JIMMY AND HIDEKI TALK IT OVER — KANA PHILIP

/

Jimmy Bartleman held his finger to his lips.
             “Shhh,” he said.
             The machine clunked and whirred as it came on, lighting up three bright blue LEDs.
             “I’m being serious,” Hideki said.
             “I know. So am I.”
             Hideki looked across a white meadow to the little beach town curling along the water and ran a comb through his black hair. “What I’m trying to say is, they have names for everything now. Know what I mean? Named it all, right down to the last bit.” He put the comb in his back pocket and made a chopping motion. “Extraterrestrial visits? Weather balloons, they analyzed the footage. Sea Monsters? We’ve been to the bottom of the ocean, nothing there. You got a new invention? Google it. Someone already had it,” he waved one finger in the air. “Ever tightening circles...”
             “Shhh,” said Jimmy. “You hear it now?" He adjusted the machine and the LED’s spun faster. "I think I hear it!”
             The wind pushed rows of nothing through the field.
             “I don’t know,” said Hideki. He cocked his head.
             Jimmy held his breath. His ears grew tired but he heard nothing. “I guess it’s gone.”
             Hideki was combing his hair again, “It never was.”
             In the distant town, tiny white gulls fought over McDonalds trash.
             “Everything’s been figured out, Jimmy. No room.”
             “That’s what you keep saying.” He shut the machine down and pulled his bike out of the tall meadow grass. ”I’m going home. You're depressing today.”
             “It’s not me that’s depressing, its all this” Hideki waved his hands around at nothing.

***

Jimmy stood in the shower for ten minutes. He opened the bedroom window, sat on his roof and watched the lights of the little town blinking out in the darkness. A pale finger of reflected moonlight shivered in the ocean, pointing, pointing.

Kana Philip was born in the great state of Michigan. He currently splits time between up and down state New York, where he is the creative director and co-founder of a mobile media startup.

THE END, IN THREE ACTS — EMMA WILSON

/

1.
Walking to church, the birds crank circles in a flat, low sky. I’d like to shoot one with my rifle, drape it like bastard pearls around your neck. I knew I’d fall hard for someone born in May or named it, the way you hurtle towards the heart of something like the ocean deep-throating a plane. Everyone mentions the weather before bad news. Before bed I touch myself and think It’ll rain tomorrow. Everyone misses out. I moan and a black hole opens on my palm. I come to visions of birds dropping from the clouds, gagged by acid rain.

 

2.
I lost it in an abandoned trailer. It hurt; frost and ash collected on the windowpane. He held down my wrists in case they made wings. His whiskers scratched a rash on my neck, a devil’s continent. Afterward, I stole a cigarette from his soft pack. “It’s like talking to an asteroid, being with you,” he said, pulling on his boots. Crunching through the dead fields on my walk home, I shivered, I smoked, I coughed. Later, I ignored my mother when she yelled at me because of the smell. When I boiled my clothes the next day, my underwear predicted a galloping red dawn.

3.
When they sent me away, the ash fell like snow. They strapped me down and I wanted to run away to Antarctica with you, every morning skating on wild ice. After sex we could lift our shirts, scrape off more fat to burn. Maybe Antarctica is where we came from, the land where we were full. Let us rewrite our origin stories: Me, I was born packed in snow. My mother cut the umbilical cord with her teeth, said it tasted like horse hooves. And you came with crystals dotting your collarbone, a full beard covered in frost. We crawled from our mothers and chose our own names, blue though we were.

Emma Wilson is a writer and editor living in Central Illinois. Her poetry has appeared in Magma Poetry, and she blogs about creative recovery at mentalthrillness.com. 

NAME DROPPING — CHRIS CAMPANIONI

/

Story of your life                      

                           Or three minutes & forty-five seconds ago, later, until you switch tracks on the M, the part where we go above ground, rising higher through clouds, sky, factories repurposed as luxury lofts, pipelines intact, autographed with an artist’s insignia, anonymous warnings, a sign that says

   THIS IS A SAFE SPACE

   PLEASE KEEP IT FRIENDLY & NICE

There are two types of people (amid the image of the Hudson rippling through brown-gray glass; everything caked with specks as in an old film): ones who float down the river & ones who are the river (deep breath, switch track). Unable to ever really choose a hymn to play to its end even as the end nears, a fascination with strangers, places & names dropping at the speed of the brief recess between chorus & refrain—Did you hear? People talk & people talking through typing, fingers poised as on a trigger, each in our own seat keeping to ourselves. Silent except for the trembling of the train car, only its trembling to give           

   Gap, break, interlude

Only one more stop to go, a pause & prayer for permanence & permeance, to be everywhere

& all at once, to be all the time as if a liquid, what you always wished for even as a child, one lone tear traversing a cheek (rub it out, or in). You’re feeling the feeling of feeling’s return, where you find yourself when you think no one is looking. Because you could not stop you kept moving, at least through the mix you made, sixty-three seconds till eternity curated to turn from one thing to another, jubilant/wistful as the sky turns too from pale purple to soot black, equal parts imitation & pastiche of a picture you remember seeing somewhere else. Looking from the Hudson (out of view, with another high-rise-about-to-be but for now a bunch of bricks, scaffolds, skeletal rods, discarded tape, more warnings) to the people on streets, thinking about a line or lines, how we move &what moves us, if not only song, if not only a hand on one’s hip, moving slowly, the sun slowly disappearing again. All that it takes as the disc skips, finishes, repeats.

You could sit like this forever (murmur, respire), slowly disappearing out of you, name dropped to live again as someone else.

I could sit like this forever. Life imitates art, do you know

The meaning of life is to pass it on.

Chris Campanioni’s recent work appears in The Brooklyn Rail, Quiddity, and Prelude. His “Billboards” poem that responded to Latino stereotypes and mutable—and often muted—identity in the fashion world was awarded the 2013 Academy of American Poets Prize. He co-edits PANK magazine and lives in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn.

NOW YOU KNOW THE TRUTH ABOUT THE MOON — ALISON WISDOM

/

Did you pack the small one? Did you make sure it isn’t so full that it can’t close all the way?
             Yes. That’s very good. We’re going out tonight, and it will be dark. It will still be nighttime, and the sun won’t be up.
             I know what I said before. But listen—It wasn’t true. You know the moon? Of course you know the moon, I’m sorry. I know you are very clever. I know you have eyes.
             The moon. It doesn’t actually make the dead rise. The moon is up, right this second, and the dead are still in the ground. And the moon can’t call any wolves. There are no witches. But this is true, so listen. Okay. Go pull back the curtain, just a little and quick!
             Did you see the moon? And how yellow it was? And bright?
             That’s because there’s gold in the moon. Remember the old stories? Men go crazy for gold. It gets in their blood, and they can’t be rid of it. Do you remember your father’s eyes? How they were green with little specks of gold?
             Your father, the gold got so deep into his blood that it came out his eyes. If you cut him open, liquid gold would come spilling out.
             That’s why he had to leave. It made him crazy. I couldn’t let that happen to you. If you saw the moon for too long, if you went outside, the gold would get in your blood.
             That’s the real reason why you couldn’t leave. I’m sorry I lied to you, but I had to.
             Before we go outside, I need you to climb on my back and hold on, and you’re going to carry your bag on your back. We’ll look like monkeys, each of us with something on our backs. Won’t that be silly?
             There could be monkeys there, where we’re going. I’m not sure. But you must keep your eyes closed because of the moon. No matter what you hear or what I say or what anyone else says. Keep them closed. Even if you smell smoke, like there’s something burning, even if you hear me crying, even if we fall down. If we fall down, then wait. Even if you call my name and I don’t answer. Even if you hear fireworks and you want to see them. You can’t. Keep your eyes closed the whole time. The burning is just from people’s campfires. There are lots of people camping. They’re keeping warm because it’s night, and the moon isn’t hot like the sun.
             If I’m crying, it’s because I’m happy that we’re going on such a big adventure together. If we fall down, it’s only because I tripped in the dark.
             It’s okay. I’ll be fine. Anyway, now you know the truth about the moon. So get your bag, and put it on your back.  
             Yes, just like a little monkey. Now here we go.

