Micros
MAGIC by James Callan
I was doing my damnedest to hide in a mountain of gold coins in the vaults of Gringotts. I was properly concealed, buried in all those glittery riches, all but my rock-hard arousal, which was like the mast of a mostly sunken ship sticking out of a sea of wealth. I couldn’t help it. I was thinking about Harry, his hairy treasure trail, his hot, wet mouth and warm goblet of fire. I moaned beneath the mound of resplendent wizards’ gold, panting within the riches of witches, which brought on the unwanted attention of a little ugly goblin. He wanted to put me out of my delicious agony, eat me up like Doritos, which bear the same triangular shape as the teeth that approached me in the mouth of a squat, bobble-head monster.I fell back onto the mound of gold, the creature falling with me. We got down and dirty in the riches of witches. And bitches, it was wonderful…how I made it with a goblin. Holding hands, we left the vault behind, our pockets stuffed with doubloons and diamonds. I brought the little guy home and, side-stepping my Hogwarts LEGO set that spread out like a Minecraft palace across the floorboards, led him to my bed.At that point I got desperate, realizing that I finally outdid myself, had too many damn Butterbeers, because, boner or no, I couldn’t hold back a dire piss that needed to be taken. I grabbed my magic wand --3 inches long, made of “wood,” a phoenix feather tucked in my bush-- and said the magic word: Riddikulus!Sometimes a piss feels as good as fellatio.Like a champ, Shorty took it right in the mouth. I found myself in awe, wishing I could dispel my issues as easily as the wastes that pass through me umpteen times a day. If only life were that easy. Gosh, wouldn’t that be magic?
March 12, 2025
Interviews & Reviews
STUFF YOUR FACE WITH SCOTT LAUDATI by Scott Laudati
A special offshoot of our Recommends series, where Scott Laudati enjoys the planet’s best foodstuffs and eateries.New York City, 2010. It’s a 24-hour city. Budweisers are $3. We complain about the rent but a one bedroom is $950. Something big is happening every night in Brooklyn. The So So Glos are playing in a loft and our friend Dasha knows the door code. The garment building hasn’t been annexed by Netflix yet, its basement is rented by an old Marxist who calls it “The CCCP Gallery” and Drew is having his art show there tomorrow. And most importantly, pizza, which we eat on the way into the party and then again on the way home, is $1.50 a slice, and every block has a lit storefront where men are stretching dough and spreading sauce until last call.This city does not exist anymore. I don’t know when exactly it happened. One day the bodega became a grocery store. Then it was demolished entirely and a one story building became a ten floor high rise. The Budweisers don’t come with a shot special anymore, they are just $7 now. And your friends, who you sat in parks with, helped move couches down impossible flights of stairs, they just disappear. Where did they go? Why didn’t anyone invite you? Suddenly you’re all alone with no friends, nowhere you can afford to drink, no galleries to just pop into on your way home, and you ask yourself, “Did I make it all up?”This is a New York City tale as old as time, though. It’s never been a place anyone stayed ’til the end. And if you’re the last one left it means you didn’t get the girl or the memo, and now you’re forty with roommates. But something is happening here that has never happened before. New York City is losing its pizza. It’s losing it to indifference, to age, to a change in taste, but mainly—it’s money. The landlords have chased out everything else that once made New York great, and now they’re coming for the pizza.Most people won’t care, because most people have terrible taste. You see, not all pizza is being targeted. Every day, in every former working class (ghetto) neighborhood, a small storefront transforms into a hipster-hell zone with pizza at its core, but you would never know that at first glance. Because you’d have to wade through the Japanese models who are never eating or doing anything really but getting their picture taken. Or the other influencers posing with whatever sets this pizza joint apart from the other one-hundred vaguely punk rock, sweaty, mandatory four-hundred pencil tattoos on the cook’s arms. And the gimmick always comes across like it was conceived in a boardroom. Like a cute cup of ice cream, or the merch that repurposes Basquiat’s crown in “fun” new ways. “Edginess.” “No conformity.” Somehow your slice is always charred. It takes twenty-five mins to come out because they have to grate fresh parmesan over one slice at a time. But you can get laid at this place. And a band in Ridgewood will eventually write a song about it. So if that’s your idea of a good time, rock ‘n’ roll. But it’s not my thing. I like real pizza. I like it served by two brothers who took over the business from dad and now their rent’s about to become unaffordable after sixty years. Or a brother yelling at his sister to hurry up with the cup of Coke she’s filling from an ancient soda fountain. He takes the soda, slides two slices over the counter to you, and says, “$6.” Nothing in this city has cost $6 in almost a decade. You can smell old New York emanating off the wood-paneled walls of these joints. The ingredients are always fresh. The pies haven’t been sitting around and getting reheated all day. A man who loved pizza founded this place with his family’s name, and he put his blood into it because as far back as his line went it was all leading to this, and now his children remember that legacy, the struggle, the commitment, what it took to put food onto their tables after grueling hours, and so they put their souls into it, and whether you show up on Monday at 11 a.m. or Saturday at 10 p.m. every slice has been made with the same care and pride.Here are my Top 3, gold-medal, all killer, Peoples’ Champ winners of Williamsburg: Tony’s Pizza (Graham Ave.)I wanted to start with my favorite. This is the place I walk my dog to. Somehow they’ve kept this small room looking exactly like the Italian restaurants you remember from your childhood. The ones you went to after basketball games when your coach was buying for the whole team. They’ve got the small tables with the red-checkered table cloth. The old-timers from the block drink espresso and dunk a biscotti in like it’s Pisan fondu. They look a little side-eyed when you walk in with a dog, because this is an old-school neighborhood, but they break when she jumps on them and looks for a pet. Two brothers run around doing the prep work, if you want to talk they stop and talk, they’re funny, they’re tough, and two very pretty girls take your order, pet your dog, and if you’ve said the right thing you might even get a wink and a smile as they hand you your plate. And this triangle that’s on the plate, it’s a Mona Lisa, it’s a hug from your mom, it’s perfect. It unravels in your mouth with each bite. It’s not just mozzarella, there’re hints of other cheeses, like parmesan, maybe pecorino, a sharp cheese but a subtle note, and little flakes of oregano to round it out. There’s good distance between the crust, the sauce, and the cheese. Light on the oil, no char. It’s a clean slice you can eat in front of someone and not need a napkin. A famous pizza critic gave this place a 7.9. Only someone from Boston would miss the subtleties that make this pizza exquisite. Tony’s gets a 9.5 every time. No debate. Sal’s Pizza (Lorimer St.)Sal’s is pretty much the same vibe as Tony’s, and at $3.50 a slice, they’ve got a lock on the cheapest pizza in Williamsburg. There’s not as much in way of ambiance as Tony’s, but that’s not Sal’s fault. The stretch of Lorimer Street it’s been on for decades has flipped to the yuppies with expensive baby strollers, so there’re no Italians out front talking about the old days like Tony’s. But that’s okay because the pizza comes out quick, and when you take that first bite the cheese stretches out but snaps before it slops on your chin or shirt. And it’s a great slice. It’s so simple I feel stupid even writing about it. Sal found three things that can’t be improved when you put them together. The hipster spots will hire a guy on a unicycle to spread honey from an upstate bee farm on a slice and charge you $8 for it, and if you’re from the midwest you’ll be dazzled by the spectacle, and if you’re an idiot your brain will tell you it tastes better because you’ve got every color of the rainbow staring at you. But we need you to be better. We need you to realize a great song isn’t just an endless chorus. What makes it a piece of art is your need to return to it. Not just a box to check on your bucket list, but something to live with. To spend your days itching to go back again. How can Sal’s charge so little for a slice and cover the rent? Well, luckily this ain’t Papa Johns, and the guy who owns Sal’s is usually behind the counter, so you can ask him these kinds of questions. “I bought the business from Sal a long time ago,” he says, “And Sal owned the building when he opened up.” Here we have the American Dream. A man who owes nothing to no one. A man who bet on himself and won. So now the prices don’t have to rise with inflation. The ingredients don’t have to take a hit to cover the bottom line. This is what we call a victory in the game of Capitalism. Sal’s gets a 9. I’ve never had a mediocre slice. Vinnie’s Pizza (Bedford Ave.)Vinnie’s is the correct way to bridge the old and whatever this nightmare is that’s happening now. It’s been on Bedford Ave. since 1960, but if I didn’t just tell you that you’d never guess it’s eligible for Social Security. Aside from the classic New York style pizza, the interior of Vinnie’s is a time capsule of the Williamsburg that existed when I moved here, when it was more like the Lower East Side and less like a tech-boy playground. Street art and pizza paintings decorate the walls, a thousand band stickers are on the door, and a Ninja Turtles bench out front brings a smile to the face of everyone born in the mid-’80s. There’s a body type I associate with Vinnie’s that I never even see here anymore—a fat dude in skinny jeans, in a tight band shirt with a balding head and big full red beard. Does that make sense? It’s punk rock but I can’t really tell you why. Maybe it’s because I ran into Andrew W.K. there once at 2 a.m. Vinnie’s has none of the Italian thing that I usually require with my food. This should be a deal-breaker, especially where I’m from. We require authenticity here in New York above everything else, but there’s this ability skateboarders and artists and punks and trans kids have when they find a neighborhood that’s been abused and neglected by time. They take all the influences, the blank spaces, the garbage, the possibility of redemption, and through raw power they build their own thing, and this hustle brings a level of cool that supersedes any idea of what a neighborhood or restaurant is “supposed to be.” This is Vinnie’s. It’s the original punk rock pizza of Williamsburg, on a block that less than two decades ago was the raddest place in New York. And though it’s become one of the most expensive pieces of real estate on earth, Vinnie’s is actually still pretty close to the roots. A slice is less than $4. It tastes exactly like a slice of pizza should. It’s like a Budweiser. It’s consistent every time. There are no frills. It’s just awesome tangy cheese over a sweet sauce. And it’s open late. Fun fact, last time I was there Kieren Culkin was dragging a kid and a kid’s basketball hoop angrily past the Ninja Turtles bench looking like every choice he’d ever made was the wrong one. I’ve also seen Rosamund Pike on that corner as well as Michael Cera, Nas, Sean Penn, and Willa Ferryra. If you’re visiting, grab a slice at Vinnie’s and sit on that Ninja Turtles bench. You’ll see someone.
March 11, 2025
Fiction
AN EXCERPT FROM ‘AMERICAN LIT’ by Jennifer Greidus
While Ollie and I get stoned in his car every morning before school, I use my phone to take online career quizzes. I think in reverse, responding as I believe Mr. Stewart would. My mission is to find the amalgam of answers that triggers the “teacher” verdict. Only then will I know everything to say and do around him. My favorite quiz—and the most thorough—was created by an Ivy League school to assist its undergrads. I log into that one about once a day. Among others, my hypothetical responses produced these career options: CPA, correctional officer, lawyer, architect, and copy editor. What a prospective correctional officer would be doing attending that school is beyond me. In any case, I have yet to see “twelfth-grade AP English teacher” pop up as the answer. Always grumpy before the first bell of the day, Ollie broods and smokes between bites of a fast-food breakfast burrito. If I bother him with a question or to tell him he’s dropped some hot sauce on his car’s cheap upholstery, all I get are grunts or lazy hand signals; so, lately, I’ve been focusing on these quizzes. You read the instructions before beginning any assembly. Yes. You avoid arguing, even when you know you are right. No. You always let someone know if she has a crumb on her face. Yes.You are usually patient when someone is late to an appointment with you. No. You don’t mind getting your hands dirty. No idea. That last one gets me every time. It might be the one that fucks up the algorithm. During each class, if only for ten or our allotted forty-two minutes, Mr. Stewart, the thirty-something academic genius who corrects me with a verbal whip whenever I say which instead of that, lectures from a post directly in front of my desk. The twenty square inches of zipper and fabric and subtle bumps and lumps inside his pants leave me overheated and dimwitted. If he’s speaking, I don’t know it. My interest lies only in his stretched fly, an ass of granite, and a minimalist leather belt that ties it all together. Never has a single crease spoiled the light starch of his fitted dress shirts. His monthly haircut ensures every deep-brown strand is in place. Premature crow’s feet appear when he squints or graces me with one of his infrequent smiles. From afar, I’d look twice. From this close, I can’t look away. “Dan.” Ollie tosses a wad of paper at my cheek. “Knock it off. You’re sucking your pen like a dick.” Mr. Stewart’s head jerks in our direction. “Daniel. Oliver. I can only imagine you’re interrupting me because you have a question. Otherwise—” “Hey, Mr. Stewart, I have a question.” Ollie and I both look to the right at Jesse, who yawns, his hand half-raised with an index finger pointed at our teacher. He wears the same jeans, hoodies, and T-shirts, sometimes three days in a row. He’s consistently stoned, and he always has a fucking question. “Says here,” Jesse announces, “Mr. Hart Crane got drunk and fell off a boat.” He taps his thumb against the back pages of the poetry anthology we’ve been reading. Mr. Stewart stares him down. “What’s your question, Jesse?” “Well, yeah,” he continues, slowly flipping one of his shoes onto its side with the big toe of a socked foot, “the bios are more interesting than the poems. Can we read those first?” “We can,” Mr. Stewart says, “but we will not.”Mr. Stewart believes grammar should be everyone’s thing. When I think about him, I think, me and him, him and I, he and I, fuck it, forget it. He enjoys saying, “I do not understand why, on the verge of adulthood, none of you knows how to put together a sentence.” There’s more to him than his obsession with grammar. We’ve spent a couple months in brief, after-class conversations concerning my future and books. We talk about tennis. Despite playing hungover, disliking the drills, and hating the parts where I need to run, I’m good at it. Most days, he asks me, “Daniel, how did you fare at tennis practice yesterday?” And I always blather, “Good. Pretty good. Really good.” It’s tough gawking at a stashed but still conspicuous penis for almost an hour and then trying to keep pace in conversation with its owner after the bell. All I want to do this year is have sex with him. It is my single goal. With a speck of effort, I’ll conquer tennis at my club and on my school team, keep one sober eye on my handpicked senior schedule, and slide into one of the two schools of my choice in autumn. Having Mr. Stewart will be the sweetener. Audacity has been my stratagem for months—I’ve even flustered him a few times—but aside from some sideways glances and closed-lipped smiles, the flirting is meager, as difficult as trying to budge a piano with my pinkie. After class, Ollie jostles me and kicks my shin. “Move it. You’re like a girl with him.” At six-foot-three, Ollie’s body eclipses mine by four inches and forty pounds, and I take a second to regain composure before he shoves me again. “Why can’t you want the corduroy Chemistry guy? The one with the brown fingernails? English teacher. Such a cliché, man.” Right on time, Mr. Stewart looks my way. “Daniel? A word.” “Unbelievable.” Ollie snorts. “He asks you to stay like every day now. Hurry up.” Ollie heads for the exit as I pack up and amble to my teacher’s desk. Rather than acknowledge me, Mr. Stewart contemplates whatever’s on his laptop. I’m used to this delay; the silence Mr. Stewart and I share while I wait is the preamble to these afternoon one-acts. At the beginning of the year, I would fidget and cough, uncertain if I should speak while he wordlessly tidied his desk or erased the whiteboard. Now I wait calmly and open a bag of homemade turkey jerky from my pocket. Drying meat on a rack for eight hours on a Sunday is the only way my mom knows how to show me she cares. Other than this gift economy, we are no more than roommates. Mr. Stewart remains seated, and, as always, I stand across from him, the width of the desk keeping him three feet out of my reach. As I chew the dried meat, the aroma of the chalky cinnamon candies he enjoys hits me. I confuse his hold-on-a-moment smile for a speak-your-mind smile and forge ahead. “Great suit today.” He lifts his eyes. “How was tennis practice yesterday?” “You know,” I say, “instead of asking me all the time, you could come. See for yourself. Nobody else does.” “Your parents don’t go?” The wheels of his chair squeak as he pushes back from the desk. He places both hands behind his head, stretching and expanding his chest until the shirt might as well be skin. “My mother’s in a world of her own, and my father—” I am distracted when he crosses his legs, resting an ankle on his knee. The landscape is crotch, all the crotch I could want. I force myself to look at his face. “And my father’s dead.” “Oh.” His hands drop to his lap. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—” My one-knuckled knock against his desk shuts him up. “Anyway. I only play tennis because he wanted me to stick with it. That and a partial scholarship. Really, I just want to sit around at home without pants, but it seems wrong to ditch it now.” “May I ask how he died?” I tear at some more jerky with my teeth, and, as I’ve done every one of the last five-hundred times someone’s asked me that, I grunt and huff. A crumb of jerky falls to his desk. When he winces at the morsel, I swipe it to the floor with my thumb. The smudge from my thumb causes a more pronounced wince, which I ignore. “Everyone knows how he died. Shot? Three years ago? Remember that?” “That’s—you’re that Daniel.” He sucks in a quick breath through pursed lips. “I apologize for being indelicate. Why have you never told me?” I glance to the right as kids in the hallway rush past his open door. “It didn’t come up.” “It must have,” he insists, resting his elbows on his desk and craning his neck toward me, as if he’s inviting me to tell him a secret. I hope to put him onto the scent of a new topic. “So, what have you been reading lately?” He drums his fingers on the desk, holding tight to the matter while pondering how he missed that gruesome part of my biography. “What about your mother? She can’t manage to support you at a few matches?” My mother can’t manage much, except boyfriends, and barely even that. “My mom and I have this unspoken arrangement that lets us have almost nothing to do with each other.” I hold up the plastic bag stuffed with jerky. “But she does make me this. So, you know, not all bad.” The crow’s feet deepen with concern. “You understand you can talk to me about it anytime, right?” “That is never going to happen. No offense.” I’d rather not add my desire for Mr. Stewart to the existing tangled knot of emotions about my dad. For the past three years, I’ve chosen only guys who are nothing like my father. There’s complicated shit there—I know it—and I’ll save it for my twenties. “I understand,” Mr. Stewart says and opens his middle drawer. “On a lighter note, I brought you a book.” He produces an inch thick paperback, pristine, black with cubes of primary colors on its cover. “Please. Take it.” When I hesitate, eyeing it like it might be homework, he shakes it once. “Take it. If you like Wilde, you’ll like this.” With a tilt of my head, I acknowledge what we must both know: Oscar Wilde is the gateway drug to the entire gay canon. Although we talk about literature a lot, this is the first time he’s given me something specific and extracurricular to read. I finger the edges of the book. “Who’s Joe Orton?” “Playwright. Give it a try. Let me know what you think.” He lifts his laptop bag onto his desk, slips a hand into the side pocket, and comes up with a new tin of cinnamon candies. His manicured nails work open the plastic at its corner. I quickly check out my hands. They are dirty and rough, the left one scarred from a battle I had with Ollie in fourth grade; he jammed a ballpoint into the meaty flesh between my thumb and forefinger, all over a bike. “So,” I say, slapping the book against my palm, “is this toilet reading or bedtime reading?” The corner of his mouth twitches, as it does when he refuses to laugh, despite his obvious amusement. I suspect he wants to maintain a humorless teacher-pupil dynamic. This time, he gives in to a brief smile. “Daniel, I have to ask. Are you high right now?” “Nope.” I am. “Just the same, some advice is in order. Use Visine. Get your hair out of your eyes. And whose shirt is that you’re wearing? Who is Greg? Have you absconded with his work shirt? Is Greg a plumber?” I touch the patch on my shirt as if this mysterious plumber is close to my heart. First, I know I’m not going to get eye drops; I’ve long since passed giving a shit if I seem baked. Second, it’s been a few days since I looked in the mirror, and fuck that anyway. Last, this shirt has been my wingman so many times, I owe it a hand job. “Mr. Stewart, do you run?” “Why do you ask?” “Because your body looks like you run.” The muscles of his jaw must ache from all the clenching he’s doing right now. “Tenth period is calling you.” Students for his next class have begun to file in. I grin and turn on my heel. I’m not a foot out of the classroom before Ollie snatches my sleeve and drags me down the hallway. “You sounded like an asshole. Why don’t you spend your time on something that can actually go somewhere?”
March 10, 2025
Fiction
CLUSTER by Katherine Plumhoff
People say they see their dead moms in blue jays and buttercups, robins and rhododendrons, but mine told me she’d never come back as something so abominably dull, and to keep an eye out for spiders. It’s a bright spring day and mown grass, cut by a neighbor, foams at the edges of the yard like a fresh-pulled pint. I am crouched in the corner of the patio, sifting through a 50L sack of soil that’s been slumped here since she lost the strength to stand. Digging for arachnids and coming up short. Two trowels deep. Late and making us later.I’ve found roly polies by the fistful. Swarms of soil mites piled up like tiny sacs of tears. I’m building a pyre of dead wasps, their crumpled yellow-banded bodies curled around their stingers. They can no longer hurt me but I’m careful not to touch them, scooping them up with a dirt-lined plastic pot because I’m up to my eyes in hurt and I don’t think I could take another sting.“Laura, honey, the service is about to start,” calls my mom’s boyfriend Ritchie, “we gotta go.” I dig faster, abandoning the trowels and clawing holes with my hands. Tiny white perlite balls get caught under my nails. Clumps of dirt cling to the black wool of my skirt. There — I win — I’ve found her — a whole knot of spiders, an entire family, a teeming cluster crawling madly back into the damp dark of the bag. I lift them out, cradle them in my hand like I’m holding a blessing, and shout, “Okay, Richie, I’m ready," then whisper, “Good to see you, Mom. Stay a while.”
February 28, 2025
Fiction
HUNTING & GATHERING by Keely Curttright
Margot is a speck of red in her bright winter coat, scurrying up the cracked and litter-strewn sidewalk, her mousy brown hair a sad pinprick at the center of this speck and her breath a puff of vapor before her. This is, at least, how she envisions herself. She rarely leaves the apartment anymore, but when she does, she finds herself imagining her appearance, always as something unsuspecting and insignificant. She has tried to give up this habit but can’t help herself. A bug-eyed pigeon hops across the sidewalk and pecks at a discarded bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. As Margot passes, it removes its head from the bag and eyes her suspiciously. Margot stuffs her hands deeper into her coat pockets. Her right hand curls around a folded piece of scrap paper, which contains a list of everything she and her boyfriend Louis need for that evening and the coming week.Grocery shopping gives Margot a sense of purpose, a destination, something to talk about when Louis returns from work and asks what she has been up to all day. It also serves as an excuse to put off doing the things she is supposed to do: practice piano, call her grandfather, apply for open positions in her field, tasks that have become both unthinkable and unavoidable during the hours she spends alone in their apartment, collecting unemployment checks.This evening, Haley and Shane, their downstairs neighbors, are coming over for dinner, a plan that makes Margot feel decidedly adult. Louis and Shane often run into each other in the hallway heading to and from work, their months of friendly interactions always punctuated by the suggestion that they get together soon. Margot’s encounters with the couple have been mostly one-sided: their dog barking in response to her footsteps on the basement stairs as she carries down a load of laundry, and the muffled sound of their voices seeping through the floorboards. While moving damp clothing from the washer to the dryer, Margot once heard them arguing, voices raised and easier to discern. “We’ve gone over this so many times,” Haley said. Margot moved the laundry along quickly and made her way back up the steps without lingering long enough to determine what the fight was about. Shane had invited Louis and Margot over for dinner the week prior. Their apartment was furnished with the previous tenant's lumpy red couch, stacks of books, thrifted paintings, mismatched wooden dining chairs, and other second-hand items that gave the impression of history and warmth. It felt like they had always lived there.Margot approaches the intersection across from the store. As she waits for the light to change, she watches the cars speed by, the faces inside blurred and briefly visible, none of them bothering to look out at her. The light turns red, and one car hurtles through the intersection. The rest slow to a crawl, and she cautiously makes her way across the crosswalk’s staggered white lines.Inside the store, she picks up a shopping basket. A wet coupon papers the bottom, and produce stickers adhere to the sides. She walks towards the produce section in want of strawberries, pears, a lemon and fresh herbs. In the grocery store, Margot gravitates towards the things she wants with ease. She picks up several containers of strawberries, examining the bottoms for mold and rotting juice, and places the freshest one in the bottom of her basket. Over the course of the past few months, she has come to find that grocery stores imbue her with a sense of calm that little else has since she lost her job. The towering supplies of neatly stacked cans, brightly colored boxes, and fresh produce evoke a feeling of orderliness, endlessness, and preparation. Consumed by these feelings, she often leaves the store with the odd additional item. Several months ago, she picked up a sack of flour, for which she had no use, only the inclination that she needed to be prepared.A mist settles over the broccoli, condensing into small droplets of water between each of the individual florets. She shakes two heads of broccoli and bags them. The parsley and cilantro are sopping wet. She picks off several stalks of each with browned, slimy leaves before bagging the remaining green, intact bunches. She moves, transfixed, from one fresh green thing to another until everything has been crossed off her list.Her basket weighs heavy, and she sets it on the floor as she waits in the checkout line, kicking it forward as the line moves every so often. It extends down the aisle, past the candy and the granola bars back to the breakfast cereal and maple syrup. It is the only open checkout lane in the entire store.The woman in front of her pushes a cart filled to the brim with everything from hamburger buns to low-fat ice cream sandwiches that will surely melt by the time she reaches the cashier. Margot appraises her own basket, free of frozen items, in a self-congratulatory fashion. She has gotten better at this at least, she thinks. She is improving.She and Louis have lived together for six months, and she thought that she would be used to it by now. She thought she would ease into the bliss of domesticity. Instead, she has become debilitatingly aware of herself. When Louis is home, she second-guesses her every move, concerned about whether she is reading often enough to appear interesting, concerned about how her skin looks each night after she has removed her makeup, and whether Louis is sick of eating the three things she knows how to make for dinner. All her actions feel heightened in his presence, on display. Tonight, Margot plans on making falafel and pita sandwiches for dinner, which she has made too few times to count among the recipes she is least likely to botch. She wonders if she should pick up an extra can of chickpeas but decides it is probably too late. Nearly at the front of the line, she watches the woman with the crowded shopping cart place her items on the checkout conveyor belt. The box of Nestle low-fat ice cream sandwiches perspires. The hamburger buns are squished, frowning faces.Margot emerges from the grocery store, the automatic doors parting slowly before her, her armpits sweating. Her big red coat protects her from the welts that would otherwise form on her shoulder from the weight of her over-packed shopping bags. She maneuvers herself between the barricades intended to prevent shopping cart theft, trying not to crush the produce.When Margot looks up, she sees it for the first time, its back turned to her. The strap on one of her bags slips from her shoulder. The hawk angles its body to ensure there is no visible threat from the opposite direction. Its yellow eyes stare unblinkingly, and it arches its wings back, spreading them casually, as if to remind her of its size. The hawk sits atop a dead pigeon with ruffled oil-slick feathers and one beady eye still open. Dried blood coats the feathers around the pigeon's neck. The hawk eyes Margot sharply, as if to say, this is my dead pigeon. As if it believes Margot might tear the pigeon from its talons, stuff it in with her groceries and make off with it. The hawk blinks but maintains its gaze, watching Margot with a ferocity so foreign that she feels almost ashamed. She remembers for a moment what it is like to want something with such conviction. Margot pulls the strap of her tote back over her shoulder. She scurries through the parking lot, eyes averted, realizing that she has forgotten the almond milk. Glancing back toward the store, she sees the hawk’s beak deep in the pigeon’s neck, its body torn in an unceremonious fashion. All that remains is a head, a gaping red tangle of innards and some stray feathers. The hawk lifts its head to regard Margot, blood dripping from its beak. Its wings flinch, threatening to take flight.Margot rushes home, keeping a brisk pace, and, for the first time in recent memory, paying absolutely no mind to her own appearance. The sound of beating wings follows her. Wisps of hair are matted to her forehead. She stops at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change, but her insides remain frenzied, churning, in perpetual motion. She is repulsed by her own scent.She enters the building, locking the vestibule door behind her and checking it twice, as if the hawk might open the door and follow her. She laughs and shakes her head, trying to clear her thoughts. She makes her way up the three flights of stairs to their apartment, her grocery bags jostling against the walls and stair-rail, then slips her key into the deadbolt and pulls it back out the slightest bit before turning it. The lock on their door is temperamental, and Margot finds herself at odds with it more often than not.She enters the apartment and pauses long enough to observe the tell-tale signs of Louis’s early arrival home from work: his bag and shoes discarded hastily by the door, the faint hum of the television in the living room. Margot, at once, feels comforted and resentful, her precious alone time cut short. She endeavors to extend it a bit longer by going unnoticed, quietly moving throughout the kitchen, gently opening and closing the refrigerator and cabinet doors, putting each item in place.She removes her coat, and the acrid smell of her body overwhelms her. She puts her coat back on and smooths her tangled hair with both hands then walks into the living room.“I thought I heard you!” Louis grins.Margot perches self-consciously on the coffee table. “You’re home early.” “My boss said I could leave after I closed our last ticket.” “Any particularly bad ones today?”“The usual. Manager insists their computer isn’t working, but they just forgot to turn the monitor on. Another employee wants me to reset their login information for the third time this week.” He rolls his eyes. “I guess I should be thankful nothing exciting happened.”Louis turns his attention back to the television, where a nature documentary plays quietly, something about the strange and colorful birds of the rainforest. Louis pats the space beside him on the couch. Margot hesitates for a moment, watching the bird on the screen perform an elaborate courtship ritual. The bird opens his neon yellow mouth to screech, fans out his black neck feathers, and reveals his shimmering turquoise chest. He hops around the unsuspecting female, distinguished by her dull coloring. “A little too much for my taste,” Margot says. She relents and sits next to Louis, the full weight of her body, winter coat and all, sinking into the couch.“Thank god. I don’t think I could pull that off.” Louis’s eyes remain fixed on the television, and his voice sounds far away like it often does at the end of a long work week. The documentary moves on to another bird with flame-like feathers. Louis begins reading an article on his phone. “So. I'm being hunted," Margot says matter-of-factly. "By what, may I ask?" Louis returns to her, his face suddenly serious, his eyes searching and concerned. He has always been good at playing along. He understands her in this way at least, which is what Margot loves about him.She widens her eyes and exhales slowly, performatively. "A hawk."Louis's features take on an exaggerated quality, certain, now, that this is a game. He gets up and walks to the window. His body is lean, his hair dark and messy. He runs a hand through it, deep in thought. Margot joins him by the window, looking out at the vacant lot adjacent to their building. In the warmer months, it is overgrown in an otherworldly way. Weeds appear prehistoric, stretching several feet up into the air with leaves the size of Margot's head. Their living room windows provide a spectacularly close-up view of the trees’ tangled branches and the squirrels and birds that occupy them. However, at this particular moment, the tree closest to them is uncharacteristically quiet. Margot follows Louis's gaze toward the tree at the back of the lot. Between two of the branches, Margot discerns the outline of a rigid and imposing creature. The markings are similar to those of the one she saw earlier, a brown and white mottled pattern on its chest and deeper brown on the wings and head. Margot recognizes its penetrating gaze.Louis turns to her. "So this guy’s more your type?" His eyes sparkle with a playful quality that suggests he believes the hawk’s presence to be a mere coincidence.The hawk's head rotates, as if beyond its own control. A squirrel climbs up the neighboring tree in a frenzy. The hawk spreads its wings ever so slightly and hops down, one branch closer. The squirrel pauses, its tail twitching spastically, the rest of its body unmoving. The hawk dives quickly, extends its legs, and collects the squirrel with its talons. Margot and Louis watch the entire thing."Poor squirrel," says Louis.Margot nods, watching the branches from which the hawk dove tremble. The vacant lot breathes a sigh of relief, a feeling that eludes her.Louis stretches his arms above his head and yawns. “I should get cleaned up.” He walks off toward the bathroom. Margot lingers by the window for a moment before making her way back to the bedroom. She can hear the shower running in the bathroom. She sheds her coat and peels off her turtleneck, balls it up, and uses it to wipe her underarms before applying an extra layer of deodorant. The floral scent of the deodorant mixes with the sour scent of her body. She pulls on a fresh t-shirt and brushes her hair back into a ponytail then steps back to assess herself in the mirror. Her reflection looks presentable but unfamiliar. She doesn’t recognize this girl with her hair up and face flushed.She pulls the soaked chickpeas and fresh herbs from the fridge and lines them up next to the onion, garlic, and spices on the counter. She disregards the step ladder in the corner and climbs atop the counter, stretching to reach the food processor stored above the cabinets. Balancing the processor in one hand, she uses the other to steady herself as she descends. She wobbles. Her wrist bends awkwardly, and the food processor falls, sending its lid and sharp innards skittering across the kitchen floor. Margot slides off the counter and exhales sharply before collecting the lid and blades, which she washes carefully in the sink. She tries to move slowly and deliberately. The shower turns off, and Louis yells from the bathroom, “Everything alright out there?” “All good!” Margot reassembles the food processor. She drains the chickpeas and adds them to the processor’s bowl. She roughly chops the herbs and onion, wielding her largest kitchen knife with trepidation. It feels as if everything in the kitchen has turned against her, poised to fall, break, and slice at will. The parsley and cilantro stain the cutting board green. She adds them to the food processor along with the onion, spices, baking soda and chickpea flour, then presses the pulse button repeatedly and watches as the ingredients crumble violently. She spoons the green, grainy blend into a bowl and places it in the fridge. Margot allows herself a glance out the kitchen window, which has a more limited view of the lot. The outer pane is caked with unreachable dust and debris, but she can see that the trees are still. She feels that she is not alone. She turns back to the counter and begins to take the food processor apart to wash in the sink. She scrubs and rinses out the lid with warm soapy water then picks up the blade. Something bumps into her from behind. “Sorry, coming through!” Louis pulls open the refrigerator door and grabs the water pitcher. He reaches above Margot’s head to open the cabinet containing their chipped and cloudy glassware. Margot looks down at her hand. Her thumb is bleeding. The red runs over her hand and dilutes with the warm water.“Jesus, Margot.” Louis places the pitcher and glass on the counter, takes the blade from her hand and sets it down in the sink. He moves her hand under the faucet, and the sting of the cut wanes. The water rushes over her thumb, leaving a clean, precise line. “It’s nothing,” she says. She pulls her hand back from the faucet, and the sting returns. “Could you just grab a couple band aids?”“Of course.” Louis rushes off to the bathroom and returns with the first aid kit. He rifles through it, finding only band aids that are either too big or small. He pulls out a roll of gauze and tape, which seems quaint to Margot. “This might actually work better.”Margot holds her bleeding thumb out, and he winds the gauze around it several times then secures it with the tape. “Good as new,” Margot says. She gives Louis a thumbs up. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “Not your fault. I was the one holding a blade and not paying attention.” “Can I do anything else?”“Don’t worry about it, really.” Margot scrubs and rinses off the blade. “There’s not enough room in here for two.”“I guess you could say that.” Louis smiles weakly. “If you need me, I’ll be in the living room, okay?”“Okay!” Margot lines up the hummus ingredients in front of the reassembled food processor, falling back into the rhythm of preparing dinner. She watches once again as the hummus ingredients break down and fold into one another, becoming something new and more uniform in color. The falafel is frying when Margot hears a faint knock on the apartment door. She spoons the falafel balls from the pan to a plate. Louis rushes through the kitchen towards the door. "I'll get it!"Shane and Haley enter, their faces reddened and chapped from the cold. "Sorry we're late. We were on the porch and lost track of time.” "A hawk's been circling the building,” Shane adds. Louis takes their coats and hangs them up then leads them over to the living room. Margot removes the falafel from the pot of oil on the stove, placing them one by one on a paper towel."A cooper's hawk," Shane says. "I grew up on a farm outside the city. We’d see them all the time. Every so often we'd lose a chicken.""Awful." Haley shakes her head and looks down. Curly brown hair falls over her face."We saw it hunt a squirrel earlier actually," Louis says."I never actually saw one kill a chicken, but the thought really got to me.""There's something so unnatural about a bird hunting another bird," Haley says.The room is quiet when Margot enters with the plate of falafel. She sets it down on the small dining table next to the hummus, cucumber salad, and pickled red onions. The plates are all mismatched, a collection of both Margot and Louis's scratched and worn dinnerware accumulated throughout college. The table is wobbly and made from medium-density fiberboard, used primarily as a surface for storing Margot’s untouched keyboard piano or for playing the occasional board game. Even Shane and Haley's apartment full of hand-me-downs had a dining table with four chairs.Louis cranes his neck to peer out the window. "Looks like he's heading out now.""She," Shane corrects. "The big ones are the females actually."Margot feels a sudden tenderness for the hawk. While Louis, Shane, and Haley fill up their plates, she gazes at the tree at the back of the lot. The sun must have set while she was making dinner, making it difficult to see anything at all, but the lot appears empty. She feels no relief, only disappointment. She continues to watch the window, observing her own reflection, faint and ghostly, everything about her wavering and illuminated by the overhead light. There is a spot of grease on her shirt."Thank you, Margot," Haley says and Shane echoes.Louis approaches and puts his hand on her shoulder. "Sorry your friend didn't stick around."Margot attempts to rearrange her features into what she hopes is a pleasant expression, turns around and shrugs. "I don't think I prepared enough vermin to feed five anyways.” Louis laughs, and Margot feels the rush of gratification she always does when she manages to make him laugh. He moves back over towards his chair with his plate, and Margot makes her way over to the table where she half-heartedly assembles a falafel wrap. After spending an hour or two preparing a meal, she often finds herself uninterested in eating it."These are really good," Shane says. He takes another bite of his wrap, already nearly gone, and wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. Despite being several years older than Margot, he has a disarmingly boyish quality that reminds her of her younger brother."Did you make all of this from scratch?" Haley asks. Her legs are crossed, her plate resting on top of them. Her voice is quiet and gentle. Margot allows herself to feel proud for a moment. "I did." She had never prepared a meal for someone else, much less enjoyed doing so, until she started dating Louis. "Hummus is easy. The falafel isn't even that difficult to make. It's really just frying it that I'm not so great at.""Don't take this the wrong way," Louis starts. "But I think these are even better than the other time you made them. They're crispier on the outside."Margot can't help but take it the wrong way for just a moment. "It takes me months to really get any recipe down," Haley jumps in. "Of course it only takes Shane one or two tries.""Only because it's my job." Shane works as a line cook at an upscale restaurant downtown."Does one of you usually do the cooking, or do you split it up?" Margot asks. Shane and Haley look at each other and laugh. "I'd like to say it's an even split, but I know Haley ends up doing most of it either because she's on her own at home or it's the last thing I want to do when I’m home from work.""You used to enjoy it, though, before you started working as a cook?" Louis asks. He puts his arm around Margot, who briefly appreciates the gesture before feeling stifled, incapable of getting up off the couch to add more to her plate or grab another drink without appearing cold and dismissive. Half of her sandwich remains on her plate, and her glass is nearly completely full. "Oh, yeah," Shane says. "I loved it before, even as a kid. My brothers would make fun of me for wanting to stay inside with my mom and help with dinner. At first, it was just a way to avoid working outside, and then I really fell in love with it. You know, spending an hour or so preparing the different parts of the meal, watching it come together, and then the satisfaction of watching everyone enjoy it.""Cooking a meal for someone else does feel special," Haley says. "I'm not nearly as creative or thoughtful with the things I make when you're not home."Margot thinks of all the times she has tried to make something new for dinner, something she thinks that Louis will like. She recalls all the burnt and undercooked and oversalted and underripe portions of meals that she has reserved for her own plate, wanting Louis to have the best. The secrecy of it brings her a bit of joy. There are some tender acts that it would feel shameful, even false, to bring attention to. "I know I don't cook as often as you, but the few times I have, I did find myself thinking, okay, I get what people find rewarding about cooking and sharing a meal with someone you love." He glances at Margot with a look of such complete tenderness that she averts her eyes. It is as if a small helpless creature has rolled over before her, exposing its soft, pink underbelly. She places her hand in Louis's free hand, the one not around her shoulder, and squeezes it, unsure what this gesture means even to her."Anyone want anything else to drink?" she asks, already drifting toward the kitchen.Louis says something, but she isn't paying attention. She grabs two seltzers and a lime from the refrigerator, then places them on the few inches of available counter space. She sets the lime on the cutting board and turns to grab a clean, though blunt, knife from the silverware drawer. She looks out through the small and grimy kitchen window. The vacant lot is illuminated by the harsh outdoor light of the house on the opposite side, which reflects off the fresh snow on the ground. Against the stark white of the snow, a stain appears red and bright and mesmerizing. Margot moves closer to the window, her nose nearly pressed up against the glass. At the center of this stain, Margot discerns something resembling a head with large, protruding ears, the upper half of a small mammal’s body, and spilling out from it, pink sinewy innards. The head is small and round, turned unnaturally.Margot feels ill with excitement. She has a sudden urge to rush outside, stand beside this strange offering, and look up at the trees with arms outstretched. Instead, she fills two glasses with ice and seltzer, tops them off with slices of lime, and walks back to the living room. She does not mention the rabbit to their guests. She does not even mention it to Louis after Shane and Haley leave. She sleeps dreamlessly and wakes early the next morning as the sun rises. She pushes back the covers, careful not to disturb Louis. Sleep softens his features. Awake, his face is dynamic: brows raised, eyes sparkling, the corners of his mouth upturned, always on the verge of breaking into a sly grin. Now, with his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted, he appears defenseless. Standing in the doorway, