‘Our; or, Upon Failing to Understand Adiabatics at a Cursory Search’, ‘Anthropic’, & ‘Mistaken’

Katie Hughbanks (she/her) is a writer, photographer, and teacher whose photography has been recognized nationally and internationally. Her photos appear in more than 40 publications, including in Peatsmoke Journal, Cool Beans Lit, In Parentheses, L'Esprit Literary Review, New Feathers Anthology, Glassworks Magazine, Azahares, Moonday Mag, and Black Fork Review. She is the author of two books, Blackbird Songs (2019) and It's Time (2024). She teaches English and Creative Writing in Louisville, Kentucky US.

Our; or, Upon Failing to Understand Adiabatics at a Cursory Search

Something in this
/// \\\ train of thought
/// we are \\\ screams
/// like
|| mercury
|| coalescing
// each \\ on the trunk of
// other’s
| tongue,
lumps of sugar
/ \ salivating
/ \ for the
/ \ sweet
/ \ abandon
/ in being \ of this
/ and-not-being \ madness
/ and/burning
allthesame.

Anthropic

one man
feeds another
in a desperate
display of power
hungry
foolishness

Mistaken

When did it begin to take root?
Was it growing with the clovers
across the mud-choked fields?
We tasted them too often.
Did it cinch itself over Huron
while we angled ourselves pontooned?
Crisping in the last week of summer,
our hands silvered with minnows.
Did the blaze of stars and campfire
fuel this rampage under your skin?
A surfeit of skunks presented
the danger we mistook for real.
Did it press upon your shoulder
when your arm slumped from its socket?
Was it not mud that freckled your neck
as you rode off alone? Your limp fingers
clacked among spoked trading cards
the rest of us kept pretending to be.

Now, don’t take this moment to gloat.
There’s no high road for you here.
My memory’s failed to collapse
like I did in the one grass stain of shadow
on our newly paved way home.
You left me behind, knowing
I didn’t have the backbone for it.
But should I have seen it then, digging
at the base of your bobbing blond skull?
Did it chase you down in your furious sprint
through the sun’s broad stroke of August?
Swathed by the hazy, bulldozed ghost
our asbestos-stuffed school had become,
you moved at a speed I’ve never learned to match.

I didn’t see you come back
by the time of my revival,
but there you were, staking claim
to your own crush of green
beneath sugar maple mercy,
sunburnt and smirking beside me.

Steven O. Young Jr. is knitted within the Great Lakes' mitten, where he earned an MA from Oakland University and occasionally slathers soundstages with his body weight's worth of paint. His latest literary homes include Revolute, Barzakh Magazine, Havik, 300 Days of Sun, and Washington Square Review.

‘Histrionic Toys’, ‘Weltschmerz Waltz’, ‘The Persistence of Disobedience’, ‘Californian Confrontation’ & ‘Questioned Toward the End’

Liz Jakimow is a poet and photographer who lives in the beautiful valley of Araluen in Australia, where she is inspired by the mountains and nature that surround her. After someone she loved passed away, Liz set herself the task of taking one photo everyday. At the same time, she was also expressing a lot of her grief through poetry. The photos and poems from this initial three-month grieving period came together in an exhibition and book titled A journey with grief: exploring loss through photography and poetry. Liz’s photography and some of her poetry can be found at www.lizjakimowphotography.com

Histrionic Toys

as things begin again

crude incivilities

understanding so little of it

so what if

I've eyed a life alone

at ten past ten

adrift in an accumulation of the unknown

I've been maddened by the immensity of expected maladies

in another place and time

I've been trapped by the inevitability of the childish beliefs

amid the stillness

in city central

there's no one to tell

passion slips out

and there is no second chance

as anyone can see

dreadful answers

dying inside

because of a lame intrigue

playing with histrionic toys

as you surely know

in stretches of the forced monotony

with earbuds on

Weltschmerz Waltz

Ah, the joy of editorializing about rejected possibilities while dancing! It's truly a match made in heaven, isn't it? Picture this: a room full of passionate dancers, gracefully moving their bodies to the rhythm, all the while discussing the endless what-ifs and could-have-beens of life.

