‘A View on the End of the World’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

 A View on the End of the World

The sun is shining in my backyard as we experience the several gorgeous days of summer in Boston.  The pitbull and Aussie doodle are out snouting for bunny poop or some other substance that caused them to throw up on the couch last night.  It might have only been one of them, but their close alliance in all things prevents blame.  My 25-year-old daughter is on Preply with her Guatemalan tutor and they are laughing so hard that I could be jealous.  She is already fluent enough to translate at her paralegal job as she fights “all the unjust evictions happening every day”.  It’s another black-and-white issue that “you just don’t get”.  Given my record, including the embarrassing Nader vote, this phrase still shocks me into defensiveness sometimes.  But mostly we are outraged together—I try to stay in the feminist lane which is a very comfortable place to be as a 58-year-old previously divorced gynecologist.

She just asked if I would go to the protest with her at 5.  I agree, as long as there is no promotion of violence.  She rolls her eyes and I inwardly acknowledge the current situation is only about violence from start to finish.   If nothing else, we humans are determined to destroy life on the planet as quickly as possible.  I am reading a fascinating article about a course at an Ivy League school investigating how and when annihilation will show up.  For some reason, this article about brilliant young people debating AI, climate change, and hydrogen bombs makes me smile and laugh.  I think I know the reason.

I see a different path of destruction for us.  I see it close and I see it from ten thousand feet.  The fancy word is depopulation, but the real words are women are done having babies and dying for it.  At least, I am noticing a trend.  I can identify several valid reasons for this even though my education was limited to state schools and lacking in decent humanities options.

I have worked for 35 years in a hospital that takes care of poor women.  Disenfranchised women.  Women exhibiting high scores on the Social Determinants of Health needs scale.  A safety net hospital.  So many bullshit terms created to shellac over truth.  I take care of the victims of racism and capitalism on the daily, flattened by these forces like Bugs Bunny on the highway to wealth and progress shared by all us blameless folks living on the trust funds of colonizers and plantation owners in addition to tax code welfare. There I said it-one of those facts that must be beaten back as America hating progressivism as rapidly as possible.  In my years on the field of battle against bleeding and sepsis and blood pressures high enough to blow up a big chunk of brain matter, we are getting beat and it’s getting harder to keep your head up in the face of such defeat. Especially if you are, like me,  a white doctor taking care of black and brown women.  If you are pregnant and black, you are safer in any other country with decent health care resources.  And it’s become quite clear that this is not about her bad diet or uncontrolled hypertension from not taking her prescription.  Inconveniently, the data is clear.  It’s the mostly white nurses and doctors’ fault.  It’s my fault. 

Until this gets fixed, which I am guessing would take enough black and brown doctors to care for all the black and brown patients or some re-ordering of the entire human race, who can blame a black woman for avoiding childbirth?   I think that I would avoid it, but that is so unimportant that it’s funny—typical white move, to assert my feelings where they don’t belong.

But wait, more data is coming in.  Apparently, women all over the world are having fewer babies!   Women are smart and, as much as they crave these adorable creatures who magically grant them validity and resources for a short time in their brutish lives, they can assess risk-benefit ratios in their heads. Now that women in China and Korea and India and Afghanistan can sometimes live into their twenties and get a job without being sold off to the highest bidder or raped and killed or shamed into marriage, they are saying no thank you to the second method of subjugation-domestic taming with babies and housework to allow men to flourish in the world of cafes and offices.  Even in our wonderful country, most of my friends in the work world come home form 8-12 hours of paid labor to 4-6 hours of chaos and cooking and sometimes even sexual pleasing of another.  Must we do everything in addition to risking premature death or losing control of our pee forever more? 

I know I am coming across as a man-hating bitch here and that is really not who I am.  At least, that is not all I am or even mostly.  Yes, I contain multitudes and many of them are angry at the state of the world, but I have two sons who are brave and righteous humans and they agree with me on everything.  I used to just blame socialization for everything, but now I am old and I know things.  I gave my daughter trucks and let her wear only pants, but she is still dating all the wrong men just like I did.  My son is made of kindness and can’t stop adopting kittens, but his girlfriend wears Victoria Secret outfits into my kitchen on weekends in front of my (very wonderful) husband.  The only ones I can talk to about the really hard things like this are the dogs.

There’s just one more thing that could tip the replacement number off the cliff.  And it’s uniquely relevant to our great country, which seems to be one of the only places where women are maintaining their optimism toward the dream of 2.5 kids and a supportive partner.  Maybe it’s all the Barbie playtime and the illusion of liberation.  I am worried that the crackdown on women’s rights to control their own bodies will lead to unwanted results.  Like I said, women are smart and if you corner us, we will fight back.