Alison Wisdom holds an MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her fiction is forthcoming in Indiana Review and appears in Ploughshares, Columbia Journal online, Quiddity, and elsewhere. She lives in Houston, Texas with her husband Josh and daughter Margaux. Find her online at www.alisonwisdom.com.

JUST LIKE MUMMY — SANTINO PRINZI

/

When I grow up I’m gonna be just like Mummy. Mummy told me I was gonna have a little brother soon and then her belly got bigger and bigger. Daddy had to help her lots; she was too tired to play with me sometimes. I would walk around with a football or a pillow underneath my t-shirt and pretend to have a large belly just like Mummy. She’d smile and laugh and rub her belly and sometimes she’d make me put my hand on it too and I could feel my baby brother inside. He would kick – he wanted to come out and play, Mummy told me.
             After baby Ben was born Mummy and Daddy bought me a baby doll and a pram so I can push my dolly around like Mummy does. I love Ben and I love my doll which is called Ben too. I fasten him in his pram so he is safe and doesn’t fall out. When Mummy is feeding Ben a bottle of milk I feed my baby doll too. The baby doll makes noises and its eyes open and close when I tilt it. I copy Mummy and rest the baby over my chest and gently rub its back. Baby Ben has fallen asleep and Mummy puts him in his cot, pulls a blankie over him, and watches him sleep; she sometimes smiles and her eyes are always shiny. I’ve looked in the mirror lots of times to see if I can make my eyes go shiny too.
             Tonight Ben is crying so Mummy picks him up from his cot and rocks him in her arms. I do the same. I make the same hush-hush sound Mummy makes and I bounce lightly on the balls of my feet. His crying is getting louder; I make crying sounds too because my baby isn’t real and can’t cry any louder. Ben won’t stop crying and Mummy’s face is red and she starts crying too. I want to be just like Mummy so I pretend to cry. I mimic Mummy’s panting. Mummy yells get to bed. I go away with dolly and I hide behind the door because I need to see what Mummy does to make Ben cry if I’m gonna grow up to be like Mummy. I imagine another me which I mime shouting at so I can be just like Mummy.
             Through the crack in the door I watch Mummy lay Ben on the sofa, so I rest my baby on the floor. His little arms and legs are thrashing up and down. Mummy is still crying as she grabs Ben’s blue blankie, folds it into a rectangle, and holds it over his face. She presses it down hard as if she is trying to touch the floor through the sofa. She’s sobbing lots. Ben is getting quieter and quieter.
             I run and find my blankie so I can be just like Mummy and make my baby sleep too.

Santino Prinzi is currently an English Literature with Creative Writing student at Bath Spa University, and was awarded the 2014/15 Bath Spa University Flash Fiction Prize. His flash fiction and prose poetry has been published, or is forthcoming, in various places including Litro Online, Flash Frontier, the 2014 and 2015 National Flash Fiction Day (UK) anthologies, Unbroken Literary Journal, and has been selected for The Best of Vine Leaves Journal 2015.  His website is https://tinoprinzi.wordpress.com and his Twitter is @tinoprinzi.

