‘The Leaf’s Fall’

Ronald Theel is a freelance writer, photographer, and mixed media artist living in Syracuse, NY. His work has appeared in "Beyond Words Literary Magazine," "Mayday Magazine," "Pithead Chapel," and other places.

The Leaf’s Fall

            First and foremost, before you run screaming or stare with that wide open stoma on your face, remember that I am a living creature too, and I have every right to speak as you and your pets do. Now, I have a complaint to register with you, as one representative of a species to another. Are you listening? It’s so hard to tell when you constantly move around like that.

            The issue is that of the last leaf. Yes, I figured you’d like that, but you need to consider: every part of us has a purpose. The roots bring the water, the leaves make the food, I’m – oh, what’s your human phrase? – the brain of the operation. I make the two work together, so that we all stay alive. The leaves though, they have another job. When they begin to change colors, they begin to die, and they start poisoning the plant. Their last job is to take that final fall.

            It’s a scary jump, but they all do it, one by one, to save the plant. Now, there’s always one or two who are a bit afraid, a little unwilling to let go, but, after everyone else goes, they find the courage, with a little nudge from the wind, to let go.

That hasn’t been happening though, because of this human fascination with the last leaf. You humans have made it a travesty to fall. My leaves cling on now, fighting to be the last. They no longer engage in contests to see who can take the most graceful dive, who can complete the most somersaults on the way down. Now, they simply crash to the ground in misery. Please, I implore you – ask your species to pause and watch each leaf fall.

Robyn Bashaw graduated with a BFA in Creative Writing from SFASU. She’s previously published in Gabby and Min’s Literary Review, 300 Days of Sun, and NUNUM. As an author, she aims to wade into the despairs of humanity and dwell in the deluges. Check out her full list of work at: https://robynbashaw.wordpress.com/.

‘Squirrel's Nest’

Christine Simpson is a working artist. She taught in the departments of Design Communications and Fine Art at the South East University, Waterford, Ireland, for many years. Christine is represented by So Fine Art, Dublin. Her work has been exhibited around the world and generally addresses subjects connected to our natural world, in particular the topic of climate change. Christine has received numerous awards. Her work has also been featured in many publications. Christine’s work is in many private collections and she regularly undertakes commissions for art pieces and commercial photographic illustrations.

Squirrel's Nest

Where do they go? It could've been mistletoe, what with all the leaves gone from the hardwood trees lining both sides of 11th Street. Captivated by the height of its airy mass, I almost stumbled in the recent rain's regurgitation of autumnal downward release, leaf afoot. No, not the holiday hopeful's wish high up there, though lovely the thought. Too much leafiness and tied together by twigs, this mess someone's comfort of home? The squirrels, the squirrels.

Holidays long troubled me. For years, general malaise would set in and I hadn't the maturity to understand. Around September, I'd come to notice in recent years, that's when not me alone would start grabbin' a jacket or sweater and take on a prickly air not right, unsettled, ill at ease, hungry. Hallowe'en munchies, yes. Turn of season more, always bad on the very young and very old, long been said across this section of New World. True all that, by some ancient standard. The older I grew, I felt something more, of expectation gone, grown greedy and lost in
its meaning, like leaf for house above, confusing me the disorder of nature's rule and border, labels.

As soon as earlier, earlier-posted, every year sooner, the back-to-school sales would sweep clean the shelves, store clerks following far-off Corporate's always-near mandate to trot out sooner, faster, more if not convincingly better Halloween, then more Thanksgiving, coming headlong into of course more Christmas and better New Year's ... and should I even continue to fill in the blanks with all the rest, festivities and honors, days created to conjure up, conspire toward more dollars devoted to meddlesome and endless purchasing, at what cost? Everything
deemed essential, all the must-haves necessary but unfulfilling; it won't settle down 'til Valentine's, Passover, Easter, or ... you see my point? At any rate, barely a partial summer to recuperate, and they keep addin' more, new colours needed for the 4th and on and on. I shall stop.

My mind deep, no longer stumbling in downed leaves yet to be gathered and cleared, the solitude of the unpeopled, otherwise-barren street caressed me, its chafing wind now dry and cracking reminding me of time, season, another place unlimited. I looked back up at the little nest of a house high in the sycamore tree (if with my phone, I'd have double-checked the species of trunk, hard to decipher only by wet mash of partial leaves beneath boots and clinging like a bad memory better washed). I waited and looked, not knowing for what, but delaying my routine turn of corner onto Main and back to life and the day's commerce. I'd commenced too early a wintry walk in this town so far south in the Lower 48. Southerners do not readily venture out in such weather, gaaa-rrrraaaashhhhh-cious!, I could hear them scream in street-length syllables, temps dipping below 60, oh my. And with Fahrenheit so far down ha the stick, the recent 'cold' snap moved, dropped, homeless from their customary corners. I hoped not into their graves, no joke.

Noise of any season. I knew the chatter flitting about my head. It was a squirrel's home, indeed, atop that tree. One lone creature. I didn't have my phone, as I said, or I would've searched on how long the newly birthed stay in such a nest – last spring so far away, surely the newbies, them youngins, gone by now, right? – and also posed of the web, older ones keep same bed from year to year?, squirrels mate for life?, and more. I left the minimammal alone. As if. That child's busy, real winter comin', did the guy or gal even know of me, audience of one and not payin'?

I focused on my new street. I had moved on Christmas Eve, back to the first apartment I'd leased in the town, really a small city by most measures. So many years ago then, the new building constructed and shiny, just opened when I drove around looking for a place to live way back when. neighborhoods evolve, unclear boundaries, ever-shifting colours and sights and sounds of people, their ways. So many changes since those years, mostly good, not much all that bad, I reasoned. I passed by a closed restaurant. Clearly, they'd made enough last night, New Year's, and all the remnants of expensive wining and dining scattered from front door to alley dumpster I could partly see in the morning light, shards of bottles, dozens of corks, gold and silver streamers, two red balloons tied to the street sign, the rest having popped, now shriveled and looking sad in the dim landscape. Don't wanna say goodbye either, I mumbled.

I saw my reflection in the establishment's front bay window, despite it being full of smudges and caked with grime. I glared at myself and laughed somehow. At least sunny, I could see parting borders within boundless sky, clouds behind me, a good day ahead, chilly, not cold, both my Yank neighbor and their new internet-love of the hour, half-day, or partial week corrected me last night. She had introduced me to their friend. It was awkward, but not new. For all three of us. As her barechested, boxered husband held open their door in the dark. He did wave with a half-smile, and in hindsight I contemplated that a missed invite. Gift? Turned down?

For me, it felt good to be back where I'd started, empty my nest-bed but unlimited in ways, my own love of the bounded years of marital minutes gone from my life and freeing perhaps from perimeter of prior century, petty the definitions' long hold. Gone, gone with the old year, gone that unique voice and frontier body and comforting, contorting hand of connection, the lines in two palms. Hers gone, forever from this life, hers and mine. No kids, at least that part made easier, but my mind hurried already, I sped up and worried; I didn't know what holiday it would take to dance across my calendar, what year to shimmy, for me to shake it all off and move on, more than a change of address needed to bury finally that relationship, if but been such by my own recollection of definition. Sure, yeah, it but been and a whole lot more. Yeah sure. Yeah.