Who needs actual solutions when you can just dance around the problems, right?

As the rejected possibilities pile up, let's not forget to add a touch of editorial flair to the mix. Imagine twirling around the dance floor, passionately expressing your opinions on all the missed opportunities and failed attempts. Who needs to actually take action when you can just talk about it while busting a move? It's the perfect way to let off steam and avoid any actual progress.

And let's not forget the beauty of dancing while editorializing about rejected possibilities. It's like a synchronized symphony of complaints and critiques, all performed with the grace and elegance of a seasoned dancer. Who needs to focus on the positive when you can just dwell on the negative? So, let's put on our dancing shoes and get ready to waltz through a sea of missed chances and unfulfilled dreams. After all, what better way to spend our time than lamenting over what could have been, all while showcasing our impeccable dance moves?

The Persistence of Disobedience

do you get it now

it's beyond control

the errors in life

the pathetic tricks of the escapist's son

in the dark

bedeviled by a fateful reality

as a boat floats by on the Lethe

it's beyond everyone

these contrived accusations

evident in a little dissonance

without warning

these are the days of

breaking apart

the days of uninterrupted drama

one flight up

at the end of a long conversation

the frustration never stops

dreaming up a few lines

over and over

a circumstance of the game

at minimum wage

this child petting rabbits

involved in an intolerable pain

Californian Confrontation

insanity as darkness comes

waits with a drink in hand

angrier than the unearthly wickedness of a hellish subject

discord acknowledges the madness

it all adds up

just as predicted

an impossible hurt

a cold separation

in the noise

faded recollections

trying to untangle a spirit's hellish chaos

will everything be all right you ask

and I say

this is no time to struggle

with someone losing it

we will keep it going

we're confined to a destructive desperation

wondering about the horror

I'm being watched

heavy with this twist of fate

the diversions of the cat

risking the darkened endgame

as I walk in the La Puente twilight

I'm going beyond this diabolical frustration

implicated in purple nonsense

risking violet provocations

Questioned Toward the End

in Los Angeles tonight

it's the stuff within

entangled in this or that

the departing has been here all along

watching from behind a curtain

reflected in all the doubt

I'm sentenced to making matters worse

asking for time

in the dark

I'm making do with a wicked agony

did you learn nothing from an aesthete

I'm looking with different eyes

what does doting matter

it all ends

why did it turn out this way

of course

I'm caught off guard by forever

forever and ever

reality has nothing better to do

besides everything else

somewhere

David M. Alper's forthcoming poetry collection is Hush. His work appears in Variant Literature, Red Ogre Review, Oxford Magazine, and elsewhere. He is an educator in New York City.

‘Vital stats’, ‘The Purloined Hearts Of Southern Command’, & ‘Not Joes’

                            Artist - Christine Simpson, www.christinesimpsonphotoart.com

Vital stats

Perhaps in the next war
we can put every soldier's face
on a bubblegum card.

Force civilians to collect them,
thousands of new ones every day,
and issue update stickers
for all the wounded,
the missing in action,
all the dead, the deserted,
captured,
the executed.

I love stickers
as honors won,
medals given,
ribbons earned.

The public, (that is,
the non-combatant parts of the world),
may sicken of the fight
just a little quicker.

I suppress the idea
because it would really be perverted,
in true war, to where we would
only collect faces of the enemy.

waiting for 'our' official updated dead,
wounded, or captured stickers,
we would take the 'others'
to poke out their eyes with dart tips,
burn their faces with flame,
boil the disfigured cards to mush...

which we would use for magic spells
and prayers for death and plagues
and our teeth would rot out by the fistfuls
from the bile we poison ourselves on!

How easily war gets away from us.

The Purloined Hearts Of Southern Command

Ms Hometown Rose
was recruited by error.
She received the draft notice
via mistake of her
shortened surname.

An unnatural twist that
birthed empathy.

She sent her photo
to the first Joe
who showed it around.
Naturally.

