dream she has had every night she has sex with men. This dream is ongoing, without remedy, and still each night, the dream feels as real, as tangible, as the night prior, perhaps even more so. 

A playwright sleeps next to her, and with her, and he has no idea. Despite being a writer, he is still a kind man. He is so kind, in fact, that she continues to sleep with him, and the morning after she does not want to die. This can not always be said about sexual escapades, especially when it comes to the types of men she usually sleeps with, and so this is of value to her. This dream is but a small hiccup in their relationship. 

That is to say, she could tell the playwright about her dream, and he would comfort her, and would try to understand the dream. He might try to fix it—he has that tendency to try to fix, which annoys her, but not enough yet to mention it to him. Ultimately, however, the playwright would extend his ongoing kindness to her like silk tendrils, wrapping his little cellist (she is also a poet, and a pianist, but the playwright likes her as a cellist) in his placation, like an insect caught in a web who thinks not of his imprisonment or his death but how lovely it is to be macerating in the warm, gentle winds of summer, without the effort of having to beat his wings to enjoy midair. 

But she can’t tell the playwright about the dream because its origins are a touchy subject for them both. She can’t share the dream without also sharing when and where it started; the playwright would need to know to understand, he can’t help her if she doesn’t tell him. She might remind him that he can’t help her at all, this dream is even less in his control than it is in hers, but he is not so sure, and besides, how can he know that if she doesn’t tell him? But he might guess.  

The dream is this: every night, after sex, the cellist is too restless to sleep, but too tired to rise and clean herself, to set about another activity. This pains her, to lie in this state of in-between, an exhausted but unsatisfied consciousness. The cellist might like to bathe, or to read a book, or to make a drink, hot water with lemon, sometimes with gin, oftentimes with gin, everytime with gin, or perhaps the cellist would like to sleep, but perhaps not. The playwright falls asleep immediately after sex, his face seraphic.

But the cellist, in this state of inbetween, feels trapped, unable to move and only to bear witness, to experience the sensation of semen leaking out of her as spiders crawl towards it. This is neither fully cerebral, nor imagined; she can feel the spiders’ legs, their light touches, traveling towards the spreading sour-sweet dampness. She can tense the muscles in her abdomen and feel the semen’s quickening expulsion, she can hear it, she understands it is too what these spiders want, to eat, to crawl into her to feast on what remains inside. She can feel the spiders going into her, drinking in what has been taken from the playwright, laying eggs, biting her, mistaking her insides for his. Every night, the spiders come. 

Then she wakes. She is not sure if she dreamt the spiders or not; she must have dreamt them, because what else would she wake from? But then she is sure the spiders came before she fell asleep, right after sex, was she not wide awake, immobilized, the spider’s thin legs along her own? 

The cellist has begun to place her hands in between her thighs to sleep. This serves both as a barricade to the spiders entering her, and as shortcut; the cellist has taken to scratching at these spiders, batting them away, running her fingers up and down her legs to check that there are no spiders, but she could feel the spiders, she knows she could, they are there, but never once has she found one. 

So they are inside of her. She inserts fingers inside of herself, feeling around, scraping, but nothing is scooped from her except skin cells, soft tissue and blood, and the last of the playwright’s semen. Her insides pill and clump, something wet and solid, to be rolled between her fingers like paper. The spiders could have laid eggs and crawled away. The spiders could have already bitten her. 

The cellist has tried everything to rid herself of this dream, or the potential for it, without revealing to the playwright her dream. They’ve tried barriers, he has finished elsewhere onto her body, but the cellist is not without the fear, she can explain away all of their precautions, she knows still the spiders will come. The spiders still come. 

Three-hundred-and-thirty-seven days have passed since the cellist has developed this neurosis. When she thinks about this, she realizes it is not really that long, not even a year. And not every night does she experience this sensation, only on nights she has sex with men, and she is only seeing the playwright so it is only when the playwright spends the evening with her, or she him, does this occurrence take place at all. That is to say, now, she is only experiencing this dream with the playwright. 

After waking, or this perceived waking, she is able to move. She showers. She scrubs the inside and outside of herself, her thighs scratched red-raw, open like a mouth. She makes a drink. It’s her business what the drink is. She rubs lotion into her body. She twists her hair up and with metal that bites into her hair like a jaw. She looks at the clock which reads anywhere from eleven at night to four or five in the morning. 

The playwright lives in a large apartment, the second and third floor of a house he does not own. The ground floor and the basement are inhabited by the violinist who does own the house. The cellist has an extremely good reason for not going to her own house. It’s a great reason, even. 

The two men do not speak to one another. This was not always the case, and this previous history burdens this period of unspeaking further. Currently, the two men are halfway through a play they are three-and-a-half years into developing. The play grows and shrinks and grows and shrinks. It is something of a shared masterpiece, the magnum opus of both men, they think, and other times, they think the play is shit. The play is only halfway complete, and remains halfway complete, as the two men continue not to speak to one another. 

That is not to say there has come a standstill, or stagnation of progress made on the play. The two men still meet in the afternoons, sometimes on the second floor (the playwright’s), and sometimes on the ground floor (the man’s), sometimes in the morning. They work at the same lenient company. They never meet in the basement or on the top floor, as that is where the two men’s beds are, and this is where all of their problems lie. 

The playwright is both a playwright and costume designer. The violinist is not so much of a playwright as he is a poet, and a visual artist, and a musician.  Together, the two men are like five men, all working together on this play that may or may not come to fruition.

They met at work. The playwright works as a costume designer and the violinist works as a photographer, or a critic of photographs; it is unclear to the playwright. The violinist is a critic, the playwright decides. That is primarily what he brings to the play. He critiques.  He offers criticism. He criticizes. 

Neither man is sure what the play is about, and this suits them. 

And what does the cellist do? She teaches ballet. She is not exceptional at ballet; that is why she is young and teaching, instead of dancing professionally. Professionally, she is a cellist, and a pianist. It would benefit the two men to have her help with this play, once, some time ago, she did help with this play. For a while, it was discussed that maybe the cellist does perform in this play; she could be the clown dancing (she is not an exceptional dancer, this is true, but she is skilled enough), but now that is no longer on the table. 

It was originally the violinist’s idea to have the cellist dance in the play, and now he can’t believe he suggested such an idea. For one, she is not as great of a dancer as he was originally led to believe. He was blinded by something he continues to not confront, he realizes. Okay. Okay. That’s no secret. It is a secret. And anyway. 

The violinist restarts his train of thinking. Being beautiful is not the same as being a talented dancer; he can’t believe he conflated the two. Additionally, this is an absurd play, as in, the genre is absurdism. The cellist knows nothing about the absurd. The violinist has even tried to lend her his copies of theories and works of absurdists the cellist didn’t understand. She didn’t understand it. She returned the work and had nothing to say about it. She didn’t understand it, the violinist said again to the playwright, who dared to bring up that perhaps the cellist was right for the play after all, this two-person project could again become three, and this was the first and last time this expansion of creative thinking was brought to the table. The two men continue to work on the play silently. 

Still now, clandestinely, the playwright does seek her help; there’s a choreographed part of the play, with ballet, but it’s clowns doing ballet, a sexual, weird sort of ballet he says, he’s not sure if he understands, he is sure she doesn’t understand, the violinist’s opinion does sway him, even if he won’t admit it, but he won’t admit it, so would she offer her opinion?

Meanwhile, the cellist goes to work. Work is painful. It reminds her of her shortcomings (dancing) and keeps her from her passions (music). Poetry fits into none of this. After work, she is involved with two different orchestras: one she plays the piano in, and another she plays the cello in. But she is so tired after dancing! Sometimes, she dances even more than her students. 