Squirrelly, I left the urban quietude in greater wonder and scampered back into my apartment-home needing a cuddly blanket or unstiffed drink for warmth, but asking myself, what else might provide heat of heart for me, sensing more lack and lax in all the upcoming, ceaseless slew of seasons salient, every holiday alone at least for now with both parents, times two four siblings, deceased? I wasn't certain if I'd venture back out the rest of the day, maybe not the week's remainder, but this year would be different. If I gave it a rest to start. I could feel the change afoot, albeit tiny tiptoeing of movement within my heart's environs. Bothers of brittle leaves more fallen outside and in, brothers and sisters clearing the view of nature's magic for good, I considered we all make do and can move on in time, adjusting our borders to suit circumstances, those far beyond our little aged control. I reconsidered spring, my allergies, do squirrels suffer too, I wondered, they always seemed so busy.

R. P. Singletary is a lifelong writer across genres of fiction, poetry, and hybrid forms; a budding playwright; and a native of the rural southeastern United States, with recent fiction, poetry, and drama appearing in Literally Stories, Litro, BULL, Cream Scene Carnival, Cowboy Jamboree, Rathalla Review, The Rumen, Bending Genres, D.U.M.B.O. Press, and elsewhere. Website: https://newplayexchange.org/users/78683/r-p-singletary

‘PUPPY BOY’

Sherri Harvey is an educator, freelance writer, photographer, and eco storyteller. She travels the world for projects that tell the stories of an environment in crisis and the people helping to save it, especially women. Over the past few years, she lived with a sociocracy struggling to find solutions for the water crisis in Spain, traveled to villages throughout West Africa learning about the plight of women in remote villages, worked with Orangutan Odysseys in Borneo to highlight the crisis of deforestation and orangutans, and followed a vet crew around the island of Phuket to create the documentary film, Accidental Advoctes in Phuket. The power of stories can unite cultures, share communion, and promote eco-change. Please see www.sherriharvey.com or @sherricoyote for more info.

 PUPPY BOY

            Christina and I met a month after a colleague at Spring Hills Laboratory recommended her as a dynamic real estate agent who could find me a condominium. I entered her office; the words Christina Kane, Agent and Gold Circle Award Winner were engraved on a plaque to the right of her door. Christina, a petite, raven-haired woman with an oval face and delicate features, walked around her desk to greet me. Everything about her was small and well-formed, from her dark-fringed brown eyes to her narrow waist and slender legs. Standing to shake my hand, she reached my chest, and I could smell an earthy scent of coconut from the top of her sleek, shorn head.

            She reviewed my specifications: a neighborhood near the lab where I do cancer research; two bedrooms, one to be used as an office; a kitchen, laundry facilities; priced at under a half million dollars. I had a small legacy from my grandmother and finally, at the age of 43, had enough for a down payment on my own place. Christina listened to my requirements, printed out listings from her computer, then offered to take me out. It was a Sunday in April when we went condo hunting in her red Corvette. She drove fast and well, cutting down side streets, shortcuts unknown to me, swearing at slowpoke drivers, unselfconscious about being in the company of a stranger.

            The first condo Christina took me to featured all my specifications but was parallel to a noisy intersection. The next one had a definite musty smell that could have been caused from years of bad housekeeping or a hidden leak. Another was missing the extra bedroom. The process was tedious but, at the same time, I felt the pleasure of the full attention of an attractive woman. Christina had panther-like grace and the bearing of a mature, sexy gymnast as she tiptoed across polished hardwood floors. My eyes followed her splayed fingers with crimson nails as she stroked the granite of kitchen countertops. Christina wore a fitted white tuxedo shirt, short skirt, and black, patent leather heels. A red scarf, the same color as her fingernails, was tied close to her throat.

            She showed me numerous places, but, as if saving the best for last, our final destination was perfect. It was a newly constructed duplex with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a combined living room-dining area that led into a well-equipped kitchen and laundry room. The price was the maximum I could afford, but it was shiny and new.

            “What do you think?” she asked, knowing it was everything I needed.

            “It’s great, no complaints really,” I responded.

            Christina, unsmiling and eyes direct, said, “You should think about making an offer, Dan. I know the developer and, with this soft market, you could probably negotiate a lower price. Take another look around,” she suggested.

            It was decision time. My first instinct was to play it safe and tell her to keep looking, but my apartment lease was up in two weeks. I walked through again as Christina waited in silence in the kitchen, listening to messages on her BlackBerry, my hesitation causing her professional attentiveness to slip away. I rejoined her in the kitchen; her thumbs flying over her cell phone, she stopped and looked up.

            “I’m going to make an offer,” I said. “Four hundred sixty-nine thousand dollars.” The asking price was $499,000.

            Christina snapped to attention. “Great! I’ll call the first thing tomorrow morning and present your offer. Can I reach you at your work or cell number?”

            “Sure,” I said, sweat dripping down my underarms. I felt an increased heart rate and visualized the diminishing place values in my bank account.

* * *

            Late Monday afternoon I was on a conference call. Lost in discussion I was shocked to look up to see Christina. Unable to reach me by phone, she had tracked down my office. It seemed my bid on the condo had been accepted. There was one glitch: the unit was not habitable for at least another month. All the inspections had not been completed, and minor construction on some of the surrounding condos needed to be finished before it was safe to move in. I was certain Christina had been shrewd enough to withhold this information from me before I made the offer, but I wasn’t angry at the deception. I could put my possessions in storage and ask my friend Henry to put me up for a few weeks. I had spent the past 15 years in academia—a dissertation, postdoctoral work, and, finally, a position on the cancer research team. My title, Daniel S. Erikson, Ph.D., on an office door at the laboratory was the culmination of years of study. I had neglected other aspects of my life, and it was time I made some changes.

            Christina was taking me out to dinner to celebrate. People at the lab stopped and whipped their heads around when Christina walked past the various departments. Diminutive in stature, she somehow managed to convey a formidable presence. Proud to be seen in the company of a coveted woman, I waved to colleagues; Christina walked out the exit first, alluring and self-possessed.

* * *

            By ten o’clock, drunk from sake and beer, I walked into Christina’s house and met her dog, Raoul, a wirehaired fox terrier. The white-furred beast stood at attention with straight legs, expressive face, and wagging tail. Never having had a dog, I was wary. Raoul sensed this and, taking the upper hand, pushed his nose into my ankles, sniffing my socks and nipping at my sneaker laces. As if possessing inner springs, Raoul leapt up on his hind legs, jumping to the height of my chest while yapping in a high-pitched bark.

            “Stop, puppy boy! Leave Dan alone,” Christina said, her mouth in a pout, speaking in a tone suitable for a baby. The dog ran around in circles, much to the amusement of Christina, who, glowing with alcohol, was probably calculating her 5 percent sales commission and expecting a night of pleasure. She let Raoul out into the darkened back garden and opened the door of her refrigerator. Christina pulled out a bottle of champagne, unleashing the cork just as Raoul threw his body against the back door, hurling himself back into the kitchen.

            “Calm down, beastie boy. Mummy is putting you in the basement.” Christina scooped up the squirming dog, turned on the basement light, and dropped Raoul down, slamming the door behind him. The dog was scratching and barking as she led me by the hand to her bedroom; I felt a combination of erotic anticipation and performance dread. I squinted as we entered her bedroom; all the lights were on. The room was painted a deep pink and dominated by a king-sized bed with a brass headboard. The headboard was intertwined with colorful silk scarves. I noticed the red scarf she wore on our first meeting tied in a bow on an ornate finial.

            We embraced and kissed. Christina wasted no time, pulling off her dress, lace bra, and panties. She pawed off my shirt, popping most of the buttons. Christina’s body, high, tight, and small, made me embarrassed by my droopy boxers and the paunchiness of my stomach. Nervous, I let her dominate me in a little game; she covered my eyes with a silk scarf. She kissed my face, chest, and stomach. She guided my hands over her breasts and buttocks. The unpredictability of what she would do next and the newness of her body were thrilling. Christina was adventurous; her tongue slid over me. At one point I was standing, her legs straight up against my chest, ankles hooked around my shoulders. Letting go of my inhibitions, I enjoyed the increasing creativity of our encounter.

            Through the cacophony of our shared cries and moans, I heard Raoul’s barks. Trapped in his basement prison, the barks were sharp and angry, different than his earlier silly yapping. Despite the relentless series of plaintive, wolf-like howls, we fell asleep, exhausted and spent.

* * *

            Two weeks later, the condo contract signed, I’m staying at Christina’s house. It is a temporary arrangement; the closing date has been pushed off for six weeks. I am happy to be staying here, instead of with my friend Henry. Like a callow newlywed I now live in a state of sexual thrall. Home early this Friday evening, I’m waiting for Christina. Raoul has been outside chasing squirrels. I let him in and he runs right past me to the front door. His mistress has returned. She’s dressed for the drizzly spring weather; a black, bucket-shaped hat frames her angular cheekbones. Christina slips off her raincoat and tosses her hat on a chair. Raoul takes an acrobatic leap, and she catches him in her arms.

            “Sorry I’m late, puppy boy,” she croons as the dog lathers up her face.

            “Hello, Dan,” she kisses me. I feel the sticky dog saliva on her lips.

            “The closing took longer than I expected. I had to wait till the bank cut my commission check,” she informed me, taking it out. I’m impressed with the five-figure number.

            In our short time together, Christina has shared a little of her past. Her father deserted Christina and her mother when she was a child. Since the age of 18, she has supported herself and sends money to her mother. She completed an Associate’s Degree, tended bar, worked as a secretary, managed a boutique, and did a stint as an exercise instructor. She ended up at her present real estate agency as a receptionist, then advanced to salesperson, got her broker’s license, and became one of the agency’s top producers. Christina has never married.

            She lives on take-out Asian food, exotic fruits, and salad. Christina spends her money. Whenever she receives a commission check, she splurges on some expensive purchase, like an Italian leather sofa or some flashy gift she has shipped to her mother.

            Christina grabs half a mango from the kitchen. The three of us walk upstairs to her bathroom; soaking in a tub takes the edge off her day. Living in close quarters with a woman is new to me. I’m not yet accustomed to her stealing my shirts and am a little put off when I notice her short, blue-black hairs clinging to the bathroom sink.

            There are perks to cohabitation too, like watching Christina undress. Raoul balls up the discarded clothes into a makeshift pillow which he lies on, nuzzling her underwear. Christina submerges herself under the swirling turquoise bath salts, comes up for air, and picks up the mango. Slurping into it, the juice drips down her chin. Her hair and skin are shimmering with a film of soap suds; she lets her arm hang over the side of the bathtub. Raoul licks the mango juice from her fingers as Christina splashes my face with her foot. The bath salts are separating, and I see rosebud nipples peeking through. Aroused, I slide my hand from her ankle, over her knee to find and explore Christina’s inner thigh. In my travels I step down on Raoul’s paw. He yelps and bites down on my foot; his teeth lock onto the tongue of my sneaker; the thickness of the leather prevents him from biting into my flesh.

            “Knock it off this instant,” commands Christina in her sternest voice. The little bastard releases his grip and dives for the base of the bathroom door. He hammers his teeth into the woodwork, a poor substitute for my skin, I think. Christina stands up and screams, “Bad boy!” The terrier lets go his hold and, with his back fur up, sounds short, furious barks in my direction.

* * *

            Christina insists she doesn’t need help with expenses. I clean up the place when she is out and pick up her dry cleaning and groceries. I consider buying her a bracelet or chocolate truffles, but instead get her flowers from the market. After years of living on a tight budget, it’s difficult for me to be extravagant. Christina’s eyes soften when I present them to her.

            Most men would be envious of this arrangement. Christina’s appetites are wearing me down. Toweling off after a shower, I stare in wonder at my well-traveled penis. I try to imagine how many men have come before, feeling critical of her lack of restraint. Living in close quarters is uncomfortable and making me self-conscious of my bathroom habits and more careful with my grooming. Our evenings are becoming ritualized: dinner, superficial conversations, and then sex. Raoul’s noisy presence is intrusive. When I’m home alone, I distance myself from the annoying scoundrel, who lies on the couch, eyes slit, a watchful sentinel and my canine rival. I begin to wonder why Christina has no female friends.

            The following Sunday Christina puts on a smart pants suit, the jacket opened to reveal ropes of pretend pearls. She is going to a church service at a Lutheran church; it’s business-related. She attended the church as a child, and a few parishioners have invited her. They are Christina’s clients, house flippers.

            “What’s a house flipper?” I ask, with startling visions of houses tipping over and collapsing to the ground.

            “House flipping is when people buy a house in need of work, spend some money to fix it up, and then sell it for a profit within a short amount of time. They do it to eventually trade up to the house they really want. I find them properties and make myself steady commissions,” she explains.

            “I see,” I say, thinking the practice must take up a lot of time and energy.

            “Dan, would you like to come with me? After the service there’s a brunch. We wouldn’t have to stay long.”

            I pause; my friend Henry has invited me over for beers and chess. Henry, a socially maladroit savant, is in awe of my relationship with Christina.

            “You know, Christina, I’m not a churchgoer. I’m an atheist. I think I’ll pass on the invitation and visit my friend.”

            Startled, she walks closer to me. “I thought your parents were Unitarians,” she says.

            “They are, but I don’t believe in God or organized religion.”

            “How can anyone know for sure that God doesn’t exist?” she asks.

            “God is a product of religion. Religion played a role in getting groups of people to get along socially. It doesn’t serve that purpose now. Instead, I believe it’s a huge obstacle to creating a global society.” I know I sound like a lecturing professor, but I hope to engage Christina in some kind of meaningful debate.

            Christina, glancing at her watch, says, “So everything has a scientific explanation to you. People find comfort in the idea that there is a spiritual being watching over them, and most of us hope God will someday relieve human suffering.”

            “But He doesn’t. Africans died from HIV because of religious objection to condom use. God-loving people want to preserve disease and preach abstinence instead of science. Millions died because of unscientific objections to Covid vaccinations.” I am revving to segue into stem cell research, but Christina shrugs her shoulders at me and turns to leave.

            “If God isn’t real, what will happen to us when we’re dead, Dan?” she asks.

            “We cease to exist, our bodies decompose, and we become one with the natural elements and—that’s it.”

            “Well, while you’re turning into mulch, I’m going to paradise.” She turns to blow me a kiss, then leaves.

            Beautiful, simple Christina, I think. An accomplished capitalist and sublime libertine, she hopes to find even more pleasure after death. I shake my head, locate my keys, and drive to Henry’s house.

* * *

            My lawyer calls me to tell me that the closing date is set for next week. Everything is in order. Christina says she’ll help me move. She’s scurrying around the kitchen, about to leave for an Open House; she just secured a new listing.

            After moving out I know I will feel the need to take a little hiatus away from Christina, but don’t know how to go about it. I decide to go out. Searching for my jacket, I see Raoul lying on top of it on a living room chair, deep in sleep. His coarse fur makes him look like a wooly lamb. Annoyed by the fur stuck to my jacket, I creep up on him and yank it from under his body, disrupting his doggy dreams and flinging him from the chair. Raoul, wide awake and angry, rolls, then rights himself to lunge at my foot. I flee out the front door as he snaps at my escaping heels.

            When I return Raoul keeps a respectful distance. I let him out the kitchen door to do his business. He frolics in the grass and then begins digging a hole. The doorbell rings. I notice a white Corvette identical to Christina’s parked out front. I open the door to a slightly built, older gentleman. His hair is gray and thinning, and he is wearing a neat, pressed shirt, jeans, and blazer.

            “Hi, is Christina home?” he asks.

            “No,” I say. “She should be home soon, though.”

            The man is nervous and pale.

            “Do you mind if I come in? My name is John Turner; I used to date Christina. I have to speak with her. She changed all her numbers and doesn’t respond to the messages I leave at her office.”

            Feeling apprehensive, I hesitate.

            “You’re probably her new boyfriend. I can just wait in the living room.”

            “Look, John, write down your number. I’ll tell Christina to call you as soon as she gets back.”

            John is sweating; he pulls a gun from his pocket. Pointing it toward my face, he pushes his way into the house.

            I don’t know much about guns; the man’s hand is shaking. He is much smaller than me but I stand frozen.

            “Relax, man,” I plead. “I’m sure whatever the problem is, it can be resolved. I’m not really Christina’s boyfriend; in fact, I’m moving soon.”

            “I want to speak with Christina face to face. I need some, uh—closure.”

            “Sure, you know, you could probably catch her later this evening.” I know I’m babbling and can hear Raoul throwing himself against the back door. I am afraid the dog will burst in, startle John, and there will be bloodshed, probably mine. Then I notice that John’s crying. He puts the gun in his pocket, lowers himself into Raoul’s favorite chair, and covers his face with his hands. Sobbing, he apologizes; then tells his story.

            “I met Christina three months ago; I work as an attorney for a mortgage and title company that does business with her agency. It was great at first. I wanted to get married, but Christina wouldn’t hear of it. You know she spends money without thinking about her future. I got her to open a 401k plan. I told her, ‘You’re fifty years old; the real estate market is changing.’” He wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands.

            Christina is 50? I’m shocked. I never asked her age or details of past men. Christina is a master at lies of omission.

            John continues, “For her birthday, I bought the Corvette. I brought her to the dealership; she loved the spontaneity of it all. Well, to make a long story short, she ran off to Atlantic City with the car salesman, Mike. They were gone for a week. When she came back, she accused me of being possessive. Maybe I am possessive. I pleaded with her to still see me.” He takes a deep breath. “I suppose it really is over.”

            I pat John on the back. I feel we have entered into a brotherhood of sorts; two overeducated chumps fallen for the same aging femme fatale. At last Raoul manages to dislodge the back door latch, prancing into the living room. He jumps into John’s lap, licking the tears from his face.

            “How are you, fella,” John perks up. I watch, amazed, as John massages Raoul’s ears; the dog nuzzles his neck. I offer John a drink. He declines.

            John gets out of the chair, shakes my hand, and leaves.

* * *

            I go out to clear my head. Christina’s car is in the driveway when I return. She’s in the backyard, tossing a ball to Raoul, wearing one of my shirts, the tail reaching her mid-thigh.

            When I go out to join her, she asks, “How was your day?”

            “Well, as a matter of fact, it was kind of interesting. A guy named John showed up here looking for you; he waved a gun in my face. He calmed down and left; it seems he’s been trying to reach you for awhile.” I study Christina’s face for a reaction.

            “Oh, John is harmless.”

            “It seemed that way. He mentioned Mike, your car salesman friend, and a trip to Atlantic City.” I sound sarcastic.

            “Are you judging me, Dan?”

            “No, but you might have mentioned them. We have been kind of close.”

            “Have I ever asked you about your past or pressured you for anything?” She pauses. “I know you think you’re smarter than me; but, like most men, you’re a hypocrite. I take care of myself; I don’t want a husband. Yes, I like variety, but when I’m with someone, I hold nothing back. You want to end it, don’t you? You know something?” Her bottom lip is quivering. “You live without passion; you’re boring and cheap and even stingier with your love! You can leave right now!”

            I underestimated her as a worthy opponent; her assessment of me is like an astute, unsolicited comment from a madman or a child. I feel shame for not giving Christina the careful treatment she deserved. She runs into the house. From the top of the staircase, she kicks down my clothes. She races up and down the steps, finding things and tossing them outside. I end up in the front yard gathering my belongings, stuffing them into my car trunk. It is a warm June evening; a muted twilight sky casts a forgiving aura to the confusion. Christina shoves my rolling suitcase out of the door; it crashes down to me, just missing my foot. She undoes my shirt, walks over, and hands it to me. Naked, Christina stands on her front lawn for a moment to give me the full effect of what I would be missing, her dewy skin lit to perfection. She slams the front door; a white sock is stuck under the door jamb. Backing out of the driveway, I see Raoul perched on top of the couch, looking out the window; his black eyes shining and maniacal. His toothy mouth is in an open grin. Sighing and relieved I put the car in gear, gun the engine, and head to Henry’s house.

Michele A. Hromada is a special educator and political blogger. Her work has appeared in: Wild Violet, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Forge, Tower Journal, Gemini Magazine, The Book Smuggler's Den and Coffin Bell.

‘I am the Wild’

Photographer - Liz Jakimow

I am the Wild

I am birds that sing and the promise of spring.

I am morning mist on marshes, a smiling sun at noon, the first star awake, and the cry of a loon.

I am turning leaves that fall and rutting moose that call.

I am the long winter that comes early and stays late.

I am the light in dark at the break of day and the dark in light that first appears as grey.

 I am protruding rock ridges that are the bones of the earth and the streams and valleys they lie beside.

I am a place where lakes reflect the world they see around them and ice that seals their eyelids shut.

I am a place where life depends on listening and I am always listening and watching too.

I am a place where the wind is your only trusted friend.

I am a place where ears and noses detect the sound and scent of danger even before alert and wandering eyes.

I am the white patch on the throat of a white-tailed deer and the dark shadow moving silently across the ground behind it, without snapping a twig or bending a blade of grass.

I am hollow trees and black stumps and the black bear who rules over this place, which is a place without rules.

I am the high wide swaying rack of a long-legged bull moose.

I am the yellow eyes of a pack of hungry wolves watching the tip of that rack dip lower than it should when a limp right hoof presses down on the soft grey moss.

I am a place where patient wolves come closer only when a lame moose tries to rest or eat and they will let it do neither now.

I am a place where killing time has a different meaning.

I am a place with no beginning or end, and for some, no way out.            

I am place where little has changed.

I am the long yellow beak of the great blue heron, a living dinosaur and deadly impaler, standing  motionless and alone like a phantom laced in sunlight and veiled in shadow.

I am the teeth and claws of the secretive fisher who uses cunning to kill porcupines, and speed agility to pursue squirrels up and through the trees.

I am tracks in the snow and the naked feet that keep the game trails worn.

 I am feathered wings that follow a path made in the mind across the trackless sky.

 I am the fur-bearing animal, the trapper’s line and sudden death without overtime.

 I am the hunting camp where men live life a different way, heading for swamps before first light and talking across open fires beneath the stars at night.

I am a place filled with fatherless children where childhood ends early if it ever begins at all.

 I am a place where nature is the mother of all things.

I am the harsh logic called instinct which is the only gift nature provides her children to guide them on their journey.

I am a place that must rot to remain unspoiled.

I am a place where nothing really dies.

I am a place where the flesh of one animal becomes the flesh of another until it returns to the ground.

I am rainfall and sunlight that make it rise up again to be nibbled at and fed on during a never-ending cycle of life.

I am a place where everything is connected and all things depend on each other for survival.

I am a place where life seems simple, which means it’s complicated.   

I am the flat-tailed beaver, the dams it makes and swamps it creates.

I am water bugs scurrying across the surface of those swamps.

I am the world beneath the surface of the swamp, which is more dangerous than the one above because it is a place where all things live and die in silence.

I am bullfrogs and black snakes and snapping turtles that hunt and are hunted along its shorelines.

I am the scented cedars and white pines and soft maples beyond the swamps.