She got other letters.
Naturally.

Her picture showed
a real honest to goodness goddess,
a stateside beauty queen with
girl next door give-a-damn.

She kept copies of her letters
from over three hundred Joe's
under her bed, in files, boxes,
on her side of the attic.
In time, they would all
come home, or die there.
In time, they would all forget.

Naturally.

Beauty queens get buried
with all the other memories of the war,
all the things real life sweethearts
and wives might not understand.

Her letters died in the fires
of a jealous ex-husband
who never served in war,
or, as she puts it,
just never served.

Not Joes

In a war with some name,
we, the not-Joe's, did not go.
Never went. Never knew.

It was a test given
and not taken,
graduation held but not
attended, an
initiation of fire
not felt.

Most of the generation
un burned
un scarred
un healing
marches on.

The sound of the missing drummer
flying the blank flag,
vacant colors,
without declaration
or distinction,
knowing what it is
to be left alive.

Burdened with virginal courage,
un expose guts,
un tried fortitude.

Lucky in the draft,
lucky in life,
we drink without the
grateful tastes
of the seasoned survivor.
Unworthy of the actual
survivor's guilt
denied to civilians,

we live our
non-veteran lives, and
most likely meet our fates
with non-valor.

Unless, we do our duty
to cherish, cradle, and
deliver on this peace dividend,
paid for by the dead,
and those who's duty
was not to die.

Mark Kessinger was born in Huntington WV, attended college at Cleveland State University, lived in Oklahoma City and now resides in Houston TX. He is a two-year recipient of a creative writing scholarship from CSU, a founding member and president of the Houston Council of Writers, and former editor of Voices from Big Thicket. His poetry has appeared in many publications and four anthologies.

‘I Found A Dollar In A Pine Tree’, ‘The Appraisal’ & ‘There’s Nothing Like Your First Heartbreak’

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.

I Found A Dollar In A Pine Tree

in my backyard, gored on a branch.
At first I thought it was a butterfly
green and preening in the drenched sunlight.
A stormy wind blew it, I figured,
then, like a shrike, impaled it to kill it.
Like a vulture, I dragged my ladder to the tree
leaving two muddy scars along the grass.
I pulled myself up higher and higher
leaving balance on the ground until I fell.
I tumbled into the tree, shattering the dead
branches, knocking down the nest of a robin,
and landing in the verdant dark. the dollar
caught again by the wind, pulled free and flew
over the fence, into my neighbor’s yard.

The Appraisal

She turns me over in her hands. Over
then over again, less sight than touch,
each delicate finger an instrument
like an antennae, sensing the hidden
things. Hmm, she moans as she feels the way I’m
insecure of my voice. That’s interesting
slips from betwixt her lips when she feels my
shame at not supporting my brother when
he needed to get sober. I wonder, she says as I try to hide, like a child
standing in front of a broken lamp, my
attraction to her. Gently, so to not
break the still-whole parts of me, she sets me
back on the shelf, where I sit. Still.

There’s Nothing Like Your First Heartbreak

She cries like hornet stings, red
wet history on her cheeks
and the past washed away, the way
a careless spill pulls ink from
a page. A kiss only consoles
in completeness. The halves
and parts that built you like a tower,
screaming to the clouds,
tore you from the sky. Affection
is its own infection, love its own
vaccine. She built, brick by brick,
a tolerance to You. But You
locked yourself in a tomb, elated
to have buried part of her with You.

Carl Vaughan is a University of Nebraska - Omaha Creative Writing graduate and former Creative Nonfiction editor for UNO's 13th Floor Literary Magazine. Carl works as a freelance book editor and has been published in "Rigorous Magazine" and UNO's "The Gateway" magazine. He is a gamer, movie buff, and foodie. When he is not working or writing, you can find him jamming to good music.