Years ago, the violinist formerly played in both orchestras the cellist plays in, but when they met, he was then only playing in one. The cellist suspects he is no longer permitted to play in the other orchestra for reasons he will not share. 

The violinist tells the cellist it has worked out. He has too much going on in his life to be in two orchestras. The violinist is very talented, and multi-disciplinary. He has gallery showings of his work: paintings and photographs, and this supersedes the second orchestra, the lesser of the two orchestras. 

At the violinist’s orchestra practice, the two do not look at one another and they do not speak. Again, this was not always the case. The violinist and the cellist met playing together in this orchestra. 

They all know what hangs in the room between them, and they do not look at it. It is too close for their eyes to focus on, anyway, suppose they did want to look at it—they couldn’t. It’s blurry. 

The cellist is upset that the violinist remains speaking to the playwright (even though they are not speaking, but silent in a room together) but will not look at her (he will not look at the playwright either, but that is beside the point). The violinist and the cellist each have their own reasons for remaining upset, but not to the degree in which they relate to one another. That was a long time ago. 

Unrelated: The playwright doesn’t like the violinist’s poetry.

Unrelated: The cellist doesn’t the violinist’s poetry, either. 

Unrelated: The violinist thinks the cellist does not pursue music as vigorously as she ought to. 

Unrelated: The playwright is creeped out by the visual art of both the violinist and the cellist, believing the violinist to be given too much credit and the cellist to be given too much allowance.

Unrelated: The cellist and the violinist do not think the playwright is a very good writer. What could be worse than a writer, and a poor one? 

What could be worse: a painter, and a poor one. But unfortunately, the violinist is very talented. 

Here is a house with three people, in triangles of hatred. All three of them hate one another (to varying degrees) and themselves (to the same degree). The house is so full of tension it has actually compacted, like a spine; the house used to be six inches taller. The house is a bit sore. It’s growing stiff. 

The cellist has an extremely good reason for not going to her own house. It’s a great reason, even. 

What lingers from this hatred in all of its past and present is the spiders. The cellist can’t tell the playwright about these spiders, because that would be to acknowledge the origins, which of course they all know, but still, it is much less painful for everyone not to hear this spoken aloud. But it’s the origin of the dream, and the spiders came, and have continued to come since. And more to the point: the playwright was once in the same position as her. Truly, the same position as her. Might he have suffered the same dream? But it was so long ago, he might say. They’ve sorted it out now. That was then, and this is now, and it is behind them, so let’s look at what’s in front of them, what’s on them, inside of them. Maybe they would not talk about it at all, and have sex instead. This is a common way of addressing their relationship problems. 

So what would she gain from telling the playwright? The playwright will think she thinks of the spiders, or the origins thereof, when she is in bed with him, or afterwards. She doesn’t, she would tell him, afterwards she only thinks of the spiders, because they are crawling inside of her, but still, the playwright would worry. And that’s only afterwards! She didn’t mean to say spiders, she doesn’t think of them during sex at all. During sex, she thinks of him, him, him him. Yes, you. The playwright. My god! 

None of this is fair, thinks the cellist. She was not born yesterday. She knows the playwright thinks about what he worries she thinks about. He must. He must. She is not the only one to have experienced it. And this, they have it in common. They have it in common! Him, even longer! Even more! So why is she excluded from the play, and not the playwright?

She doesn’t want to be in the play. Last week, she came downstairs for a slice of lemon, for her drink, and caught sight of the play growing arms and hands, two long papery limbs. Disgusting. 

Meanwhile, the two of them (the playwright and the cellist) have become independently obsessed with beetles. For the cellist, this has been ongoing. She discovered beetles first. Yes, she would say, it does annoy her a little bit to see beetles come up in this play the two men are working on, the play she is excluded from.  For the past two days, the playwright has been sewing a costume of a giant beetle dressed as a king, and the cellist has been referring to it as King Beetle even though the playwright has been insisting that the beetle is not a king, only dressed so. Then why couldn’t she refer to it as a king, if it has dressed itself as so? Because it is not a king, the playwright insists, he knows she is using King Beetle in a derogatory way, and this is as far as they get in the discussion. King Beetle takes up nearly the entire second floor, the cellist thinks resentfully, even though King Beetle is taking up a single dining room chair. 

The cellist was continuing her series she started before she started seeing the playwright: portraits of mouths wide open, full of dermestids, eating the gums off of sets of teeth. The cellist loves the dermestid beetles for their vulture-like qualities, their insistence on only seeking sustenance from what is in a state of decay. Bird-insects. 

Meanwhile, there’s been some sort of pause with the two men’s work, and they’ve spent the last three weeks in silence, sitting at the kitchen table of the playwright’s, scribbling away on paper like two small children told to remain quiet or else. The play was at a critical point. The violinist and playwright had reached a creative peak. The play was almost finished. It was all coming to one massive culmination, the play had seized both of them by the neck and was banging their heads together like a toy monkey crashing symbols. Something was missing from it, something small, but crucial, and they were so close to knowing what, the play would be finished, a ten-act play, forty-thousand words, they guessed, a five-hour performance, a masterpiece. A play like this had never been done. They weren’t going to move from the table until they figured it out. 

Both men had stopped going outside to smoke; the playwright had stopped smoking entirely and the violinist sat smoking at the table, and because the two men were not talking, the playwright could not ask the violinist not to smoke in his house please, to which the violinist would remind the playwright that he, the playwright, does not own the house but is a tenant of the violinist, who does own the house. 

So the smell wafted around them, while the playwright ate slowly and with quiet fury, thinking, letting each cracker go soft and wet, fully liquid before swallowing the wheat-water, then another cracker. The manuscript of the last three acts was spread across them, notes and highlights and words burned out with the ends of cigarettes, a different word, a synonym, a substitution, an object, something better, written around it in the nearly illegible handwriting of the playwright. They were certain something was missing from the last three acts. Around them, half-finished and fully-finished costumes were thrown over chairs, dressed over mannequins, scattered across the floor, King Beetle proudly in the center. 

So the violinist was going to smoke in his house. The playwright was going to invite the cellist to play a melody on the piano again, he was sure a musical element was missing, and wanted to think while listening, and so the cellist was in a now three-occupied room. 

This was a mistake. Now neither men were thinking about the play and were instead thinking about what hangs between them. Communal misery. All suffocating, frozen the way one does when approached with something temperamental, dangerous, and volatile in a state of calm, not wanting the behemoth to startle.

If the violinist was honest with himself, he did want to provoke a little. But he wouldn’t. But this was his house, and honestly, it was beginning to feel feverish, an alleyway full of hot sun-garbage, was this not his home? The cellist was aware the violinist was thinking of her as garbage, and the playwright, who was eyeing his King Beetle costume; he didn’t want the smell to seep into the fabric.  Enough time has passed between the violinist and the playwright, goes the argument. Enough time has not passed between the violinist and the cellist. Why doesn’t she get that? It’s simple. 

No time has passed between the playwright and the cellist. They were inside one another this morning. 

This thought occurred to the violinist, who became so disgusted he went downstairs; he couldn’t look at anyone he said, and the cellist and playwright looked at one another. Shame joined all that hung unspoken and heavy between them: a thick, useless spider descending from a web, and the sex the playwright and the cellist had that evening was quick and furious, both wanting the other to finish so the sex could be over without the disatisfaction of a failed orgasm, so nothing more might hang between them. 

King Beetle was brought out and puppeted around after this, the playwright needed to think but again the cellist was immobilized and the spiders came and crawled and feasted and bit her, she could hear the spiders inside of her sucking out the semen, she could feel their sticky-warm legs inside of her, tracking the semen inside and out of her again like mud stuck to the bottom of shoes treading on carpet, and how far and how not far she was from her childhood, doesn’t everything repeat itself, how she was in this house with these two adults who hated her and loved her and hated her and cared for her and hated her with the burdened, emotional way of disinterested parents. 

The cellist woke up and did not wake up. The house sucked its teeth at her. King Beetle lay across the bedroom floor like a popped balloon. The playwright was downstairs not speaking again with the violinist, the two sat at the table, the playwright still unsmoking and honestly, thought the violinist, this was helping nothing, they’d be much better off if the playwright would just have a cigarette. The cellist could hear the silence creep down the house, through the walls like a spreading infection. The house should be amputated. The house should be cauterized. The house should be euthanized, she thought, aborted, deemed inviable. 

The cellist woke up again, convinced she was pregnant. This was not the first time she awoke with this distinct notion, yet another recurring and inescapable feeling. She went downstairs and told the playwright she thought she was pregnant, in front of the violinist, who laughed for a long, long time, announced he was hanging himself, and went outside to smoke. He was not going to hang himself, the playwright said, his eyes and mouth too open. The playwright smiled when he was nervous, or uncomfortable, and all of his teeth showed like an upset horse. Was she sure?

No, she said, but she had begun to have this growing premonition, something ongoing and worsening, and tonight she could stand it no longer. 

Nothing was open. It was eleven-thirty at night. They would go to see a doctor in the morning. A large part of the playwright thought the cellist was suffering some sort of anxiety disorder. Or worse. What could be worse? He didn’t want to entertain those notions. 

A small part of him worried perhaps she was pregnant, and then what? They were halfway through their play. He wasn’t ready for a child. And what if the play was a success? What if it demanded a sequel? Perhaps the child would be fit to be in the play, he thought. King Beetle (now he too referred to the creature as King Beetle; he heard too much of its nickname) might need an heir, a successor. He did not tell the cellist any of this. He sensed she was resentful of King Beetle, and her resentment made King Beetle a shy performer, self conscious. 

All night the two men worked silently on the play, and when morning came they had two new characters who did not fit into the plot and whom neither man could remember creating, and three-thousand less words than when they started. The violinist stabbed his chained cigarettes into the play over and over and over again like bullets, the text illegible and charred. Everything around him, everything that came out of him, or came to him, or came from him, or came in him, or came in front of him, was shit. The playwright drove the cellist to purchase a pregnancy test. She purchased four. She needed to be sure, she said. 

At home, all four tests came back negative. Thank Christ, the playwright said. He felt even less prepared for fatherhood this morning than he had felt last night. The violinist said nothing about the news and went outside to smoke. He started smoking outside again. The playwright had too much of a presence in the room. It ruined his smoking. The cellist did not react. She looked at each test and threw it away. So she was not pregnant. But the feeling persisted. 

She felt that she was pregnant with herself, not that she had impregnated herself, but rather that she was two selves, the fetus and the mother, and failing in her performance of both roles. The playwright did not understand. She was afraid of both herself and pregnancy. But you’re not pregnant, the playwright said, but that didn’t matter, she believed that she was suffering a miscarriage, they had taken the test too late, it would have come back positive if she had taken it earlier. 

Her miscarriage was of herself. The playwright stopped listening because he didn’t understand, he was thinking about how King Beetle had been moved downstairs, not because of the cellist, but because now, like the playwright, the violinist needed to look at King Beetle while he worked. But now the violinist was alone with King Beetle! Suppose something should happen, and the playwright was not there!

The cellist has stopped talking and the playwright has not realized. She is experiencing her affairs privately, her miscarriage is taking place so far inside of her that no one can see it; it will be a long, long time before anything is expelled, for there to be any evidence something was wrong to begin with. But she knows about the miscarriage. She knows she, herself, the mother, the fetus, was not made to exist in the world. She could feel the fetus of herself rotting just underneath her heart. She moves through the world aware of this decay.

Downstairs, the play grows legs, and its tail absorbs back inside of itself, and begins to nurse from the house. 

The playwright eventually notices that the cellist has not spoken for an indefinite amount of time. He has not even seen the cellist move. He asks the violinist how long he has been gone for. The violinist says at least a month. The violinist! He has always lied, thought the playwright, he’s a liar. That’s a source of both the playwright’s and the cellist’s hatred (The playwright is a liar. The cellist is a liar). The violinist wants to be left alone with King Beetle, he wants the playwright to think he can be trusted for so long, a whole month. It’s been three hours, the playwright says, he has some choice words for the violinist the playwright wasn’t even aware he knew, and the violinist reminds the playwright he is the playwright’s landlord, the playwright is but his tenant, a creative serf. 

The playwright goes outside and asks the neighbor how long it's been. The house has pinchers that open and close slowly. Since what’s been? The neighbor wants to know, and the playwright can’t figure out what to tell him. The playwright goes back inside and looks at the cellist, who looks gaunt. The house smooths hair from the cellist's face in a way that is not romantic but is also not distinctly un-romantic. It is a caress. It is a caress, he can see it. He can see the outline of her teeth through the skin on her face, she is so thin. Jesus, the playwright realizes, it has been a whole month-and-a-half of silence, of the cellist doing nothing but lying in his bed, their bed, she has an extremely good reason, a great reason, even, for not going to her house, and now she is lying in his bed, their bed, it is their bed, he doesn’t mean to keep calling it his bed, and now she is lying in his, their bed, really, their bed, watching spiders lope across the ceiling. 

The spiders are loping. Loping and eloping, look at all those little egg sacs strung along the ceiling like christmas lights, but more than eloping they are quite literally loping, like gazelles; the spiders are galloping up and across the walls and ceilings, sprinting, to what, to what? The playwright wants to know, he has never really paid attention to spiders; they bore him. 

The cellist looks even more emaciated. Has it been another month of watching these spiders lope and elope? The playwright felt if he neared the cellist, he would be able to see her blood pulsing through her capillaries, the outline of her nervous system. He looks away and the cellist has gone out for a walk, she said, it’s all coming back to him now. 

On her walk, the cellist passes snail shells she thinks are empty, but are instead full of flies, and maggots. When she is almost home, she sees a ground beetle, belly up, ants eating its innards. Not once does she see anything alive.

The playwright takes her to see a doctor, who asks her how long she’s been sick for. What the cellist wants to say is that she’s been sick her entire life, something accidentally born but that should have been deemed unfit for life. 

The cellist wants to tell this doctor that she, the cellist, is ill-suited towards the world, that she shouldn’t be here, that she isn’t fit for life, not physically, but yes physically, so physically, and on the inside too, cerebrally, corporeally, in every since of the world she isn’t fit for the world, look. She’s like a sick embryo trying to attach to an inhospitable uterus. The embryo can’t implant! The conditions are not correct, and it must be expelled, or rot inside, or both. The world is a hostile environment and she is a hostile environment!

The doctor doesn’t know what the cellist is talking about, and starts recounting facts about inhospitable uteruses, causes of the hostile environment: infection, anorexia, and so on. Has the cellist always been so thin? When did she stop eating? The cellist is unconcerned with eating. She is in a period of her expulsion-rot. And there is already so much to expel-rot. Why should she consume any more? Why should she take in any more? Nothing else should enter her. It is unfit! She is unfit! 

The doctor is annoyed that the cellist is attempting to entertain him with her theatrics, when what he wants to know is why she was sick for so long, why she did not come in sooner.

The cellist was extremely busy, she tells him. And she was busy! She was preoccupied with herself. Besides, she said, The house has a stomach-ache, and that takes precedence. It’s hot outside. It is so, so hot outside. The house doesn’t do well in the heat. 

The cellist is asked to take another pregnancy test. It comes back negative. The cellist gives blood, and three days later that test returns negative too. No parasites. No tapeworms that will have to be cut out of her, pulled and pulled and pulled like tricks clowns perform at a circus, the strings of multicolored tissues all tied together, attached to the feet of a dove. 

In the house that continues to shrink, the cellist drives her palms into her navel, elbows jutting forwards, shoulder blades separating and coming around to meet her chest. She can’t stop putting more pressure. It is nearly excruciating. 

I am certain that something is growing inside of me, she tells the playwright, pressing harder still. He tries to pull her hands away from her stomach. He reminds her of the pregnancy test, the blood test, how there can’t be. 

I know there is, she said. I know it, I know it, I know it. The playwright goes downstairs, to King Beetle and the violinist, neither of whom speak, or give him any such troubles. The cellist goes for another evening walk. A routine. She sees a slug, ants and maggots again feasting on what remains of a carcass. She wonders if she will ever see her dermestids in real life. The violinist and the playwright accidentally make eye contact. The tension is something rope-like and gelatinous, something each man wants the end of in his mouth, pulled taut between them. 

The play is one hundred-and-twenty-thousand words. It is an entire novel, it is too long for a novel, and still it is not finished, and still neither of the two men know why. There are so many pages. Okay, so it is more than one-hundred-and-twenty-thousand words. The play has become something mechanic, and structural, towering over them. And they are tall men! Not the playwright, he is a little stout and has the beginnings of bow-leggedness. Not the violinist either, he could be tall, but he is stooped, and has poor posture from sulking, and hunching over from the cold when he goes outside to smoke. This stoop exaggerates his skinny legs and round, bloated torso, the playwright notices, the violinist could pass for a spider. 

The playwright refuses to take off the King Beetle costume. He had to sew allowances in the costume as to make it fit him; he made it for someone much smaller (who?), but these allowances are a small price to pay for consolation that the violinist is not touching King Beetle. The playwright will not take the King Beetle costume off even to bathe or have sex with the cellist. This is fine with the cellist. She is thinking about how today on her walk, a bug flew into her eye. She is not all that sure the bug came out, and then what happened to the bug? Does it stay trapped underneath the skin below her eye? She knew someone as a child who used to pull that skin open like a pocket and stick their fingers into it, their knuckles touching their eye. The cellist can’t think of this without feeling squeamish, without thinking she might vomit. The bug stays. But now what? Is that tiny bug, a fruit fly, she thinks, or a gnat, trapped indefinitely. Will it rot underneath the skin of her face?

King Beetle finishes inside of her, and the spiders come. 

She lies awake. Next to her, King Beetle’s snores are muffled by a fabric face covering. The house is feeling a bit antsy. The house is tossing and turning. 

Downstairs, the violinist stands on the balcony and smokes, holding onto the railing for balance. Someone should feed the house a bit of ginger, to settle it. Someone should feed the house a bit of gin, to settle it. No. What is good for a toothache? Rum. He thinks of child-rearing, rubbing rum fingers on teething gums. He is a poet.  

Enough about children, the violinist is smoking, and he wants to enjoy it. He can’t do so thinking about children, especially given all that’s just not happened with the cellist. The violinist is permanently smoking. He can’t un-purse his lips, like in the stories children are told about crossing their eyes, and their eyes sticking so. Children again! But they can’t uncross their eyes! He can’t un-purse his lips, he is chronically puckered, as if about to kiss. More poetry. He doesn’t even write poetry. Yes he does. But he doesn’t. He plays the violin and smokes. He drinks out of glasses around his cigarette, the wine staining the yellow butts somewhere closer to green. Nicotine has dulled his appetite and he becomes skinnier, more spiderlike, thin, jumpy limbs that threaten and flirt with the balcony, his stomach swelling with wine and expanding ribs. He’s been having a lot of girls over lately. They are girls, the playwright and the cellist insist, King Beetle agrees, the rotting embryo agrees, the mother agrees, even the house agrees. These girls are college-aged, most aren’t even twenty, and the playwright and the cellist have to listen to the sex through two floors of the house, the sound bursting through the storeys like arteries. 

The cellist goes for another walk, not wanting to listen to the blood-moans. It’s not even that late at night, only eight, and still light out, the air carried over the bay, thick with the smell of salt and fish still alive, swimming in an ocean warm and empty like a stomach. She inhales and it feels like pool water going up her nose, the chlorine irritating the cartilage around her nose. She finds more empty snail shells, insects and worms anxious to crawl out with each disturbance. Another bug flies into her eye, and she worries she can’t blink enough to expel it. 

She goes home and lies in bed with King Beetle, who has had a day. They lost an entire section of the play, act six and half of act seven. The play is too small to see. The cellist doesn’t understand. Lost as in missing? Scrapped? Forgotten? King Beetle wants to talk about the play but can’t, and the words agitate him, vibrating in his body so his entire form trembles, shaking the bed. This upsets the house, who can’t cry anymore, and instead wails and rocks, heavy and careening. Some of the spider’s webs are irritated too, and the spiders begin their descent downwards. King Beetle rolls on top of the cellist. The spiders are hungry, but they can be patient. They can wait, and they do, and King Beetle comes, and she comes, and the spiders come. 

She is certain they are biting her. She has been certain this whole time of their biting, but tonight she can feel it, she knows she can feel it, and how could she have missed this sensation the whole time? And these spiders, all the same, all the brown recluse, the Loxosceles, violin-spiders, fiddlebacks. 

The cellist has all sorts of premonitions that King Beetle and the playwright and the violinist and her unborn child and the house are all tired of hearing, but she isn’t. There is something not right with the violin spiders. There is something not right with the violin spiders. They are not harmless, and there’s other kinds, she knows this, kinds that aren’t known about but something in her gut knows of them, and she’s convinced of the Loxosceles tenochtitlan, not yet discovered but she knows of it, she knows of it, King Beetle shudders, shaking her worries and thoughts off of him like a horse tossing its head to rid itself of flies, she’s thinking of horses now, everything reminds her of her childhood, her childhood hasn’t stopped but is ongoing, cyclical, she’s with her parents, she’s watching her neighbor’s horses, and she can’t figure out how to put the horses’ fly masks on, and the horses’ breath pained and agitated in quick snuffs, its nostrils flaring, and so many flies are on the horses eyes, directly on the cornea, crawling and crawling and crawling and she can’t even look into the horses’ eyes they are so covered in flies, doing what, the horses’ breath coming faster, and she can’t figure out how to put the fly masks on.

The Loxosceles tenochtitlan has crawled inside of her, and has bitten her. She knows this, she can picture its dorsal pattern, that distinct violin shape, the lesions of rotting flesh left after a bite, a foot across, more than a foot across, larger than her womb, larger than a face, wider than a child, the flesh blackened and inflamed and decaying and this is the cause of her hostile environment, the dead tissue around the puncture, and there are so many punctures. What if the beetles come now? What if the beetles crawl out of her portraits?

There’s nothing to be done, she thinks. Fine. Instinctively, she knows everything about these spiders; they are as much inside of her, a part of her, as ingrained as her genes, with all of its inherited knowledge, how she knows without being taught how to blink and swallow. 

She wakes up. But she didn’t sleep. What is there to wake up from? King Beetle lies completely still. Fine. The cellist gets up, and has gin and lemon and hot water. Two pairs of footsteps come down the stairs, whisperings, and neither pair of footsteps belong to the violinist. Fine. King Beetle is behind her, rubbing her lower back, working up to her shoulders. How long have you been awake for? He wants to know. I am always awake, she says. She meant to add, At this hour. It’s one o’clock. She wants to play the cello, and she can’t! Go to sleep! She can’t play with an audience. She can’t play with an audience. Go to sleep!

Jesus Christ, the playwright said. Where is King Beetle? He’s downstairs. It’s his turn? Whose turn? His turn. If the cellist was being honest with herself, she was beginning to think for a moment that King Beetle and the playwright were the same person, indistinguishable. But now she sees. It has divorced parents. There is joint custody. The playwright does not know what she is talking about. She is staring into the face of King Beetle. Where is the playwright? I’m here, King Beetle says. He is sweating so much the antennae hang down like rabbit ears. The costume is soaked through. 

It’s summer, and everything is in rot. It’s too hot. It only continues to get hot, and then what? More rotting. More rotting more rotting more rotting. And there’s nowhere to go! 

King Beetle is hungry. It’s eight a.m. Has she been taking what she was given by the doctor?

Oh God, the cellist remembers. She was given a whole assortment, all sorts of multicolored pills for her sampling, like confetti, like candy, like everything reminiscent of childhood. Antidepressants and anti-anxieties and antipsychotics. These aren’t for me, she decided, scattering them through the yard like birdseed. It is birdseed. The birds come and eat these multicolored pills and forget they are birds. 

The playwright cuts open a papaya and scoops out the seeds. They don’t sell papayas here, the cellist tells him. Where did you get that? King Beetle has no idea what she is talking about. The playwright is scaling the wall like a spider. The violinist delivers a bill to his, their kitchen. He wants to charge the cellist rent, because she is in his house so much. I have an extremely good reason for not going to my house, she writes on the bill. Great, even. She puts the bill on the kitchen table of the ground floor, the violinist’s floor, unpaid. She goes for another walk. She passes by someone dressed in too many layers for the heat: gloves, cap, long socks, a jacket pulled over a sweater pulled over a long sleeve. The cellist wears a short-sleeve dress of thin layers of cotton and she is sweating, the cotton winding itself around the knobs of her spine like strings, like a marionette puppet. Who is puppeting her? Everyone. She has never not been a puppet. The cellist asks the pedestrian if she is not hot, it is so, so hot outside, I’m practicing, the pedestrian says, and refuses to say more. 

In the evening, she makes a drink of just lemon and gin, the glass pulled from the freezer. Let it shatter! It doesn’t. This is fine. The cellist is used to disappointment. It is not the right sort of weather for hot water. King Beetle wants gin too. Fine, she says. The playwright has sex with her on the kitchen floor. The spiders come. Kitchen spiders, now tracking tiny bits of food inside of her. And what did she say? No more consuming. Nothing inside. Nothing inside! No one is listening to her. She is yelling this, nothing more inside of her, please, but the walls of the house swallow the noise, a one-way sound-mirror. She listens to the violinist having sex two storeys down. Only expulsion! Only expulsion! 

The play has begun to hunch, and shuffle instead of walk. 

She goes for another walk, after she wakes up. It is too hot to sleep. Outside, a senior citizen sits on a bench underneath a streetlight. The cellist can’t recall the last time she saw a senior citizen. She’s been terrible about leaving the house for orchestra practice and work. Her dance students are probably standing at the barre, leaning, or sitting, or gossiping. They should be stretching. Warming up!

The senior citizen is scratching at a sore on his leg, and scratching, and scratching. The cellist can’t look away. The senior citizen periodically stops, inspecting his hand, the fingertips of which are covered in blood and peeling skin, right up to the first knuckle. Sometimes he brings his hand to his face. It is too dark to see what he does with his hand so close to his face—is he smelling? Licking? She remembers being taught that with cuts and wounds, to put the blood back in her mouth, to reabsorb, so nothing is lost. The senior citizen scratches with new vigor, determination, on and on, checking his hand, scratching again. He’s going to claw right to the bone, she thinks, blood runs down the outside of his shin, staining his shoe. The cellist goes home. She wants the playwright to sleep with his arms around her. She thinks of the first night they slept together, before he fell asleep, before the spiders came, her body in front of his, both of them lying on their sides, she the smaller spoon. The playwright had wrapped his arms around her chest, and she can remember tipping her head forward, pressing her lips into his forearm, the very soft sigh she heard from him, how nothing needed to be said between them. 

At home, the playwright is asleep, and King Beetle has finished her gin. This is fine. She didn’t want gin, she wanted to play her cello. No, she really did want gin. She goes downstairs to pilfer some of the violinist’s gin. He doesn't notice. He is outside smoking. He is growing extra tufts of hair because it still gets cool at night. He could smoke inside, he thinks. Why doesn’t he? But the playwright is inside. The playwright never goes outside. It’s too hot. 

Downstairs, the play has been placed into the fireplace, intact, only smeared in charcoal. It is too hot to light the fireplace and burn the play. 

The cellist drinks the violinist’s gin, lies down next to the playwright, and wraps his arms around herself, a cocoon of warm and heavy flesh. The playwright presses his mouth into the back of her neck. He is so tired, and his head is so heavy. He is pressing his head so hard into her. She’s worried his nose will smush too, and he’ll suffocate behind her like this. 

The playwright wakes up first. It has been morning forever. The earth has never known night.

 The playwright doesn’t know where King Beetle is. The violinist has King Beetle. The violinist is refusing to give King Beetle back. This is it. The playwright shares the pilfered gin. They can’t have any sort of relationship, the playwright says. No, he says to the cellist. Not you and me. He meant the violinist. He’s done working with the violinist. The play is done. No, not complete. Done as in, the playwright is finished working on it. No, not finished. He’s sick of the play. It’s remaining partially-complete forever. It’s in the fireplace, didn’t she see? It’s about chess now. They’ve been playing the same game of chess all summer, didn’t she see? Chess, yes, chess! They’ve lost another four acts of the play, anyhow. Four acts. Didn’t I tell you? The cellist looks at him. I did tell you, the playwright insists. I did tell you. He looks hurt that she doesn’t remember. 

The play exists now in its final form, unfinished, and in the fireplace, awaiting its cremation. This is always how the play was going to go. He’s ecstatic. The whole house vibrates in excitement. The play is done! It’s in its final form! He and the cellist don’t even know how to go about celebrating; this was so unexpected. They finish the violinist’s gin, and have sex again on the kitchen floor, no it isn’t sex, it’s hungrier, the cellist wants the playwright’s entire body inside of her, not just a part of him, she wants the sounds of her teeth on his bones rubbing into her skull. 

The violinist knocks on their door. She is paying rent, he says. Or eviction. He’s dead serious. He does not care about this alleged extremely good reason, and he thinks the cellist is lying. He knows her. She is a liar. If anyone knows that, it’s him. Unlock the door. He knows her. The playwright and the cellist do not want to listen to this, and have even louder sex. The violinist understands now. He thought maybe that was what was going on, but now he knows for certain. He makes a loud remark about the cellist, to be heard over the noise the playwright and cellist are making, something about her sexual history, or tendencies, that the playwright did not previously know. The cellist didn’t tell him. He looks at her, horrified. The violinist is lying, the cellist says. The violinist insists he isn’t, and offers more damning evidence, more facts, how could he know that, and not the playwright? The playwright doesn’t know what to think. He can’t believe this. The violinist continues to talk through the door. The playwright is pushing the cellist off of him, he can’t look at her, he doesn’t understand, why she wouldn’t tell him, the door is open, the violinist is the only one dressed, and very dressed, is he going somewhere formal? 

What ensues next:

What ensues next: What should have been happening this entire time. 

What ensues next: Enough with King Beetle and the house and the fetus and the mother and the neighbor-strangers and the spiders. Too, too, too too many. It is just the three of them: the playwright, the violinist, and the cellist. It has always just been the three of them, the playwright, the violinist, and the cellist, even without these spiders, who have only come from a splitting, like a worm cut in half to make two new, living worms.  No more of this dividing and reconfiguring; it is time to take all of these splits and join them all back into the original, what began with a division through a combining, what shouldn’t have and divisions and combinations have continued since and that is where the spider-sickness originates. 

What ensues next:

What ensues next: But what are they to do with that? 

What ensues next:

What ensues next:

What ensues next: Palms and feet and tensed fingers everywhere: the floor the walls, her small, damp, body on top of his, and him, he too, he doesn’t know if he wants to be closer or farther, who he would hit, is he the mother or the father, the father, the father, the mother, her pulling a head back and open, unsunned white and at a right-angle, to give time to nose or jaw or teeth, he is larger than her and so is he, shocked but not in shock, he is there, three sets of clothes flung into open throat of the house, the gaping ceiling, three bodies dressed in what has been pulled too tightly and has snapped, the three entirely indistinguishable, the three entirely indistinguishable, he is there in between and outside and apart and inside, what closes and opens, too much straddled, not one of them stops him, his hands just where her ribs stop, his hands on top of her shoulders pushing her downwards, her ribs upwards and outsides and still and still and still, what comes from the house, what comes in the house, the house is the only one making sounds, loud sounds, its the house too-inside of her not the men, the house is tensing, waiting to jump, waiting for what comes, the spiders swaying in their corner-webs, quivering, beginning their descent downwards, patient and familiar and hungry.

Jamie Good is waiting for the fairies to come and abduct her back into the fairy world. Until then, she has not at all been a menace and has only ever been up to nice, everyday, perfectly legal things. Follow Jamie on Instagram @jamiempgood.

A Step Back in Time

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Alice Baburek

Nova Scott scrolled through the listing of local garage sales pulled up on her cell phone. She’d been to more than twenty sales within a two-day span. Ready to call it a day, she looked at one more listing. This one was different. It was an estate sale. The Lane House. One of the oldest houses still standing in North Carolina. Built in 1718. A small cabin of sorts. 

Nova had heard it was to be turned into a museum once the current owners sold it to the North Carolina Historical Society for a pretty penny. Thus, the listed estate sale. 

The Chevy SUV was easy on gas. Nova skirted along the interstate, enjoying the warm weather. She loved the heat. Born and raised in the north, warm, summery days were seldom. Winters seemed to last forever. She vowed as she grew into an adult that moving to the south would be her only option to live in a sun state. 

Nova pulled into the gravel driveway. Several cars were parked in front of the sagging porch. Lane House would definitely need a makeover—even for a museum. 

An older woman, dressed in a period costume, stood at the main door. She smiled as Nova stepped up onto the creaking wood. 

“Good day to you, Madam, are you here for the estate sale?” she asked. 

Nova gave a slight nod. “Indeed I am.” 

Nova skirted past the smiling lady. Lane House was no more than a rustic log cabin. Small tables were lined up in the living area. Trinkets of various shapes and sizes were arranged meticulously. Some could be considered antiques. 

Nova strolled slowly, eyeballing the various objects, once or twice lifting the plastic bagged piece for closer inspection. Several other people entered the closed-in space. Moving quickly to allow more room for the curious onlookers, she edged herself into the tiny attached room once used as a kitchen. A large, scraped up wooden table engulfed the entire eating space. On it were old-fashioned, overpriced utensils and a basket full of aged catalogs. A musky smell emanated from the staggered stack.

Laughter carried from the other room. The voice of the elderly re-enactor boomed within the logged walls. Nova smiled. She glanced again at the pile of a long-forgotten era. 

Back in the late 1800s, only the rich could afford items from mail-order catalogs. The products were unique and quite accessible—for the right price. Nova glanced through the yellow-paged 1892 Sears catalog. Product pictures were rudimentary. She set it to the side. Montgomery Ward and a few other well-known mail-order companies for the time period had been piled next to the basket. But it was the Tiffany’s Blue Book that caught Nova’s eye. The faded cover of women’s rings made her smile. 

“The mail-order catalogs are ten dollars each,” came the voice from the doorway. 

Startled by the woman’s presence, Nova dropped the deteriorating booklet. “Oh…I’ll take this one,” she said as she bent down to pick it up. 

The costumed cashier walked over to Nova. “That’ll be ten dollars, please.” She held out her wrinkled hand. “All proceeds go to the restoration of Lane House.” 

Nova searched her pocket for cash. Finally, after feeling in each of her pockets, she withdrew a crinkled ten-dollar bill. “Here you go,” she said. 

The older woman gave a slight bow. “Fun fact—Tiffany’s Blue Book is the oldest mail-order catalog in the world. Established in eighteen forty-five in New York City, New York.” 

Nova held her purchase to her chest. “Isn’t Tiffany’s still in business? In New York City?” asked Nova. 

The elderly worker tilted her head. “Yes…of course, it’s a totally different era of jewelry. In fact, the only way to purchase jewelry from Tiffany’s is to go to the store itself. No online purchasing. Too risky.” 

Nova gave a slight nod. “Well, thank you for that bit of information. I will treasure the vintage catalog.” 

Nova slowly moved past the woman and headed for her car. A long line had formed outside. It was definitely time to leave the past and get on with the present.

Nova scurried to her car. Being late for work had become a bad habit. She tossed her bag onto the passenger seat. As she raced through the small town of Ashville, she realized how much her life had gone astray. Nearly 35 years old, with no career path in sight, she felt as if life was passing her by. But life was about choices. And Nova was indecisive when it came to making life-altering choices.

Ashville Public Library’s parking lot had two cars, one of them belonging to her boss, Emily Hall. Nova eased out of her car and yanked hard on the old, creaking door. It weighed a ton. Made from an 80-year-old oak tree, its finish had seen better days. 

Emily Hall sat behind the reception desk, busily working on the state-of-the-art computer. She didn’t stop as her fingers flew across the keyboard.

“You’re late—again! Do you like your job, Nova?” asked the 50-year-old librarian. Her short, curly, peppered hair and long, pointed nose fit well to the unspoken description of a “typical librarian.” The gray blouse tugged at her rounded hips, and her black dress pants filled out the rest of her “typical librarian” attire.

“Of course, I like my job—in fact, I love it!” announced Nova, gesturing with her hands. 

Emily Hall stopped typing and turned to face her employee of almost five years. “Why is it so hard for you to come in when you’re scheduled?” asked Emily, with a straight face.

Nova shifted on her feet. The boots she had on were too tight. Since there was no official dress code at the library, she was able to dress in just about anything. Her tie-dyed shirt and worn jeans were standard for Nova.

Shrugging her shoulders, she flashed Emily a full white smile. “I don’t have a problem with coming in on time. I guess…if we were actually busy, I’d be more motivated.” Nova regretted her words immediately.

Emily’s cheeks puffed. She immediately stood up to confront Nova. “If you are not happy working here, Nova, I suggest you seek employment elsewhere.” 

Just then, a patron strolled up.

“Excuse me…I need help finding a specific book.” The older man gave a half-smile. His red and black flannel shirt hung open, exposing a white undershirt. His hands were shoved deep inside his worn blue jeans.