I am the wind that makes them bend and bow and creak and moan.

 I am the sound of axes and saws gnawing away at the edges of this place.

I am a place that was once like the place where you live now but that was a long time ago.

I am a place with a timeless and sacred spirit.

I am a place where light and dark, and water and wind, and rocks and trees, and predators and prey live and die beneath an open sky that can touch your spirit. 

I am a place that will challenge and humble and teach and kill those who enter it.

I am a place that you are drawn to and fear, for the same reason.

I am the wild.

LW Oakley was born and raised in the east end of Toronto. He graduated from RCI and Ryerson. He is a retired accountant living in Kingston, Ontario.

‘The Grasses of Hölkenstripen’

Erica Appleton is a recent MFA graduate of the College of Charleston. She has been featured in the winning circle for CofC's undergraduate creative writing contest with her short story, "Out in Her Garden" as well as CofC's 2022 graduate level creative writing contest with her short story "The Precipice". Her poem "To Be the Greenery" was published by Pensive in 2022. Her poem "Beautiful Abomination" was published with Stirring Lit in April, 2024. Her short poem collection "Before the Goldenrod" was published by Wayfarer Magazine in May 2024. She completed Chateau Orquevaux's August Art Residency 2024.

The Grasses of Hölkenstripen

WINNER OF THE SHORT FICTION CONTEST 2024

The grasses of Hölkenstripen were a rancid, fetid lot. Naught but an ocean of gray and brown, borne from a bog of lustless mud that puckered under the dry, sour heat of rainless sunshine. These grasses were once lush and green, fed by the virility of the savory mud, but that is no more. They became trampled on by the men that fled war in the eastern hills, and their fertile soil was laid to waste by their trail of bile.

On the distant horizon, a queen, ‘The Belladonna,’ they called her. This vile woman seemed to have mistaken her lack of adversity for an abundance of strength. That lack would end with me. Long have I watched over these grasses and long have I watched her petty squabbles in the east slowly turn their eyes to the city in the west, my home; Hölkenstripen. The city that had birthed me, the city that had scorned my magic, the city that taught me that love is power, and that all living things can know love. My love.

With eyes open, I walked into the tall, dying grasses and bore them my flesh so that they may cut it and feast. Cherubic droplets of my blood trailed down their leaves, bearing the silver reflection of the moon above. They reached the soil with the fervent kiss of a man lusting after virginity.

With my dance I taught the grasses that the hunger they had long felt was undue and I watched with delight as what was once dry, and brittle was born again, still slicked with the wetness of its mother. It remembered its virility, its verdant, venerable origin, and became ravenous to see its return – as did I.

Idle cuts against my skin became deep gashes as the grass felt its hunger sated for the first time since its seeds first made their way here from the lush Illutine Forest. It began carving out chunks of my body and eating them like an animal would. The soil pulsed like a heartbeat as it growled, becoming slicked with blood that flashed white with the moon’s light. I spun and they unraveled me, tugging the crimson sinew that once held me together like the seams of an old dress. It felt good to be loved in this way.

My dance continued until I was no more than bones spinning through a forest of red tongues licking me clean of my once mortal flesh. Even then, there was still much to be eaten. I threw the rest of myself to the soil, plunging my skeletal arms deep beneath. I carved a hole into my ribs and whipped them with the roots I tore from the darkness below, teaching the grasses that the work was not yet done. More roots followed, sucking out the marrow like newborn puppies from their mother's teat.

They wanted more. The work would never be done. They would feast until there was no more to feast upon. They craved flesh and flesh they would have by the coming of the sun when that hapless queen of the Hills of Taçad would march on the great city of Hölkenstripen that would know no gratitude for the wretch that saved them.

By sunrise, I was no longer a thing of body or meat – I was of grass. There, as our leaves dried out in the sun, we awaited the coming of the sun and the coming of an army whose rumbling we could hear from yonder hills. Our soil was wet with fresh blood. Our leaves were swords made of peridot; tall, strong, proud. Their marching was loud, but the wind made us like the shattering of a thousand stained glass windows. They could not hear our battle cry, our howling screams for their bodies. To them, we were merely a field of grass blowing in the wind. How unlike us they thought they were.

When the last foot finally found itself within our verdant jaws, we bit. Gnashing teeth ripped their armor from their squishy, blood-filled bodies. Red rain poured down as their weak bodies became fountains of blood. And we laughed as their swords shattered against our powerful arms. Within this heaving massacre, I found her; The Belladonna.
I rose above the slaughter as a specter of weaved leaves, gazing down on the small frail woman that was to be the supposed destroyer of my home. I touched her face with delicate fingers and drank her fear, her powerlessness. The screams of her army were drowned by the thunderous rustling of my leaves, and her tiny voice could not hope to overtake them. But the sweat on her face spoke for her. It tasted of regret, anger, fear, and sorrow. The sorrow of knowing the end of her life was to come soon. When my fingers tasted of her insides, they gnawed on her organs until they busted within her – pouring out what they contained into her still stiff skin. The once great queen became filled up with herself like a heavy glass of wine, and we drank mirthlessly of her.
When the work was done, all was silent. The blood of the eastern queen’s army empowered us to do nothing but sway delicately in the wind, that which we had done before for hundreds of years. This time, however, we were green and filled with life and vigor. We were to a thing be feared and our land was marked for its danger and treachery to those that may find themselves trekking too deep into the hills.

Slowly, and over many seasons of winter’s bitter kisses, we dried and returned to dust. But even then, we were nothing but a stain upon the soil, as are all things that are loved.

INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR

Vera Tenney

Vera Tenney was born in 2001 in Oviedo, Florida. She prefers to write prose but has dabbled in a variety of other artistic ventures such as acting, ornamental horticulture, gemology, singing, and drag. She is a new author, having only one self-published piece of literature, her debut novel “The Verdillion,” to Amazon KDP in January of 2024, and has no traditionally published work currently. She studies creative writing at the University of Central Florida and intends to use her writing career to work almost exclusively on her anthological fantasy series “Taçad.”

Why are you a 'Breakout Creative'?

I consider myself a breakout creative in that I’m still young and have a very small body of published work. This was actually the first time I’d ever submitted anything for publication aside from my novel earlier this year, which hardly counts, since self-publishing an eBook on Amazon is really only marginally different than doing so on Wattpad. I just get to rub a couple more pennies together every time someone reads it. I’m very appreciative of this opportunity.

What made you want to be a writer? Did you have any muses or guides along your way?

Actually, as a kid, the end-goal was to be an actress. Even before I realized that I was a woman, I knew it was far fiercer to be an actress than an actor; it just rolled off the tongue better. I dabbled in acting here and there, but I realized that all the roles I wanted to play hadn’t been written yet, so I set out to write them. Ironically, I have no plans to return to pursue a career in acting anymore, and much prefer the creative autonomy of writing.

As for muses, I spent about the entirety of my adolescence completely obsessed with Björk and desperately hope that some of her rubbed off on me. More recently, I’ve been doing a lot of research on jewelry and gemology for a novel I’m working on – I thoroughly enjoyed reading Seven Thousand Years of Jewelry by Hugh Tait.

How would you describe your unique style and what do you think influences it?

I always say that everything I write is about hunger, which I think is because I’ve always been hungry. I don’t think that I have gone a single day of my life without fantasizing about some overly ambitious goal – usually delusions of fame – and these fantasies have a consuming quality to them that makes me feel terribly starved. As a result, almost everything I create seeks to either satiate or convey that hunger, among other things, of course.

If you had any advice for writers just getting started, what would you say?