‘Soma’

                            Artist - Christine Simpson, www.christinesimpsonphotoart.com

Soma

A rainbow of blocks with numbers increasing from left to right, top to bottom, stares back at me. The unreliable BMI scale. Some of the numbers I can’t read due to the shine of LED overhead lights streaking the laminated poster with a nasty glare. I peer at the digital number that looks up at my nostrils when I’m facing forward. Ninety-eight pounds. The pungent smell of new scrubs and sterilization eminent the air. I feel dirty; I always do in a hospital.

“Three less than last week.”

The nurse in scrubs -- baby blue, the kind regurgitated all over the walls of a gender reveal party -- stands less than half an arms length away. I’ve never seen her before. Her face is set with thin wrinkles, framed by wisps of straw hair. Her neck juts out like a bird; her weight is resting on one leg - the common nurse stance. She’s new here, but she’s not entirely new to nursing. I can tell.

She’s writing on a form too far from view to read. “Follow me, we are going to room two.”

The door is already ajar because of the doorstop, but she splays her arm over it, showing some form of ownership as I walk in. “The doctor will be in, in just a few.” Her left foot instinctively releases the brake, and I see her flip the metal tab with the room’s number outward so it’s perpendicular to the wall, to show I’m ready to be seen. The door slides shut almost ghost-like, until a light sound announces it clicking into lace.
...
The pamphlet I was given shows a black and white version of a forlorn, depressed teenager leaning against a wall, peering out a window. She’s awkward, uncomfortable. The title in a thin font questions “Eating Disorder? What You Should Know if Your Child Has One.” Wrong audience, I say aloud. They gave me the wrong one.

The pages stick together, making it hard to open, and the pamphlet slips from my grasp to the hardwood floor. While reaching for it, my hands stop mid-motion. I stare at my outstretched hand. I no longer shake anymore when I’m hungry - just one of a few bodily changes I’ve noticed. It’s like someone turned off the craving of sustenance in my body. It’s no longer needed, finally.

Upon retrieval, my mom walks in the room. Her fashion is a slightly wrinkled set of lilac scrubs.

“How was the doctor’s?”

“Good -- great.”
“Did you get the prescription for your hyperthyroidism?”

I have no such thing.

“Yep. I went to the pharmacy today.”

Another lie.

“Awesome.”

Her body eases into the recliner diagonal to the sofa I’m on. Clandestinely, I shift the pamphlet under my right thigh as my mom takes off her no-slip shoes. Her tradition is to rub her feet after each shift in the ICU. Like clockwork, a sigh releases from her open mouth as
her eyes close in solace.
“Domino's tonight?” Her eyes still closed.

“Well it is Friday, right?”

“Mhmm, I’ll call in ten.”

The tension in her forehead releases, as her fingers rub a knot out of place in the arch
of her foot. Another sigh enters the air.

I stare at her. A plastic claw holds her golden hair away from her face, in a nest at the crown of her head. Well-shaped eyebrows overscore her set of gray eyes, while a small nose slopes gently down her face for the big main event: pouty lips, still a youthful shade. She’s beautiful. It’s the only way I remember her. When I was younger, I would look at her features, wondering how I could will my masculine jaw and dark brown kinky hair to mirror her soft femininity. I was never picked on as a child because of my looks. I was too average for that. I was always tiny. Small breasts; nonexistent ass. I was never a woman in anyone’s eyes. No curves that drew the attention of an older man’s gaze. I never would be that kind of girl. Not like I ever wanted that, necessarily. I knew back then, I just wanted to be pretty. I wanted to evolve out of the boring image of my long-lost dad and into something, someone wanted to look at.

“What’s wrong, Emily?”

Even my name was dull. I break my daze. “What?”

“You looked angry or, I’m not sure, maybe disgusted with me.”

“Resting bitch face is a real burden.”

My mom’s beautiful eyebrows pinch together with concern, but not too much concern.

“I’m just thinking,” I say.

This time, it’s not a lie.
...
I was in a sophomore biology class when I first heard the word soma. Although it owned the same number of letters as the word body, it felt more delicate on the tongue. It gave the idea of four limbs to a central connector and a wobbly sphere for a head more grace than the word body did. Soma was scientific, but ethereal in a bewildering kind of way. I could have with my soma, but not my body. When I was hating my encasing, I always thought I was thinking of it as my body because nobody could hate a soma. Sometimes the word comes to mind, interrupting a thought, and I let the two syllables drip slowly from my mouth. So-ma.