I am guessing that if it comes down to it, we can do without the “sex with men” thing.  Many of us would be sad and missing it, but one has to be practical.  Condoms do break and pills don’t get absorbed, and then life changes forever.  I mean, a woman’s life changes forever, and sometimes that is a fireworks show of goodness and expanded existence, but sometimes it is a disaster, personally and maybe for the other kids and maybe for the guy.   There is only one constant equation in baby-making:  no swimmers - no baby.  My daughter thinks I am a radical on this issue, especially when I tell her there will be a national women’s strike if they try to federalize it and we will shut down the economy.  If there is one thing conservatives care more about than sex, it’s money, so that might work.  But inside I am scared.  Although we are smart, in the end we may be too kind for this drastic action.  Besides, we have to financially support all of our kids.

Time to take a shower and get ready for the protest.  I have time now because I left my job at the city hospital.  I was crying every day in my car and knew in the end I had mostly failed in my naïve mission to help those in need. I think that I just couldn’t stand my fragile self anymore in that place of harsh and real struggle, where bravery manifests in the woman, not the doctor.  I cannot give up the addictive joy of lifting the newborns to their mother’s arms yet, so I am presiding at a little suburban unit for now, until the world ends or my daughter needs me to help with a grandbaby.

Sarah Crane has a BA and MD degree from the University of Missouri and lives with her wonderful husband Peter and some of their adult-ish children in eastern Massachusetts.  The family has a total of 2 cats, 7 dogs, and three partially tamed yard bunnies. She still delivers babies part-time and believes that being a women’s health physician is the greatest honor and privilege possible. She has always wanted to be a writer and hopes that her next incarnation will be as a librarian.

The Diary of James Eggleton: Deep Shit, Arkansas

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Diary of James Eggleton: Deep Shit, Arkansas

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

New Year, new job, thank God. Start tomorrow at Brobdingnagian Corp's H.Q. on Madison Avenue. After all these months stuck at home, it'll be great to get out of the apartment. If nothing else, Emily will be pleased now that I have something to do.

I don't think she'll ever understand why I left the last one, I had to resign. It was the moral thing to do. Anyway, Brobdingnagian is steeped in integrity, so I should be OK on that front. Maybe I can do some good in this world.

The job's incumbent sent me this email today:

            James,

Congrats on your new gig on the borrowing desk. It should be a dream. These last six months have been so quiet that I've managed to read five novels a week.

Best/Henry.

P.S. Don't call your boss Fruit Bat to his face. The last guy who did that got sent to Argentina.

Wednesday, January 6

As I left for work, Emily said: “Good luck, and don't screw this one up.”

Spent the day arranging my desk – no one has an office. My new boss Darren seems a little surly. Barely spoke to me, except when he explained the bonus plan. If I do well, we could afford a house in Connecticut like the one that Emily's wanted for the past two years.

Discovered the company is in loads of different businesses – everything from aircraft manufacturing to supermarkets. Who knew?

Thursday, January 7

Predecessor Henry was correct: Nothing much happens in the office. Forgot to bring books. Ordered a slew online.

Back home received a hand-written invitation to an Adventurers’ Club event later this month. It’s mostly climbers who get invited and I qualify on account of being the former president of the Princeton Mountaineering Club. A Ranulph Fiennes-type person is scheduled to expound on his latest expedition. I expect he'll flog some books too. I'll take Charlotte. She and I love talks by adventurers. Emily says she's too busy with friends, which is weird since she used to enjoy such gatherings.

Still puzzles me why Emily didn't go back to practicing law after she had Charlotte. I know better than to mention it these days.

Friday, January 8

Heard not a peep out of Darren today, other than a sound that resembled something between a grunt and the word “morning,” as he passed my desk. Today he wore the same ill-fitting, crumpled grey suit that he had on yesterday.

Read Mikhail Lermontov's “A Hero of Our Time.” I like his theme: What is the role of the unnecessary man? Good question.

Charlotte's thrilled about the Adventurers' Club event. Hope they serve soft drinks. We can't have her going to school hungover.

Saturday, January 9

My turn to make Saturday brunch. I decided on Charlotte's favorite: Eggs Benedict. She toasted the muffins while I showed her how to poach the eggs. First, I put a few drops of vinegar in the boiling water, then stirred the water-vinegar mix into a vortex to drop the eggs into. The result produced near perfect artisanal poached eggs ready for the muffins and a coating of homemade Hollandaise sauce that I put together before she woke up. I skipped the bacon for health reasons. Yum!

Monday January 11

Started the morning reading Charles Bukowski's “Ham on Rye.” Great book about the rough side of town.

Late-morning got jolted into office-mode by the sound of Darren shouting “Motherfuckers” down the phone line, then throwing the same phone to the floor and kicking his desk. After that, he jumped over to me and spoke a complete sentence.

“Jason isn't it?” he asked. I readied the words “James, actually,” but I couldn't get them out in time. He was on a roll, and beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. This was not the time to take issue with him.