I wish I could remember who said this – I don’t think it was me – but I heard once that you should study everything except what you intend to create. It’s an idea I often return to when looking for places to find inspiration. As artists, we’re often taught to study the works of those closest to ourselves, which is certainly true, but I think some attention should be paid in the interest of ensuring that you aren’t getting too bogged down by that approach. If you want to write a romance novel, read a bit of romance here and there of course, but if that’s all you do, you’ll find it hard to write anything except what has already been written.

Where can we find more of your work?

My first (only, for now) novel, The Verdillion is available on Amazon as an eBook! It is a fantasy novel set in the same original universe as The Grasses of Hölkenstripen.

‘Passengers’

                                         Artist - John L Gronbeck-Tedesco

“Passengers”

I met her in Thailand. An accident, the exactness of which escapes me. Could’ve been a lighter. Maybe some tobacco.

Not that it matters—the circumstances in which you meet someone, the how. The important part is the act of meeting itself. The exchange of human pleasantries. The learning and memories, the entropic tune, the breath of fresh air. The gathering of facts, the divulsion of personal details, and the subsequent formation of a friendship destined for impermanence. The acceptance of some new soul into your sphere, even if it be saddeningly temporary.

The meeting.

That’s where the substance really lies.

*

We sat side by side on the ferry, passing a spliff. Studying the darkling waters of the Gulf of Thailand; the moon no more than a glimmer, its fluorescence unable to fight through the oppressive nighttime clouds.

“Reminds me of a Van Gogh painting,” I remarked.

“Who?”

“Really?” I answered, all incredulity. “Starry Night, you know, the suicidal painter who severed his ear?”

Understanding dawned.

“Ah, you mean Van Gogh?”

“Is that how you pronounce it?”

“It is in the Netherlands.”

*

Her name was Lieke.

She was from the small town of Steenbergen in the south of the Netherlands; the third daughter in a family of farmers. Generations of cattle-rearing and cheesemaking, of shoveling shit and bottle-feeding runts, of tilling land and pulling weeds. Generations of dedicated laborers working what land they had.

And she was one of them.

There were a dozen chickens, the names of which I don’t recall. There were pigs too, but they didn’t have any names. She used to name them, she said; although, she stopped when she learned what death looked like, when she heard the blood-curdling scream of boar and sow alike. But now, older and hardened, the slaughter had become as routine and mundane as brushing one’s teeth. She even joked that Canadian bacon was just as likely Dutch. There was a flock of sheep raised primarily for wool, with grazing their secondary purpose. Rarely were they sold for butchering or killed to feed themselves—for even though she had reconciled one animal’s death, neither her nor the remainder of her family could stomach the notion of slaughtering something so young; and, in this nuanced manner, they abstained from the consumption and commoditization of lamb. Other than a few horses, a herding dog and some cattle, the rest of the land was dedicated to botanical life: wheat, tomatoes, feed crops.

She extolled the place, speaking with fondness and pride, and but for one neighboring family, there was nothing but genuine affection expressed.

Yet, the subjects were not proportionately discussed, and indeed this neighboring family occupied as much of the conversation as her family and the farm they tended to. I listened and learned. Of the children she said very little, other than that there were four of them, two sons and two daughters. The mother’s name was Ilse, and she was a strict disciplinarian and, perhaps paradoxically, a spineless zealot.

Other than that, I gathered nothing.

She was too busy talking about the father.

His name was Willem, and his beliefs were as antiquated as an abacus, as outdated as a mimeograph machine. A man as irascible as he was ignorant. A truculent man who loved repeating himself, loudly and long-windedly. He supported Geert Wilders and his Party for Freedom, and like them desired a Dutch world devoid of Islam and its practitioners. A xenophobe who arbitrarily assigned blame to the Turks and other immigrants. A fundamentalist, he happily sermonized on the sacrilege of homosexuality. Black Pete was a staple of his Christmas décor, he considered the atrocities in Indonesia ancient history. In general, he believed that the only people of color worth allowing were the ones on national sports teams. He was a proponent of gender norms. He was an altogether distasteful and unpalatable man. A stubborn, prickly vestige of a past best left unrevived.

And yet, he was a man whose ideological principles, although once ostracized, were not dead—they were far from the fringes, and they were spreading like an infection. A moral pandemic where twisted thinking was contagious. Where hate had been normalized. Where it was winning politics. Where it was ubiquitous.

Because of people like him.

*

I understood the anger, the disgust, the shame. I understood the need to release those emotions.

But her reaction was different.

The length at which she spoke of Willem, the subtle seething, the almost unnoticeable agitation, it all suggested something deeper. Something personal.

A family feud beyond repair, perhaps. Or an individual wrong. An interpersonal conflict maybe, between the two of them. She had been equivocal about the children, the mother. Were they somehow involved?

*

Waves lapped at the ferry as we gently waded the waters. Cigarette smoke danced briefly around us before disappearing into the night’s fog.

The thirty minute trip from Koh Samui to Koh Phangan was coming to an end. Already passengers were collecting their luggage and lining up to disembark. We put our cigarettes out and joined the queue.

I felt unsatisfied. We had arrived at our destination, but the conversation hadn’t reached its proper conclusion.

We walked to the street. I was staying in Haad Rin, but she was going northwest to Haad Yao.

Before she went searching for the best priced tuktuk, I asked if she wanted a farewell joint. She shrugged her shoulders and we made our way down to the beach. We took our shoes off and stood in the sand, smoking.

“Why are you so mad at Willem?” I asked.

Lieke took a deep drag, debating.

Then she whispered:

“He took Mila away from me.”

“Who?”

“His daughter,” she said. “He exiled her to Belgium to stay with relatives. We were in love. And now that’s gone, because of him and his perverse beliefs. He ruined everything.”

She pushed the tears from her eyes.

“I loved her,” she wept. “We were in love. We still are.... I still am....”

THE END

Martin B. George is a world traveler and writer. He seeks to connect people through the art of story, or simply make them laugh. A proud member of the LGBTQIA community, his interests include painting, reading and exploring international cuisine. Find him at @the_wandering_nickel on Instagram to follow his adventures.

‘Jessica’ SHORT FICTION CONTEST RUNNER-UP

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Jessica

One of the first books I remember was 1000 Fun and Unbelievable Facts—an oversized affair whose letters lurched off its cover, primed to spill into my doughy palms. Jessica and I spent afternoons tracing the headings with sea-foam-soft fingers, sounding out the impossible four-syllable words. Moths lack stomachs, and thus mostly drink liquids like nectar. An African elephant only has four teeth. Goldfish may eat each other when under stress.

***​

Now, my mother and I bury Jessica on the riverbank. We should have done it on Sunday, right after we killed her, but it was 10 p.m. and neither of us trusted the dark. So instead, we covered her with a towel, left our clothes to soak in cold water and went to sleep.

My mother had first suggested floating her down the river bend for the fish to eat, but I thought that was disrespectful as fuck, and we were family. Jesus Christ. She was your child.

So now we haul her body into the mist-drenched morning and shovel the bank until we can roll her in.

When we killed her, my mother said that she had stopped being Jessica long ago, and it’s not murder if the victim isn’t technically “alive.” And I told her that morality shouldn’t skirt around technicalities.​

I drag Jessica by her clammy hands, legs streaking through the mud. Her mouth is frozen open in a gash, and I imagine her hunger accumulating against her tongue, exploding between her lips and leaving her behind. The back of my throat burns.

I lay her in the hole and pick up the shovel with my raw icicle fingers. Jessica stares up at me, eyes blank, blood a black crust on her shirt. We were always identical. The same widow’s peak and gently sloping nose, twin sets of braids brushing our backs. Jessica-and-Jennifer. We were the other’s reflection. When we were little, we dressed the same to confuse our mother. In the end, she stopped calling us by name and directed her words to whoever was in the room. You, help me wash the dishes. You, take your shoes off before entering the house.