SICK GIRLS — LAUREN BECKER

/

For Kelly Davio

The doctor said not to, so I went ahead and gave up. Because when the doctor looked concerned about the diagnosis, contrary to education and training in keeping a straight face when dealing with both the ridiculous and the death sentence, I knew I had permission. So I went ahead and gave up.
             Giving up is like flying. You are untethered to ordinary tasks: don’t open mail, don’t go to the dentist, don’t clean your apartment, don’t learn new things, don’t eat healthy. I decided to eat a lot. I had always wanted more and giving up created opportunity. Five months later, I emerge, living, from a haze of sugar and fat. I am 21 pounds heavier than my already heavy prior frame. Five months later, I don’t recognize myself; I didn’t think it would, but it matters.
             I try everything. Weight Watchers, juice fasts, cooking healthy foods, starvation, but I always end up eating whole pies and plate size cookies and deep, overfilled bowls of pasta in creamy sauce. I go to Overeaters Anonymous. I realize I am not special. Relief and disappointment battle at first, but relief wins out when I meet the other sick girls.
             Sick Girl #1 has breast cancer. She thought that cancer treatments would leave her thin and gaunt, but her stoic doctors give her steroids, which make her hungry, which makes her eat cake and whole pizzas until she is puffy with bloat. She is fat, and she is pissed, because—Jesus—insult to injury. Cancer is supposed to at least make you thin. She cannot die looking like this. She cannot live like this, either. She finds me at OA.
             We both find Sick Girl #2. Unspoken, each of us likes Sick Girl #2 better. She is sick because she was fat, and she has gotten even fatter. She has lost one foot and the other is ready to go and a foot is not enough weight loss to make a difference.
             We meet outside of OA, usually at Sick Girl #2’s place, because she has more trouble getting around. She has a wheelchair and hand controls in her car, but she is uninterested in adjusting to her circumstances. She is not brave. None of us is brave or inspiring. We are sick girls with resentments and fried chicken and French fries and pans of brownies and bricks of cheese. We are too fat to be poster girls. We are too hungry to stop.
             Sick Girl #1 gets sicker. She is off steroids and on chemo and radiation and, even when she eats, she vomits. She does not come to Sick Girl #2’s apartment much anymore because the smell of our food nauseates her. And she misses it. The ritual of engorgement. She misses being fat. I miss liking her.
             Sick Girl #1 dies. Just like she wanted, she is thin. We mourn Sick Girl #1. The fat one. In memorial, we expand to fill the empty space. 

Lauren Becker is editor of Corium Magazine. Her work has appeared in Wigleaf, The Rumpus, Whiskeypaper, Tin House (online), and The Best Small Fictions of 2015. Her collection of short fiction, If I Would Leave Myself Behind, was published by Curbside Splendor in 2014.

OUT TO SEA — VICTOR VEKTOR

/

Imagine a boat. Did you do it? Good job. Now imagine that boat being lifted by a wave the size of two houses. The wave crushes your boat, sending you into blackness. You taste salt. Open your eyes, dummy. The houses you pictured, picture them again. Good job. You’re in one now. The salt is gone. You smell dinner. Fish, no, steak. Filet mignon. Good job.
             A woman with long blonde hair places the steak and mashed potatoes on an oak plank table and invites you to sit down.
             No time! No way!
             The woman starts floating in the living room. Water spurts out her eyes, now her mouth. Her hair turns green. Her stomach turns brown. You lunge at her, sinking your teeth into her medium rare tummy. She screams. Her scream sounds like your voice. Blood runs down your mouth, your face, your neck. Tastes like salt.
             Next time try talking to her. Open your eyes, dummy. A wave the size of the Empire State Building is coming.

Victor lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan. His writing has appeared all over his closet on loose sheets of paper.

I'M THE STEAK — ANNA GRAGERT

/

Me. Standing on pavement peppered with plastic. Alone. Waiting. Surrounded by man-manipulated metal. 

Unsure of the direction. No compass rose. Eyes wide. Standing before a construction site. Work in progress. 

Lovers brush by. Hands held. Lips pursed. A man strides past. Briefcase: shined. Shoes: shined. Forehead: shiny. The wind whips around buildings. It beats me. 

A herd of men appear. Talking loud. One man pauses. His right finger in his left nostril. 

He looks at my shoes. Sees through them. Pays attention to the dry patch on my heel. My freshly cut toenails. Knows I cannot run fast. Works his way up my legs. Notes the one spot I forgot to shave. Back of right knee. Keeps going. 

There are stretch marks on my hips. My belly button is cavernous. My stomach bloats. Beneath three layers, there’s a scar on my chest. My neck curves. My jaw juts. My hair hangs. Makes his way to my eyes. Waits.

I want to look. Stare at his psyche. Condemn his perversion. Rip that finger from his nose and point it at his third eye. I’m desperate to show him the color of my soul. 

Instead, I freeze. Stare straight ahead. There’s a steakhouse there. I’m the steak. 

He keeps going. Though he knows my body as I do. They hang right. He is gone. 

Others pass. They see something. But they don’t see me. 

Work in progress. 

When Anna Gragert isn’t trying to create a groundbreaking third-person bio for herself, she’s writing for publications like My Modern Met and HelloGiggles, catering to her little black cat, reading fiction for Cactus Heart Press, or wondering if/when she should become a shaman. Check out Anna's portfolio or follow her on Twitter to keep up with her adventures in all things human/creative.