“Well, whatever your name is, we are now officially living in Deep Shit, Arkansas,” he said. I could see swollen blood vessels pulsating in his neck. He's quite a character swearing like that in the office. I don't think he's an Ivy Leaguer.

The story has nothing to do with Arkansas. Must be slang. Anyway, this morning the union went from hissy fit to full-on strike with a picket line at the Ohio factory gates. It's about who can or cannot unload trucks. This factory makes aircraft brake pads as well as vital widgets we supply to all our other factories. As a result of the latter, all of our factories are shut.

The bottom line: I must borrow $200 million every workday to keep the company going. Called our banking contact, then two hours later got an email confirming a $195 million loan. Spent an hour completing the paperwork. Darren didn't seem too bothered that I was $5 million short of the requested $200 million.

Worked late into the night writing code to automate the borrowing process. From now on I’ll just enter how much I want and then click a button.

Arrived home at 10.30 PM to find Emily asleep.

Tuesday, January 12

Borrowed $250 million.

Read more Bukowski.

Wednesday, January 13

Borrowed $400 million.

Mid-afternoon saw Darren at his desk looking worried in a way that said his stress level had surpassed “Deep Shit, Arkansas” status. He wasn't wearing a jacket, so everyone could see the sweat stains under his armpits that went down to his elbows. His face looks more ashen each day.

He called my telephone even though he sits 10 feet away. He wanted ideas to fix the strike situation fast. “Look genius, I need a solution,” he said. I didn't have a clue what to suggest.

Read “A Time to Keep Silence” by Patrick Leigh Fermor.

Thursday, January 14

Borrowed $500 million. Figured that the more I borrow the better and Darren hasn't mentioned anything so it can't be a problem.

This evening took Charlotte to the Adventurers’ Club. It's in a swanky townhouse just off 5th Avenue at 80th Street. I was shocked to find a stuffed grizzly bear on the second-floor landing. Judging by the bald patches, the creature died long ago.

In the main hall, they served canapés and drinks: deviled eggs, miniature Beef Wellington’s, and top-class Martinis. The bartender made Charlotte a Shirley Temple alcohol-free cocktail. She beamed when he handed it to her.

The talk by Edgar Henley-Bruton was inspiring. He's climbed most of Asia's peaks, including K2, and discovered new animal species. I bought two signed copies of his book – one for me, one for Charlotte – and he also gave me his business card. He's a fascinating man, and I wish we could have chatted longer.

“Why don't you do something like Mr. Henley-Bruton, Daddy?” asked Charlotte as we walked the few blocks home. “You could be an adventurer.” I smiled, remembering the expeditions I’d led as a youthful student. Maybe I could have been an explorer, but life is so different now.

After Charlotte was in bed, I mentioned the explorer idea to Emily. She looked at me as if I'd gone mad.

Friday, January 15

Borrowed $700 million.

In the afternoon, Darren told me his idea to fix the strike. “We'll starve these fuckers,” he said. His foul language is starting to grate on me, and his idea is uncivilized.

The detail went like so. Brobdingnagian ran all the supermarkets in a 20-mile radius of the Ohio factory, so he'd close them and leave our workers with nowhere to buy food. Darren didn't ask if we should, he merely stated that we would take this action. To my shame, I said nothing. At the time, thoughts of mountain climbing filled my mind.

Read Joseph Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness.”

At home, when I mentioned starving the workers to Emily, she shrugged and said they were probably communists, so what did it matter if some had to tighten their belts? I decided now wasn't the time for a conversation about human rights and common decency.

Emily said she’d spent most of the day with her girlfriends at the Coffee House club in Midtown.

Saturday, January 16

Went for a run in Central Park. Darren's strike-stopping idea is still irking me. The idea of pursuing my dream and becoming a full-time explorer looks more appealing each minute. At the very least I can’t go on with this job for long.

I checked out the websites of the British Antarctic Survey and the U.S. equivalent at McMurdo Station. Both organizations need loads of people, but there was nothing suitable for me.

Still, that didn't stop me writing a letter to both. Sent some emails to my Princeton mountaineering buddies, plus one to Henley-Bruton. Figured Henley-Bruton might remember me favorably.

Sunday, January 17

Charlotte's 11th birthday. Took her for afternoon tea at the Waldorf Astoria, which she loved. Scones with jam and cream are her favorite. Then we had fun wandering around St. Bartholomew's Church, next door to the hotel. The time passed quickly, and I was surprised it was dark when we left the building. Again, Emily was too busy to join us.

After dinner, read Charlotte J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Hobbit” until she was asleep with her toy bunny under her arm. She loves that story. It’s the fifth time I’ve read it for her. As always, she was asleep in 10 minutes.

Monday, January 18

Public Holiday. Charlotte made me a surprise breakfast of Eggs Benedict – double yum. She learned well.

No sign of Emily or any replies from Princeton buddies.

Started reading Ranulph Fiennes’ “Living Dangerously.” He's said to be the world's greatest living explorer.

Tuesday January 19

Borrowed $800 million.

Darren shut down the supermarkets today. He said it in the same matter-of-fact way you'd describe ordering an extra-large-double-frappe-mochaccino-with-sprinkles at a coffee shop. I can now understand why colleagues called him fruit bat. Some might say, he’s “batshit crazy.”

Spent the rest of the day reading P.G. Wodehouse’s “A Pelican at Blandings.” It’s one of his best farces, but still the book's absurd plot looks sane compared to what we are doing.

At home, thoughts of starving our employees and their families continued to dog me. This would mean children going without food -- lots of hungry Charlottes because of what we were doing. Felt sick.

Wednesday, January 20

Borrowed $1 billion. The bank says investors are asking why we need to borrow so much? I just said I was new in the job, and they accepted that as an explanation.

Read Evelyn Waugh’s “Decline and Fall.”

Thursday, January 21

Borrowed another $1 billion.

Spent rest of day reading Colin Wilson’s “The Outsider.” Spoke to no one, but I pondered whether Brobdingnagian was right for me and how best to pursue my goal of becoming an explorer. It’s clear I can’t last long in this job. Either I’ll be fired, or I’ll have a nervous breakdown.

Friday January 22

Lots of bad press about the strike. “Brobdingnagian’s New Year’s Gift: No Food!” screamed one newspaper headline.

Darren told me to stop borrowing for a few days.

Read “Girl, Interrupted” by Susanna Kaysen. Spoke to no one in the office. Lack of good conversation is driving me batty.

Sunday January 24

Took Charlotte out for brunch at Penelope’s Bistro on Lexington Ave. at 60th Street, followed by ice skating in Central Park. She’s getting really good. Quite an improvement since last January. When we finished, the daylight was over. Emily stayed in bed all day, claimed she was sick.

Monday, January 25

At noon Darren announced that the union had ended their strike. He did so while standing on a desk and screaming: "Another win for the good guys." People could hear him at the other end of the room 30 yards away. "We beat those assholes in record time," he said and beamed as if he was now undisputed World Heavyweight Boxing Champion. But underneath the outward bravado, he also looked tired, drained by stress, and as mentally crumpled as his suit.

I wasn't sure he'd hit the nail on the head with his victory comments. Yes, we beat the union, but I couldn’t shake the repulsive idea that he was prepared to starve children to achieve that.

Read “The Heart of a Dog” by Mikhail Bulgakov, a satire of Soviet life.

Tuesday, January 26

Read Hunter S. Thompson’s “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.”

Still no reply from Antarctic Survey, or McMurdo, or Henley-Bruton, or anyone.

Made dinner with Charlotte – shepherd’s pie.

Wednesday, January 27

This morning, before I could choose which book to read, Darren walked to my desk and leaned over. “Hey genius, how are you feeling today?” he said right into my ear. “I’m feeling like we're all living in Double Deep Shit Arkansas, especially you.”

Had I let a herd of hogs run wild in the building? Had I forgotten to wear pants? Or was it a discrepancy on my resume? Nothing of the kind!

The problem was I’d been too good at borrowing money, and I should have stuck to getting $200 million a day. Apparently, I’d doubled Brobdingnagian’s debt load, and the interest costs were now taking a large bite of the company’s profits.

That wasn’t the worst of it. Darren said we would now cut costs and I'd have to go to Hamburg to fire 3,000 workers. He said he’d been looking for an excuse to close the factory there for years and ordered me to leave tomorrow.

I asked if there was another way, but he looked at me the same way Emily did when I told her I wanted to become an explorer.

Spent the rest of the day looking through a spreadsheet full of workers names, each with age, length of their service with the company, and the amount of redundancy money we would pay them.

Tedious, yes. But these are real people. Heinz Schweitzer, Rolfe Penk, Andrea Schulz… the list went on and on. I couldn't help thinking of all those families that would lose their income, and how they would cope, or even if they would.

But my job wasn’t to worry about that. It was to ensure we knew how much it would cost. In practical terms it isn’t feasible to check 3,000 individual calculations, but you can review randomly selected ones. If those few checks are all correct, then probably everything is ok – at least that's what they taught me at business school.

Packed for Hamburg.

No time for a novel.

Thursday January 28

At 5.30 AM, I received a text from the airline while the taxi took me to JFK Airport. “No flights are running today,” it read. The reason: Lack of brake pads for the airplanes, due to our recent Ohio strike. At least that’s what the airline staff told me.

Got to the office at 6.15. Darren glared when he saw me. When I explained about the brake pads, he put his left-hand palm to his forehead and then walked away. Five minutes later he was back. “Let me show you how we do things round here,” he said.