I pour dirt over Jessica’s face, our face, first.

* * *

People online say it’s a rot from the inside, decaying you until you crave flesh to fill the emptiness left behind. I say it doesn’t matter anyway. This is what matters: Jessica’s body buckled into itself as she wasted away organs-first, emaciated throat swallowing her pulse, mouth opening and closing like a fish’s gills out of water. Jessica ate half our goldfish and spit their bones outside my bedroom door so I saw them when I woke. Jessica reached for my arm across the dinner table and tried to take a bite.

She was not the first like this. The disease originated in the countryside, spread to the city, and exploded from there. Children ate their parents. Parents ate their children. Businesses shut down, and people quarantined inside their homes, leaving only to steal from whatever stores had more stock than bloodstains on the floor.

This was my mother’s job now— leaving three times a week to trawl the abandoned shopping centers, running her fingers down the empty shelves, tiles echoing below her feet. Two weeks ago, I wouldn’t have let her go alone. Before Jessica shriveled into a shell. Before I wrestled her down as our mother slit her throat with a kitchen knife, blood seeping tar-thick out of the wound— long-stagnant in its veins. This was because in April, after a trip to Costco, I had found our mother hiding a pack of ham in a floorboard under her bed. I shoved her aside and shook her shoulders until they drained bloodless in my fists, yelling that you can’t just hoard all the food, goddammit. What about me? What about us? Just stay home next time. I’ll split the portions. My God.

From then, until Jessica got sick, she and I made grocery runs. We had one bike, so each trip we traded pedaling and sitting on the back, knees cramped, bony arms around the other’s waist. Whoever was on the back brought the backpack for carrying food. In the earlier weeks, it bulged with soup cans and crushed bags of chips, zippers straining over the Double Stuffed Oreos Jessica loved. By June, it hung around our shoulders like a husk of skin.

On one of our last trips, we lingered in the Walmart aisle, bag on the floor, a single can of sardines in Jessica’s hands. She turned it back and forth, reading the label: WILD CAUGHT & SUSTAINABLE; 170 calories per serving; 1 serving per container. Two weeks expired, but we were long past caring.

Jessica weighed the can in her palm. “Mom never liked fish.”

“No, she didn’t.”

Jessica ran her fingernail along the can’s tab. “Eighty-five calories if we split it evenly. Eleven grams of protein each.”

 I kicked the bag down the aisle.

 The can peeled open, fish and brine permeating salt-thick through the air.

​* * *

“I think murder does something to you.” I say this to my mother as we wait inside the laundromat, our bloodied clothes spinning themselves pure. She stands against the wall, arms crossed. The blue-green fluorescents highlight the wrinkles in her face, and she looks like someone else, older and paler and thinner, her cheekbones stark against skin.

“I already told you. ‘S not murder.”

The washing machine—somehow still in service—clatters.

“You know what I mean.”

She walks to it and peers inside. 

​“I feel like she’s still watching us. Like I’ll turn a corner and she’ll be there, blood all the way down her chest.”

My mother checks the digital clock on the wall, the display frozen at 2:33 p.m. “Guess that’s guilt.”

“Do you think she still recognized us?”

My mother doesn’t look away from the clock.

* * *

Growing up, our mother left Jessica and me at home while she rushed to whatever job she was trying to keep. We had no television, and we weren’t allowed to go outside, so we spent the long afternoons roaming around the house.​

Our favorite game was hide and seek, even though the cramped apartment had few places to crawl into— few holes to fill. Still, we took turns being “It,” facing a corner and counting up to ten. Back then, danger had a countdown. A warning. Jessica always hid behind the curtains in our mother’s bedroom, but I made a show of searching each corner, turning over pans in the kitchen, cushions in the living room. The goal was never finding each other. We only delighted in the search— the rambling turns, the promise of something at the end. After picking through each corner, I’d wander into our mother’s room to see Jessica, silhouetted against white, shadow languid on the floor. I never mentioned how the light revealed her body, crouched against the wall. But she was always too vulnerable.

Once, I tried to surprise her, sneaking to the window and grabbing her through the curtain. My fists clenched around her neck as cloth closed around her head. Her mouth gasped wet against white. Her limbs pummeled blindly. I flinched back, and she tumbled out of the curtain, coughing into the floor. She pushed me in the chest.​

 “Sorry!” I shielded myself with my arms. “It was an accident! Promise I didn’t mean to.”

 She cuffed my shoulder, and I stumbled to the side, feet tangling in the rug.

 “You can get me back, okay? Okay?”

 Jessica, smiling now, shoved me into the curtain. I thudded against the wall, breath punching out from my lungs. I turned my head, and there was the ring of Jessica’s spit, translucent in the sun.

* * *

Noon beats down on us in a blast of dry heat, and I sit in front of our fish tank, watching the lone goldfish drift. Most of the ones left by Jessica had died when we ran out of fish food, and I dumped their limp bodies in the yard. Buried them like a trove of gold coins, earth swallowing the price of her decay.

The radiator wheezes in tepid gusts, and the television buzzes with static. None of the channels broadcast anymore, and even the static is spotty at best, but I like the white noise when it works. A constant background thrum. Something to focus on other than starving.

My mother leans against the wall, dangling a cigarette out the open window.

I fan the air in front of me. “That shit is gonna kill you.”

She lifts the cigarette to her lips and inhales deeply. “Better than being eaten alive.” The cherry glows like a drop of blood on skin.

I stand and fold my arms behind my back. “Did you know goldfish can cannibalize each other? When water temperatures rise too high, or when there isn’t enough food?” Maybe I should have left the fish corpses. The survivors might have lasted.​

My mother exhales out the window, and smoke curls around her upper lip like a ghost of breath. “Brutal.”

The television static fizzes out.

* * *

In the evening, I lie in the bathtub and wrap my arms around my chest. Our stock of stolen ramen ran out two days ago, and the hunger gnaws at me, corroding my ribs. I hold my breath and slide deeper into the tub. The water closes around me like a womb. I pretend I am Jessica, rotting in that riverbed, pulse gone long before my death.

I remember our mother telling us a story like that decades ago— fairies who’d snatch infants and swap them for a changeling, a copy not quite right. She had said this as she washed our hair in this bathtub, drawing pictures in the shampoo sliding down our spines.

 “You would’ve known if we were taken, right?” Jessica asked, eyes wide.​

 Our mother smiled. “You wouldn’t have been taken in the first place. I sat in that nursery and watched you every night. ”

 She’d never answered the question.

 Soap stings my eyes, but I watch my hands distort in the water. What if I caught the disease? If Jessica’s deterioration mirrored itself in me, our bodies hurtling to the same end? My mother would kill me. I know this, true enough to type in block letters and tuck between passages about elephants and moths. She might have to call a neighbor to help, but she would.

* * *

As my mother bathes, I kneel in front of the goldfish again. It bobs up and down, barely visible in the dark—a smudge of orange against blue. I press my fingers against the glass, and it swims up to me, mouth gaping into space. I open in response.

Madeline Rosales has recently won a Gold Key for the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and has publications of poetry and prose with the Academy of the Heart and Mind, The Odyssey Youth Magazine, The WEIGHT Journal, and others. She works as a Senior Editor for Polyphony Lit, and as the Chief Editor for The Cardinal Review. 

‘Intergenerational’ SHORT FICTION CONTEST RUNNER-UP

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Intergenerational

It was around 2pm when we arrived, the roadworks puncturing the main road like great gouged wounds and sending us down the winding country lanes instead. “Lunchtime,” she’d said, which generally meant 12.30-1.00pm. We braced ourselves for the silence – no confrontation, never words – and almost in preparation, neither of us spoke during the final few minutes of the drive.

“I can still see your lipstick,” said Mum, glancing sidelong at me as we turned up the long driveway and the house came slowly, solemnly, into sight. “There’s wipes in the glove compartment.”

Women shouldn’t wear makeup. It’s ungodly.

Amy had bought me that lipstick. “Lover’s Kiss”, the shade was called. I, naïve and grateful, gave her my copy of Little Women in exchange, and she had to spell it out for me two weeks later as we settled on the stained sofa in her halls’ common room: “I like you, you idiot. Like like you.”

I wiped it wordlessly, the pale pink somehow more violent than blood as it smeared across the material, the scent of chemical cheapness filling the car.

“Better?”

“Better.”

God-fearing men don’t like women who wear makeup.

What about if women don’t wear it for men? What about other women?

When I was eight, I’d wandered into Mum’s bedroom and rummaged through her makeup bag.

Everyone else’s mothers wore it in abundance – the school gates were a safari of colour, birds of paradise laughing and fluffing and preening. My mum looked like a sepia photograph out of time. Even her makeup bag, when I found it at the bottom of her dressing table one afternoon (having crept stealthily, and with an enormous sense of my own narrative importance, into her bedroom) was greying.

I opened the zipper with my clumsy child hands, sticky with the sugared contents of a juice box, and silently monologued my adventure like I was the precocious heroine of some kid-friendly American movie, all dimples and Girl Scout cookies. I had eczema and hayfever and a burgeoning case of lactose intolerance; Mickey Mouse club I was not.

Similarly disappointing were the contents of the bag. It didn’t contain much at all – moisturisers and Tampax, mainly – and certainly held no glimmering, colourful secrets, nothing to suggest she secretly glammed up in front of the mirror when I was asleep. I was disappointed; I not only had a drab mum, but she didn’t even mind being drab.

Peeved and disheartened, I rummaged dispiritedly through a layer of old tissues and flicked an empty Nivea tube aside, and at the crinkly off-white bottom of the bag, found a photograph facing up at me. Big Eighties hair and double denim, and the unmistakeable stain of scarlet across smiling mouths – this couldn’t be Mummy, I thought, and I took it down to her, clasped in my clammy little hands.

“That’s not for you,” she said, and snatched it from me. She thrust a damp flannel at my face and scrubbed with a frenzied vigour at the citrus stickiness around my own lips as if it would somehow wipe the war paint from hers. I tasted sour milk and mouldy cotton fibres for hours afterwards.

We never spoke of the faded lipstick kiss on the back of the Polaroid.

We crunched up the driveway in unison, a show of military precision and political unity, Mum and me, me and Mum, the way it had always been, two gawky women with our grey eyes and straight brown hair, wrapped in our muted autumnal-hued jackets even as spring sighed and flickered and coquettishly unfurled all around us. The immaculate windows with their fresh flowers and the flurry of twittering activity at the bird table in the back garden all spoke of a cosy little house where any little girl would be lucky to have her childhood.

The door opened.

“Hello,” said Grandma, and we hugged. She was frail but steely – the grey eyes seemed to pass down the maternal line, and it felt like looking back – and forward – at myself every time we met, an Unheimlich in a pleated skirt. “How are you?”

I’m happier than I’ve ever been, Grandma. I met this girl at uni – Amy, she’s called – and we get on so well, it’s like I’ve been looking for her my whole life. She’s got green eyes, Grandma, like Grandad had, and she’s from Cornwall, like Great-Grandma, and she laughs like Mum does with that laugh that sounds like a crackle, a lovely little fireside crackle in winter.

“I’m fine, how are you?”

“Yes, fine, thank you. Hazel?”

“Yes, I’m fine too.”

Round one of conversation exhausted, she took our jackets and hung them on the hallway hooks with painful care and attention – like it mattered, like any of it mattered – and the three of us moved as one, wordlessly, to the kitchen.

The table was laid; gingham tablecloth that had seen better days but retained a quiet, pitiful pride in its shabby cleanliness. She was a woman of precision, and the salad, retrieved from her ancient fridge-freezer in time for a prompt 12.30 lunch, was wilting in much the same way as my silent resolve.

She poured tea that had cooled into cups that didn’t match the saucers. I thanked her and took a sip, and wished for sugars, sweeteners, even a splash of honey would have helped. Anything.

“Can I use your bathroom, Grandma?”

It always sounded so silly when I said it aloud – what are you, three? – but she wasn’t the sort of woman whose bathroom you just used without asking. She quavered a little before she answered, a kind of quiet wheeze escaping thin lips.

“The flush is broken in the family bathroom,” she said. There hadn’t been family there for years. The three spare bedrooms gathered dust, and I bit my tongue every time I thought of the refugees or homeless people she could have housed, if only she practiced the kind of religion she preached. “You will have to use mine, just off my bedroom.”

I’d never been in there before. The wallpaper, baby pink but yellowing at the edges, guided me on a geometric journey up the stairs and through her perfectly neat bedroom, the king size bed with its ruffle-edged satiny eiderdown a magnificent relic of days gone by. The side on which she slept looked no different to the side where Grandad had slumbered until ten years ago, the fabric unrumpled and the pillows artificially plumped. It was as if heterosexuality – sexuality of any sort – had never lived here.

The bathroom was pink too, pink and white like the marshmallow filling of the wafer biscuits at my childhood birthday parties, pink like the dresses of the Barbies she begrudgingly bought me – I conducted weddings between them in secret long before it was legal. I sat on the toilet with my skirt hitched up and pissed out a whole car journey’s worth of Fruit Shoot.

She had a dressing table just by the door to her ensuite, and as I left, closing the door behind me, I accidentally knocked a talcum powder pot onto the floor, sending it rolling beneath the chair.

Retrieving it, my sleeve caught on the handle of the lowest drawer, and it slid open with surprising ease. I looked in, of course I did – and she looked back.

There she was, my past and future self, my mother once removed, grey eyed and grey skinned in the monochrome of the Fifties. The high-waisted checked skirt suited her – I imagined it even had some colour – and the smile on her face as she hung adoringly on the arm of a bespectacled girl with ringlets had a strange sheen to it – an almost painted, glossy quality.

What about women who wear makeup for other women? What about women who wear it for themselves?

It was cold to the touch, and I flipped it over, half hoping for the perfect synchronicity of a faded lipstick kiss adorning the back of the image. There was nothing, just Grandma’s initials and those of a G.H alongside them. I wondered what had happened to G.H, who she was, what she’d said to Grandma to make that smile shine so bright.

Had they painted each other’s faces, swapped lipsticks in secret, laughed like crackling fires at private jokes the world could never steal?

Perhaps not. I always was a sucker for a sentimental story.

I replaced it and closed the drawer, then the door behind me, retreating down those rickety, faded old stairs. They were still in the kitchen, stilted meteorological small talk just about audible from the staircase. I reached into my pocket and pulled out Lover’s Kiss, applying it blindly without a mirror. I didn’t need a mirror. I didn’t need to see my reflection when two of them sat waiting for me, cowed and colourless, behind that wooden door.

“Hi Grandma,” I said, taking my seat at the gingham-draped table. “I want to tell you about my friend Amy.”

Chloe de Lullington (she/her) is an author and screenwriter based in Manchester, UK. Her debut novel, Cacoethes, a queer satirical sugar baby comedy, will be published with Northodox Press in June 2025, and she has had short fiction and poetry published in The Word's Faire, Bullshit Lit, Powders Press, and For Page & Screen Magazine. A lifelong outsider looking curiously in, she is drawn to the offbeat and eccentric, and the minutiae of peoples' lives that might mean everything - or could mean absolutely nothing at all.