“I can help you, sir. Which book are you searching for?” asked Nova. She turned to face the man. They slowly walked away from Emily. 

After helping the patron, Nova busily checked in the returned books from the bin and began shelving them according to the Dewey Decimal System. A couple of hours flew by before she realized it was almost time for lunch. As she shelved the last book on the truck, Emily found her among the stacks.

“I see you decided to stay,” commented Emily, crossing her arms. 

Nova glanced at her boss. “I never said I wanted to leave…you just assumed I wasn’t happy working at the Ashville Public Library,” replied Nova. “Did you want me to take lunch now or wait until you get back?” Nora started to push the empty book cart toward the designated employee station.

“Go ahead. I’ll wait until you return. I’m not really hungry right now.” And without saying another word, Emily left Nova alone. 

Nova sat down at the small round table in the tiny, cramped kitchenette designated for employees. Since there were basically just the two of them, there was never a need to expand. She pulled out her peanut butter and jelly sandwich and the Tiffany’s Blue Book mail-order catalog she’d bought from the Lane House estate sale. As she munched the nutty sandwich, she flipped through the old book. It was yellowed and creased as if it spent its time being Googled by housewives who couldn’t afford such a luxury. A musty smell lingered. The rings portrayed were quite stunning—especially for the era. 

What kind of life had it been back then? She searched for a copyright date. It would stand to reason even catalogs needed a copyright date. Nova knew the copyright law had been enacted back in the late 1700s. 

“Hmmm…” she murmured to herself. 

On the very last page, a telephone number was listed for orders by phone. She knew telephones were common in households in the early 1920s. 

As Nova finished her lunch, she glanced at the time on her cell phone. Her lunch hour had flown by, and it was time to get back to work. For a brief moment, she hesitated. It was a silly thing, but then again, sometimes silliness was needed in life. She hurriedly punched in the numbers listed on the back cover of Tiffany’s Blue Book, knowing well it wouldn’t go anywhere after all these years.

So, when a female voice answered, “Tiffany’s Blue Book mail-order catalog, how may I help you?”, Nova dropped her phone to the table. Instantly, she disconnected the call. 

How is that possible?

“Your lunch is over,” stated Emily from behind her. 

Nova jumped, then turned and looked at her boss, her eyes wide in disbelief.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Emily. “Don’t answer that…we’ll be here all afternoon. Can you go watch the front desk? I’d like to eat my lunch.” She moved toward the mini fridge, which fit neatly under the countertop.

“Sure. Sorry…didn’t mean to…” Nova didn’t bother to finish. She scooped up the cell phone and shoved it deep inside her bag. Minutes later, she sat at the help desk near the library’s front doors.

Several students from the local high school wandered in. With Nova’s help, the young ladies had checked out the requiem given by their eleventh-grade teacher. Catcher in the Rye was a long-standing requirement for high school students. 

As the afternoon marched on, Nova stayed busy with the entailments of her job. Before long, 6 o’clock met with the shutting down of Ashville’s public library.

The two women meandered toward the back door. Emily set the alarm, then double-locked the rear exit. The clouded evening sky invited a quick, much-needed shower.

“The bestsellers are to be delivered tomorrow, Nova. I need you to check them into the system and put them on display,” commanded Emily. 

Nova was almost to her car. She looked back over her shoulder at Emily and gave her the thumbs-up sign. It seemed Emily was no longer perturbed with Nova’s lateness.

Tiny raindrops splattered across her windshield. It wasn’t long before Nova reached her small apartment above the only ice cream shop within Ashville city limits. She parked behind the quaint brick building and climbed the narrow wooden stairs leading to a place she called “home.” Unlocking the screen, and then the inside door, she stepped into her suite. With basically two rooms, the landlord had presented it as the latest thing in real estate. Not wanting to argue, and desperate for somewhere to live “cheap” on her library salary, she grabbed it without hesitation. But as Nova began to furnish it as her own, she realized it truly was ‘home’.

The scratched second-hand round table and two rickety chairs sat close to the kitchen area. She dropped her bag on it, then kicked off her shoes. Without removing her thin jacket, Nova plopped down on the worn sofa. Once a plush color green, it was now a faded pea remnant of times gone by. She immediately grabbed the remote and turned on the flat-screen television. With limited funds, she could afford only basic cable. But it was enough for Nova. Scrolling through the channels, she hoped something would catch her fancy.

Nova settled on the retro channel. An old black-and-white Western played. She stifled a yawn. Her thoughts wandered to the Tiffany’s Blue Book mail-order catalog. She tossed the remote onto the couch and went over to retrieve it from her bag on the table. Nova sat down as she leisurely glanced through it once more. 

Without hesitation, she pulled out her cell phone and tried once more to call the number listed on the back cover. She listened to the clicks, then realized her call had connected to nothing. 

“Well, what do you know?” she mumbled to herself. Nothing. 

She placed her phone back into her bag. After an hour or so of scrutinizing the vintage jewelry, she decided to watch a movie and retire early for bed.

Nova woke up before the alarm went off. She lay in bed and tried to remember her dream. It was weird, but she couldn’t remember any details. Only that it was weird. 

Her normal routine led into stopping for a breakfast bagel. Making sure she wasn’t late for work, Nova shoved the bagel in her bag. Emily’s car was parked by the employee exit door. Nova grabbed her bag and locked her car. Seconds later, she pounded on the metal door.

A loud click sounded before the door swung open. Emily stood propped against it. “Wow…I’m impressed. You’re ten minutes early.” 

Nova skirted past her boss. “It’s never too late to change. Besides, I’m hungry and want to eat my bagel. I’ll be in the employee lounge if you need me,” echoed Nova’s voice. 

Emily slowly shook her head back and forth as she closed, and then locked the back door. 

As the clock struck nine, Emily unlocked the huge front doors of the Ashville Public Library. They were officially open for business. The patron parking lot was empty. She gave a huge sigh and returned to the help desk.

Nova scarfed down the buttered-everything bagel. She licked her fingers and sipped at the hot coffee, then pulled out her cell phone and noticed the time. Time to work. The packaged books had already been delivered. She pulled up the invoice on the computer. 

Four large containers. Hopefully, all the bestsellers Emily ordered were inside these boxes. Otherwise, back orders were inevitable.

The workload kept Nova busy. In fact, it was quite a lively afternoon. She’d forgotten the scheduled busload of elementary school children. Many wanted to learn how to use the Internet. Others wanted to comb through the age-related books. Then others just wanted to goof around. 

As four o’clock rounded, the children had departed, and Nova finally finished with barcoding and shelving the library’s newest selections.

Emily locked the front doors. Nova waited until her co-worker was ready to leave for the evening. Her thoughts jumped to the mysterious phone number.

As they exited the back door after setting the alarm system, Nova hesitated to approach Emily with her dilemma. 

The two women walked side by side to their respective vehicles. Nova waited a brief moment before getting inside her SUV.

“What’s wrong?” asked Emily. She leaned against her aged Ford. “I know you want to ask me something…the answer is no…you can’t have off tomorrow.” 

Nova smiled. “It’s not that, Emily. Do you…do you have a minute?” she asked. 

Emily released a huge sigh and strolled over to Nova’s car. “Out with it,” demanded Emily. “I’d like to go home sometime this evening.” She crossed her arms.

Nova waited a second and collected her thoughts. “Well…I picked up this old mail-order Tiffany catalog. I called the number on the back cover. A woman answered the phone.” She bit her lower lip.

Emily tilted her head. “What about it?”

“A woman answered the phone!” Nova’s eyes widened.