“Did you tell your mom about these weekly visits?”

“Yeah, of course.”

She knows. She knows about the wrong condition too.

“Good. Your mom is a great friend to many of the girls in family medicine. No one would want to out you accidentally.”

Her silvery gray eyes are flat, without emotion. “You, uh, you wouldn’t talk to her about my eating disorder though, would you?”
Her eyes widen. “No, no dear. I would never go out of my way to speak about any patient’s health. I just meant, you know, if any of us were asking about the family.”

“Mmh...right.”

“Don’t mean to concern you about a thing!”
...
When you lose weight unexpectedly and unintentionally over time people usually have the same response -- to say nothing. They would rather talk to the person who is gaining weight; whose fat is hugging the waistline of their jeans that once fit them. They may not say it outright, but they will insinuate the need to lose a few pounds by asking them to a gym date. With me, no one has said anything about the 21 pounds-and-counting that I’ve lost. There is something more privileged about an eating disorder that reflects lost weight instead
of gained weight. Society says visible rib cages are prettier than the concave dips on upper arms and thighs as symptoms of cellulite. I feel proud about mine; about my ribs on view, that is. I stare at them in my bathroom mirror, tracing each one with a bony finger until I feel
content. My morning ritual.

“I haven’t seen you take your anti-thyroid meds lately.”

As the non-patient of a mom who doubles as a nurse, I’ve noticed her metaphorical habit of picking up the closest knife and gently digging it in suggestively, yet politely. There are no direct questions in this household. She’s not on nurse duty; there’s no need for that. “I take them every morning; before work.”

“Oh, I just thought maybe I’d see the script laying around your bathroom at some point.”

“Does this mean you’ve been going in my bathroom, looking around? I’m 22; I’m not a teenager anymore, you shouldn’t be going into my stuff or telling me what to do.”

“Hey - don’t start a fight with me! You’re the one who doesn’t clean the bathroom and puts the onus on me. If you were living on your own, like you were when you were at school, you wouldn’t get all these questions.”

My stare falters. An instinctive eye roll regards the floor.

“Jeez, even if I haven’t seen them, you sure are moody like you are taking them. Guess I shouldn’t question you.”

She leaves the room cold, or maybe it's just the now 90 pounds of me needing some outside warmth, even if it's someone’s personality.

...
I like making lists. I have lists of everything, such as the number of months I’ve gone without my period. It’s like I’m identifying as a gymnast or a competitive dancer. I’m bigger than myself because I can stop something most every other woman undergoes. There’s strength in that, I believe. It takes a lot of perseverance to love your body, as it does to fully hate it. For the longest time, I just prefered to preserve the latter feeling. Now, things are changing.

I recheck the door is locked. A used orange medicine bottle sits on the bathroom counter. Digging into my purse, I find the pharmacy store bag. Sugar pills, or essentially the same thing, according to my research. The best part is they look the same as anti-thyroid meds. The pills cascade into the cylindrical tube, the one that promises I’m taking the right ones. To the side of the bottle is a sticker I created, looking imperceptibly different from a prescription tag. I ring it around the bottle gently, giving it good pressure for good measure. Admiring my work, I take one pill and throw it back before sliding the lid closed, tossing the bottle haphazardly on the counter. It’s ready for anyone who wants to see it.

“Emily? Emily?”

The normalcy of those syllables in my ear wakes me up. The screen of my vision comes in fuzzy on the edges, but I’m present. Enough.

“Mmmh?”

“You’re sleeping again. What if Patrice saw you?”

Thumbing spit away from my mouth and pushing hair behind my ears I get myself together.
“I know; I know.”