He put my phone on speaker setting and dialed our Hamburg office. “Rudolf, it’s Darren here with the genius boy-wonder,” he said. “We’ve gotta close your factory. Just lock them out of the facility tomorrow morning and tell them they’ll receive a letter shortly. Don’t worry, I’ll get you another gig here.”

After the call, he said I was lucky to have a job, but because he liked me, he'd give me another go. My new project was to distribute $1 billion of executive bonuses to be calculated individually using a near-incomprehensible formula that he scribbled on a note pad. He explained that these bonuses were based on last year’s profits and had nothing to do with the borrowing mess I’d just made.

Spent the rest of the day doing calculations for the bonuses and sent Darren the spreadsheet.

Took a bath at home, followed by some Valium. If ever there was a day for medication, this was it. Then went to bed and began reading “Fight Club” by Chuck Palahniuk before drifting into a deep, tumultuous sleep.

Friday January 29

Woke up at 4 AM. Not sure when Emily got home. Watched some T.V. The news of our factory closure had broken, and the media was showing scenes of enraged workers in Hamburg. Some of the people were throwing rocks at the company building.

Turned off the T.V. and opened my laptop. Rechecked the bonus numbers. The calculations were wrong. Overspent by $1 million. I envisioned Darren having a fit. I closed the laptop. Maybe he wouldn't notice. Perhaps I could explain the error once I got to the office. My left eye twitched. I settled on fessing up in person.

Went for a walk at 6.30 AM with a view to returning home and calling in sick. On the way out the doorman gave me a hand delivered letter. Red sealing wax stamped with the initials EHB held together the envelope.

Dear James,

Please accept my apologies for not writing sooner.

Our plans are for a trip to a remote part of Nepal where we think we can locate the striped Shapi, which some say is extinct.

The expedition’s bursar has fallen sick and so we now have a vacancy that would seem to fit your skills.

If you can ready yourself over the next few weeks, we’d love to have you manage the expedition’s finances and we would benefit from your mountaineering expertise. Please call to discuss.

Yours/Edgar Henley-Bruton

Sweet news. I pocketed the letter and sauntered down Madison Avenue with a view to doing some window shopping. But quickly ended up at Headquarters where I offered my resignation to Darren.

His response was to shake his head. “Let’s step into my office,” he said, which is weird because no one has an office. He read my thoughts and told me to follow him and soon enough we were sipping pints of Lagunitas IPA at Langan’s bar.

“Cheers,” Darren said. “Look, I can’t in good conscience accept your resignation. The truth is I found out last night we are both getting laid off.” He then explained the current cost cutting would hit the charities that the company supported as well as the work force. However, he and I would still get a load of money to go quietly on our way – two years of salary plus bonus and healthcare. “We’ll send your mini library of Congress to your apartment by limo later today,” he said.

“Not bad,” I said. Now I could get new climbing equipment for Nepal trip.

Darren continued: He said I shouldn’t take any of his rants to heart, and that he really loved working with me. “A lot of folks in that role just get too fussy,” he said. “And don’t worry about overspending the bonus pool – nobody will notice.”

I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by fussy, but I was touched by his sentiment.

We kept drinking until 3 PM then I walked home and ordered some mountaineering equipment before taking a nap.

Saturday, January 30

            Slept from 6 PM last night through to 5AM and got up to make some breakfast and watch the T.V. The news had gotten worse. Brobdingnagian’s share price had gone into freefall and Germany’s government as well as the senior Senator from Ohio wanted an inquiry into what was fast becoming a disaster.

As a laid off employee with a golden goodbye I wasn’t too worried. I switched off the T.V. and pondered how to tell Emily I was off to Nepal shortly. She hadn’t come home last night and hadn’t told me where she was.

Around 8 AM the climbing equipment arrived which I unpacked in the living room before making some more coffee in the kitchen.

It was then that Emily walked into the room. “Morning,” she said. “I want a divorce and you’ll look after Charlotte.” As she marched away, I called after her, but I got drowned out as she successively slammed first the kitchen door then the front door.

I went to the bathroom for some Valium, and then pondered what to do. How could I simultaneously go to Nepal and look after Charlotte? Not possible. And then which would I rather do? That had started becoming clear over the last few weeks – look after Charlotte, by a country mile.

After that self-revelation I wondered how to tell EHB, but just as I did the phone rang. “Edgar here. Look I have some bad news. Our major corporate donor Brobdingnagian has pulled out. The Nepal trip is postponed for a while.”

I was relieved.

Received text from Emily. She’s moving in with her billionaire boyfriend in Greenwich.

Later Charlotte entered the living room. “Are you OK, Daddy?”

“Couldn’t be better darling,” I said. “We are going to have such fun together.”

Max Peña spent the best part of a quarter century working in corporate jobs in New York City. These experiences have inspired his creative work. He also holds a master's degree in creative writing from Edinburgh Napier University. He now lives in the south of France with his wife, dog, and cat.

‘The Will’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Will

“He’s dead.”

The words fall from Frederick’s numb lips, drawing six pairs of eyes his way. He stands on the threshold between the parlour and the living room, one foot on cherry wood, the other on the lush rug that has seen better days. Frederick sways in indecision, weight shifting in his shining leather loafers. To enter, or not to enter? His hand darts through his receding hairline. Frederick too has seen better days, and in the years to come, he’ll likely be as bald as his recently deceased father. Relief floods him, cooling his pale cheeks. Not that his father’s dead, of course. But that the weight of his remaining family members’ gazes are quickly removing themselves from his lanky form. Someone—Agatha—shrieks.

“No!” she wails, falling back in chaise, hands pressed to her rapidly flushing cheeks.

The young woman makes sure her glassy green eyes are visible to all of the parlour’s occupants before she pinches them shut on a sob.

“No! It cannot be! My darling husband...”

The blonde infant sitting on a playmat at her feet coos in blissful unawareness. He mashes a block into his gummy mouth.

“Not like it’s that big of a surprise,” Jonathan quips, tossing back a shot of whiskey, his stubbled cheeks bulging as he swallows. It is a wonder he was still coherent at this late hour, having gone straight for the liquor cabinet the moment he stepped through the estate’s doors.

Starting from this afternoon, they’d been gathered in the parlour, nibbling on the abundance of coffee and cakes the butler continuously fussed over. One at a time, they’d each gone to the patriarch’s bedroom to say their goodbyes—everyone except Johnathan. The dark-haired man knew better than to grace his father-in-law with his presence.

“The man was old as fuck.” Johnathan toasts his glass in the air, condensation dribbling down the sides of it. A dark chuckle passes his lips. “If you don't have anything nice to say, and all that.”

“Goddamn it, John,” Veronica curses, standing and smoothing out the wrinkles in her ivory blouse.

Her chastising is barely heard over the escalating and piercing wails pouring out of Agatha. Crossing the room and pulling Frederick into an embrace, Veronica’s curly hair muffles her voice. “I’m sorry, darling. At least he went peacefully.”

Agatha’s sobs verge on grating in their intensity. She snatches the toddler off the playmat and nestles her face into her son’s wisps of hair. The pudgy baby squirms restlessly, his clumsy hand catching in one of Agatha’s hefty earrings. Ever the dutiful butler, Samuel draws a blanket around the young widow’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry for your loss, madam,” he says, gloved hands lingering.

He steps back and bites his lip. For the first time that evening, Samuel finally breathes. Cecilia huffs past the butler, removing herself from the circle of winged-backed chairs, and retreats to the fireplace. Tears fall silently down the teenager’s face, scalding her skin in the blaze of the open flame. She hugs her arms around her waist, her hand gripping
the embroidered handkerchief her grandfather had given her when she’d started crying at his bedside. The pad of her pointer finger traces the delicate crest threaded into the fine cloth. If she were to raise the handkerchief to her face, she knows the scent of her grandfather’s cologne would linger in the fibres.

Her deep breath is interrupted by the hiccuping of her suppressed sobs. Frederick stiffly manoeuvres out of his wife’s embrace, finally planting both feet in the parlour. He collapses into the nearest loveseat, unbuttoning the top of his salmon polo. Veronica lowers herself into the seat at his side with a furrowed brow, the leather squeaking beneath her.

“Would you like me to call someone?”

“Who?” Jonathan scoffs, rubbing his red eyes.

He leans forward in the pinstriped chair, bracing his hands on his knees. The ice in his glass rattles with the movement.

“The bastard didn’t exactly have any friends. He made plenty sure of that.”

Cecilia winces at her father’s words. She’d known the barb was coming—had prepared herself for it in the hours leading up to her grandfather’s death—but tightened her hold on the hanky all the same. It was in times like these she wished her mother was still alive. Most of Cecilia’s greatest memories came from within the hedged fence of her grandfather’s estate. Running up and down the elaborately decorated halls on hot summer days, her mother on her heels. The sound of her grandfather’s laughter rumbling in time with their footsteps. The tension fading from her father’s shoulder and his tender smile when his hands caught her mother and dragged her into a quick kiss.

“We should still call someone.” Exasperation muddies Veronica’s tone.

She looks away from her grumbling brother-in-law and rubs a soothing hand up and down Frederick's arm. Agatha sniffles loudly, using her pinky to flick away the single stray tear gathering at the corner of her eye. Despite having just lost her much-older husband of two years and her splotchy cheeks, her gaze is startlingly clear.