“I don’t understand,” said Emily.

“Emily…the catalog is over eighty years old. The number…how can that be?” Nova threw up her hands.

“You said it was Tiffany’s? Well, they’re still in existence in New York City. Why would it be unusual?” Emily shifted on her feet.

“I know Tiffany’s is in New York City. But they don’t take online orders, or phone orders. Walk in only. No one should be answering that number,” explained Nova.

“Did you happen to ask the woman if maybe she answers the phone to provide information?” questioned Emily.

Nova blinked several times. She hadn’t thought of it. “No…” 

“Goodnight, Nova.” Emily turned on her heel and left before her co-worker could utter another word.

The following day, Nova arrived at work early. She sat in her car, waiting for Emily to arrive to unlock the library door. Emily pulled in next to Nova’s SUV.  She got out and proceeded to let them in. Neither woman said a word.

Once inside, and with the back door locked, Nova placed her things inside the slim locker off the employee lounge. She would try to call the number on her break. And this time, if someone answered, she would ask questions. It was beginning to creep her out. Was there some kind of time portal opened for phones to communicate? Science fiction was not her forte. Sure, she watched plenty of movies about time travel, but everyone knew it was a myth. Something people wrote about to make money.

“Quit daydreaming. Can you check in the book return? The Women’s Reading Society will be in this afternoon for their pick of the week book discussion. Please make sure the reading area is set up for a group of ten.” Emily disappeared down the narrow hallway.

Nova didn’t bother to answer. Scanning in book returns and setting up for the group of old biddies would take her most of the morning. It would keep her mind from focusing on the upcoming phone call.

As the day wound down, Nova slipped away and took her last break. Quickly, she pulled out her cell phone and punched in the numbers to Tiffany’s Blue Book mail-order catalog. After a couple of seconds, a female voice answered.

“Tiffany’s Blue Book mail-order, how may I help you?” asked the soft-spoken woman.

“Is this…is this Tiffany’s in New York City?” asked Nova. 

“Yes, ma’am. May I help you with an order?” persisted the mysterious woman.

“What year is it?” asked Nova. Her heart pounded inside her chest.

“I’m sorry…I’m not sure what you are asking?” replied the female voice.

“Year. What year is it?!” shouted Nova.

“Ma’am. There’s no need to yell, I can hear you quite well. The year of the mail-order catalog is nineteen forty-four. I can assure you, ma’am, it is the latest issue. Would you like to place an order?” The mysterious woman’s voice was strained.

“Are you telling me that the year right now is nineteen-forty-four?” whispered Nova. Her hand holding the cell phone trembled.

“Well, of course! This edition was sent out in January nineteen forty-four. The prices are good for one year.” 

Silence filled the air between the two women. After several seconds, Nova found her voice once more. 

“How do I go about ordering a ring on page…” Nova flipped through the aged catalog. “Fifteen? The ring on page fifteen?”

“Yes, I see. What size do you need?” asked the woman.

“Size seven,” responded Nova. She got up and paced the floor. “Do you want my credit card number?”

“What is a credit card?” asked the female voice.

“What?” Nova’s eyebrows scrunched together. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I do not know what a credit card is. To purchase the ring, you must mail a check with the total amount due. Please enclose a note specifying which ring, and the size you want to purchase. I will take down your information. Once we receive your check, we will send out your product. I need your name and address, please,” explained the woman on the other end. 

Nova rattled off her address. She could not comprehend if this woman was playing a prank on her. 

“Thank you for shopping at Tiffany’s. Good day.” And the call was disconnected. 

Nova searched the back of the catalog for the address. 

Should I send a check? 

Quickly, she researched the Internet for the address provided. Non-existent. 

How can this be?

“Are you planning on finishing out the day?” came a voice from behind her. 

Nova flinched. She didn’t hear Emily’s footsteps.

“Yes, of course. Emily…you’re not going to believe this.” 

Nova rattled out her story. Emily remained silent.

“Well…what do you think?” asked Nova in a loud voice. 

“I think someone is yanking your chain and you’re falling for it. Get a grip, Nova. Come on, let’s close up early.” And with that said, Emily turned around and disappeared down the narrow hallway.

Friday was an extremely trying work day for Nova. She caught herself thinking about the Tiffany’s Blue Book mail-order catalog immensely. Why couldn’t she let it go? Someone played a joke on her—and that’s it. Nothing more. Emily had to be right. If this was true, why was she so stuck on the idea that maybe, just maybe, somehow Nova had taken a step back in time? Why not? Stranger things have happened before. She read about them on the Internet. Was it so farfetched? 

It was Saturday morning, and Nova had the day off. She ran the few errands that needed attending to, then decided on a walk through the Metroparks. She parked her car in the small lot. The day was hot and sunny—just the way she liked it. Keeping her sunglasses on, she decided on the shortest path. It led straight to Swanson Lake, which was designated for protected fowl. No boats, no fishing, no swimming. Just benches to sit on and view the beautiful water and assortment of amazing birds.

As she breathed in the fresh lake air, her cell phone vibrated inside her pants pocket. Without hesitation, she pulled it out to answer.

“Hello?” said Nova.

“Is this Nova Scott?” asked the strange voice.

“Yes. Who is this?” Nova’s back went rigid.

“Good morning, Miss Scott. This is Helen, from Tiffany’s in New York City. How are you today?” 

Nova stopped dead in her tracks. “Is this a joke? Look…you got me the other day. I admit, I almost believed you.” Nova shook her head.

“Ma’am? Joke? I’m calling to remind you about sending your check for the order placed from our Tiffany’s Blue Book mail-order catalog. You’re still interested in the item…are you not? If not, I will remove you from the list.” The woman’s voice crackled.

“This has to be a joke! The catalog is about eighty-five years old!” exclaimed Nova.

“I…I don’t understand. It is the latest catalog featuring Tiffany’s exclusive offers of fine jewelry,” stressed the female voice. 

“Seriously? Latest catalog? The year is two thousand twenty-three. How could this catalog possibly be the latest edition?” Nova chuckled. The static in the connection intensified.

“Ma’am, the year is nineteen forty-four. We’re in the middle of a world war with Germany and Japan. I kid you not. It is a hard time for everyone. Tiffany’s is desperately trying to stay open during this dire time in history. Miss Scott, if you are no longer interested in the ring, I will remove you from the list.” Suddenly, silence filled the line between the two women.

“Hello? Hello? Are you there, Helen?” Nova’s heart skipped a beat. She looked down at the number on her cell phone screen. It read “Unavailable.” 

Nova instantly hit redial, but she got no one. Only clicking and static. 

What in Heaven’s name is going on?”

Over the next several days, Nova kept trying the number from the mail-order catalog to no avail. No one answered. Just clicks and static. Nothing. She even called the cell phone carrier and complained of the lousy service. After the complaint, a supervisor returned Nova’s call to inform her there was no such number in service. Maybe she’d transposed the numbers. Nova cursed under her breath. She already knew it was an impossibility, yet she still had to try. Left with no other options, Nova stopped her futile calling.

Later that month, Nova donated the Tiffany’s Blue Book mail-order catalog to the Ashville Historical Society. The curator was quite grateful and intrigued. It was put on display in an enclosed glass case, out of reach.

Nova knew somehow she’d been connected to the past—even if it was just minutes in a phone call. She never brought the subject up again with anyone. Not even with Emily.  Was it all in her mind? Maybe. Maybe not. She may never know for sure.

Alice Baburek is an avid reader, determined writer, and animal lover. She lives with her partner and four canine companions. Being retired she challenges herself to become an unforgettable emerging voice.