“You’ve said that every day for the last two weeks. It’s time to figure your shit out,” my co-worker said, whispering only the vulgarity into the space that is my cubicle. She stares at me with worry. I can see this. I can tell she’s giving her pitying look; it’s the same as everyone else. Eyes slightly glossy, brows pulled together just a touch, and a thin frown just above the chin. Looking at her, I’m starting to comprehend my spacey presence. “Are you sleeping alright?”

“Yeah, I’m just...extra sleepy. You know? Maybe, I don’t know, maybe I’m just B-12 deficient.”

“That’s serious stuff. I hear bad shit can happen if you don’t take shots or vitamins... just, just make sure to tell your doctor.”

“Yes, I know. I really should.”

“Maybe you need something to eat for a little more energy? I have an energy bar. You want it?”

Loads of protein. Calories stacked on calories. Yet, she’s yearning -- begging me to take it.

“Okay, yeah, thank you.”

She hands the silvery wrapped workout bar to me. Her face reads overjoyed, with a dash of pity. I might puke just looking at it, holding it, thinking I’m absorbing its calories from my senses. What she doesn’t know is that I have a small spiral notebook hiding in my file cabinet, with chicken scratch as numbers representing the calories I eat for the day.
...

The remaining drops of coffee drip as a metronome into my mug. Coffee pools at the spout until the heaviness becomes too much and forms a droplet. Plop! The already settled coffee in the mug splatters just slightly, as if an ant were to make a cannonball into its very own ant-sized pool.

“Emily?”

I blink out the reverie I see in the coffee. “Mmh, yes?”

“Can you pick up the pizza tonight for dinner?”

“Sure can.” I turn toward my mom as she is picking up her work bag to leave.

“Holy shit, Emily...have you been sleeping?”

Unaware of my appearance, my eyebrows scrunch together to question her.

“Your undereyes are purple and bluish.” Her eyes scan my body head to toe. “And you’re so pale. I’ve never seen you this pale before.”
I turn back to the coffee, dismissing her continued stare. Grabbing the low fat milk to prepare my coffee, I feel her eyes burning my back with unasked questions.

“And why do your clothes look so...baggy?”

“Mom, I gotta go. I can’t be late for work,” I say, shoving the milk back into the refrigerator.

Her eyes continue to etch my every movement, figuring out the sudoku of my health problems.

“You’re going for your weekly check up today, right?”

“Yes, mom, as always.”

“We’ll talk over dinner then. I want an--” I slammed the garage door, ending her sentence prematurely.

...
I’m on the precipice of understanding what love is. I’m entering forbidden territory. I’m no longer the executioner of my soma. I’m an admirer. I see myself from the outside, like a ball of energy shoved somewhere deep - that thing; that soul of mine -- whisked itself out to look at myself. Sure, I have a few bruises, purple and green like an overly ripe fruit. Yet, if you continue to look, you will see the protruding bones. The angles are beautiful. I’m a precious doll, left on the shell. Who wouldn’t love someone, something so fragile? I just need to be handled with care. I’m finally handling myself with expert care.

How long do I have to wait?

“Excuse me, ma’am. I’ve been here for 25 minutes. I have a recurring appointment
with my doctor. Is something wrong?”

“Uh, let me check our notes. I just clocked in. What’s your name?”

“Emily Loveless.”

Her dark finger scans a binder of typed schedules on a spreadsheet. She comes to my name, I assume. “Yes, you’re still on. I’ll call you when you’re ready!” Her black curls bounce in unison with the lilt of fake positivity in her voice.

Back toward the seafoam waiting room chairs I anticipate the squeak my ass will make sitting on the plasticy outer veneer. The off-white walls display large pictures denoting so-called powerful words in the English language, like “integrity,” with a bird flying so close, but not touching some body of water beneath it. I never understood the meaning of those paintings -- the ones that are found in most office buildings, as if it is not a proper office building without one. They always left me a bit melancholy and less inspired.

A girl, no older than eight, with pigtails tied high in her hair, stares at me from across the room. I look away, only to momentarily return my glance toward her. Piercing gray-blue eyes stay locked on me. A worn doll, one a mom would make for their children in the ‘90s, is
nestled in her arms.