“I suppose we should discuss the matter of my dear Edward’s will.”

Jonathan barks out a resounding laugh. “Yes, let’s.”

Veronica sighs sharply through her nose, her painted nails gripping Frederick tightly at the elbow. “I don’t think now’s the time for that, Agatha—”

The widow readjusts the fussy toddler in her lap, banding her arms around little Andrew’s waist. He whimpers in agitation. “I think it’s the best time, before we get all caught up in the funeral arrangements.”

“His body’s not even cold,” Cecilia whispers to the fireplace.

She wipes her cheeks with the sleeve of her shirt, careful to keep the hanky clean, and crosses the room to the rocking chair. The chair creaks with recognition, and the sound brings a small smile to her lips. How many times had she heard that same, familiar sound when her mother would sit in that very rocking chair and pull her into a hug?

“Well, what would you like to discuss?” Veronica asks, her voice contrite with distaste.

Frederick flinches at her side, his face pinching with every passing second.

“There is the matter of my husband’s fortune. And the estate, of course,” Agatha says, her attention glued to the baby boy in her arms. She bounces him mindlessly, biting her lip. There is not a hint of her previous grief evident on her face.

“What about it?” Frederick’s rough question tunes out the sound of Johnathan’s low laugh.

“Everything will go to Andrew, will it not?” Agatha turns her head with wide-eyes and an innocent air.

Though she tries to infuse her voice with gentleness, tension courses through her prim posture. Samuel passes behind her, handing a steaming cup of tea to Cecilia. His blond hair gleams in the flicker of the firelight, the shade remarkably close to that of baby Andrew’s. He retreats back to his station behind Agatha, and busies himself with dusting the collection of pictures frames lining the console table below the window. But that doesn’t mean he’s not hanging on to every word of the conversation.

Veronica sputters, bewilderment overtaking the empathy she gave her husband.

“What makes you say that? Why shouldn’t it go to Frederick? His eldest son.”

“I’m his wife.” Agatha rebuttals, once more wrangling the wriggly toddler.

“Widow,” Jonathan corrects with a tsk, plunking his glass down on the coffee table, just to the side of the coaster. “Welcome to the club.”

Agatha bristles, her lips pursing. “I’m just saying that the inheritance will likely—and should—go to Andrew.”

Cecilia grits her teeth and rises from the rocking chair. She stalks to Agatha and with just a few soothing words, scoops the baby into her arms and returns to her seat. Putting the chair into motion, the tightness seeping into her muscles eases. Within moments of the chair’s swaying, her infant uncle is soon fast asleep in her arms. Samuel halts in his dusting, his voice bitterly saccharine. “Mr Thayer informed me earlier this evening that he left a copy of his will in his private office. I would be happy to retrieve it.”

Agatha’s pleased smile quickly falls as Frederick shoots up out of his seat.

“Absolutely not!” His exhausted eyes study the faces of the room, his fingers twitching at his side.

At the slight pressure of Veronica’s hand slipping into his, he takes a steadying breath. “I’ll go get it.”

Jonathan leans over in Ceclia’s direction with a sarcastic grin and hazy eyes. “You, know, this is better than some of those reality shows you love watching.”

“Samuel is perfectly capable of getting it, Frederick.” Agatha smooths her chignon and places her folded hands in her lap. “Please, why don’t you sit back down—”

“I don’t think so,” Frederick sneers. Red infiltrates his cheeks, sweat breaking out across his forehead “I don’t trust either one of you to even look at the will.”

The room freezes, save for the flickering of the flames and the steady rising and falling of Andrew’s small chest. Old patriarch Edward would likely roll in his still-warm grave at the sight.

“What are you saying, Frederick?” Agatha asks through pursed lips, Samuel’s shadow looming behind her.

Frederick’s jaw clenches in an effort to contain his accusation. Veronica, however, does not possess such reservations. Her gaze strays to the butler, honing in on the anxious fidgeting of his fingers and the tension lining his neck. “Knock it
off, Agatha. We all know why you married Edward. Just like we all know how Andrew came
to be.”

“How dare you!”

A flush blooms in Agatha’s cheeks and spreads down the column of her neck, splotching her chest. Her fingers claw at the armrest, the tips of her fingers paling.

“You have no right to speak to me this way!”

Jonathan’s stark laughter chimes through the parlour, echoing through the halls of the estate. Cecilia’s chest tightens at the sound and the rocking chair ceases to move. Andrew stirs in her arms and Ceclia swallows thickly as she runs a shaking hand down his back.

The last time she’d heard her father laugh like that was when her mother died. When his fit of laughter subsides, Johnathan leans back into the cushions of his chair and grins madly. He stares down every person in the parlour.

“Frederick, you are a cheating son-of-a-bitch that came running to daddy to help cover up your affairs. Veronica, get off
your fucking high horse already—we all know you’ve shopped yourself into debt. And lovely Agatha—” A dangerous gleam flashes across Johnathan’s eyes “—I believe my broke sister- in-law just so-eloquently called you a gold-digger that got a little too busy with the butler.”

The room explodes into shouting.

Through it all, Cecilia stares blankly into the fireplace, rocking. Back. Forth. Back and forth. She keeps her hold on her grandfather’s hanky, on the key to the safety deposit box wrapped within it. She’ll never forget the look in her grandfather’s eyes when he gave it to her—the love that radiated from within their dark orbs. Make your mother proud. And she would.

Glancing down at the sleeping face of her infant not-uncle, Cecilia’s lips twist in a smirk.

“If only they knew.”

Rina M. Steen is a Danish-American author and artist. Ever the happily-ever-after enthusiast, she is an avid romance reader and writer with a penchant for the gothic genre. You can find her on social media at @rinamsteen.

‘The Inviolable It’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Inviolable It

Her anger always boils over just before supper,
manifested in a single nonsensical utter.
She pricks and pries and searches and seeks
to articulate her innards before the words fretfully retreat.
Those words, however, are indeed very sneaky.
They scutter and hide and run like jumping mice, real squeaky.
Lingering just long enough to maintain the belief
that there’s an explanation for her inconsolable grief.
For if an explanation doesn’t exist,
some forgotten reason she’d somehow missed,
if there’s no seed for which this gnarled tree was sown,
how is the girl to untangle its rotted-out roots, it’s merrowed bone?
How is she meant to stomach it all,
the microwave meals, the sacrilegious sex, the quiet phone call
from the silent home where they all know
he's lying in wait, a broken pistol loaded with ammo?
The nights in which she cradles herself to sleep,
heaving with cries?
She does better than her mother ever could
and more than her father would even try.
How is she to stomach it all when it sits in her lungs and squeezes at her heart
and punishes her liver when she attempts to flush it out?
When it’s mixed into the blood that pours from her knees,
from being all-too-much in a stranger’s backseat?
When it weighs down her limbs and leaves her huddled up in the shower,
wishing to God that the one washing the sadness out of her scalp was not herself,
but her mother?
How is she to stomach it when It is herself,
It is who she is, It is her destiny laying dusty on the shelf?
When will the words come to her softly
and finally admit what they’ve been avoiding so awfully?
When will they admit that her language, her suffering, her YUCK,
is not a possession or extension that she keeps in her pocket,
but rather a facet of herself for which she has been sewn together?
By uncareful, rough, uneven hands, an awfully plain, old, cruel endeavor.

Hannah Messer is a current undergrad at the University of Southern California. She is studying Pre-law and English to eventually venture into politics and work as an attorney. A lover of words, Hannah will someday retire to the mountains to write.

‘Eclipse’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Eclipse

you awake in a bush
the road, deepening to a crisp orange around the cracked clay and gravel,
stretches its curving spine over the
heat-laden heaps of jaundiced grasses
hips and elbows and buttocks of fertile dirt
in it burrows mice and vole
you can hear their hearts pumping beneath
the substrate
timid feet skittering through veins of earth

you’re planted on the soil, toasting under an emptying sky
you’re naked, crescent flare boring into your drooping back
starting between stooped shoulders
your pores well with reflective beads
thousands of wet eyes to see the blackening hole
coils of smoke slither up from the sparse trees
that you can see, the vertebrae reaching for cloudless
cerulean that purples as it meets the dirt
rippling with warmth and sagebush
all these shadows trembling in foretaste

your fingers and toes are knotty branches
brittle from drought and hot shale
there’s a distance between you and them
a rift in your senses
swaying like the aspen and limber pine as you rise
an Almeh astray in ardent orange and dusty saffron
timber to singe and turn to skeletal ash
there is no white to your eyes
in the sand you scrape a garden of footprints towards
the water, a flat Shangri-La beyond the expanse
rainbows and redbands swim corridors and chasms
sparrows greet the steam writhing off the surface

you drag your sack of bones and muscle
weary under the might of a waning sun ligaments and sockets thrust and strain
such a machine, desperately following the valley road
so mortal, the gouge in the earth that plunges to her
swelling cobalt blood

your feet reach the shore
followed by knees and elbows and ribs
obedient soldiers to the fatigue
you watch the crescent grow atop the water
as rays descend like gallow branches
a hollow reckoning gapes in the sky
surrounded by glowing lips as the humps and canyons
begin to blue and cool
you scoop it into your florid palms
and drink the empty sun.

Autumn Farmer is an artist and writer studying Creative Media at Champlain College. Throughout her time on earth, she has used poetry as a coping mechanism and way of documenting every day life, however exciting or mundane. She has had several poems published in the Rutland Herald, as well as a creative nonfiction essay in the North Dakota Quarterly.