“It’s rude to stare, honey,” a woman who appears to be her mom says to her daughter, whose eyes only veer away when caught. When I peer back, I see her looking at me in short intervals so as not to make her mom suspect a thing. She shifts her small hand up to her mother’s ear and whispers not so quietly, “I’m scared for her, Mommy.”

“Emily Loveless,” the nurse I previously spoke with calls out.

“Another three pounds, Emily.”

I can’t make eye contact with the nurse taking note of my weight. Out of shame, my head faces the digital numbers on the scale. I lie.“I swear I don’t know how. I’m doing everything the doctor says.”

“Well, this isn’t between me and you. It’s between you and your doctor,” she says, leading me to a room for my weekly check-in. “Just a few minutes and the doctor will be in.” And the door is shut. I’m alone with the sterile smell keeping me company.

Scanning the clothing I’m wearing, I make sure the solid green shirt and boot cut jeans I have on are baggy enough to not show my body’s contours. I pull out my phone, and turn on the camera app to see my face. Skinny, slightly tired looking, but awake enough. I give it a heavy-handed slap. Pinch my cheeks for more color. Well-looking enough. I double check this every time I step into this room, taking account of what I look like, what changes they might see other than my decreased weight. My dangling legs begin to kick out of nervous anticipation. Sometimes the doctor takes a few minutes or a --

She walks in. My brows furrow.

“What are you doing here?”

“Honey, your doctor asked me to come in--”

“Is this some sick joke? What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk. I know what’s going on.”

“You don’t know anything...is this even legal?”

Now my mom’s brows furrow. For me it’s rage; for her concern. I want to slap the emotion off her face. She reaches her left arm out, placing her palm on my forearm closest to her, giving me a gentle touch. I shift my body, dodging what may next be a hug. Calming? Is this supposed to be calming?

“Get out now. I want my doctor.”

“Honey, you’ve been drastically losing weight. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me, but you haven’t...plus, I’ve heard. The staff talks.”

“Who told you? Does HIPPA mean crap to you and everyone else? What does privacy even mean to any of you?”

“They, like me, are just trying to look out for you. That’s all this is.”

“SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. This can’t be happening!”

Anger boils in my stomach. It starts to rise up into my chest, until my throat is burning. It comes out as a guttural scream. My mom’s eyes shift from side to side, knowing others must have heard it.

“GET OUT. GET OUT. GET OUT.”

“Honey, please stop,” she pleads.

Staff is knocking at the door, asking in tight, constrained voices if we need help. The voice is familiar. It’s one of the nurses I know.”

“It’s okay; we’re okay.”

‘HELP ME, DAMNIT.” My voice box is hot and sore from the shrieks.

“We will open the door. We have to, Susan. She’s our patient,” the nurse says opposite the closed door. As it creaks open, I jump down from the patient’s table, running out the door. Behind me I hear the nurse calling for security.

My mind grows dizzy, my body disoriented. Two large, uniformed men, fumble toward me. I can’t make out the features of their faces. They could be anyone.

“NOOOO. I’m fine. I’m FINE,” I scream at them, making a U-turn in the opposite direction, as one grabs my arms. I’m caught. Their grip seizes most of me, except for my flailing legs and my head. “STOOOP. I’m FINE. Stop hurting me.”

I see a blotch of red on one of their faces. The man appears to be covering it. “Why ME? Why? Stop hurting ME!”

A needle enters the surface of my soma. Not my soma.

Black consumes me.

Looking down at myself I see it. Everyone outside the hospital, those once preoccupied by their phones or in groups surrounded by small talk, stare in my direction now. They see an everyday girl’s body laying on a gurney, laced in a straitjacket.

It’s just another sad sight to see.

Jessica Clifford is a short story writer, poet, and former journalist. She views humans as Homo Narrans - the storytelling species - that understand each other only through shared experience (real or make-believe). She is published in The Coraddi literary magazine and two academic journals, including Kaleidoscope: A Graduate Journal of Qualitative Communication Research and Carolinas Communication Annual.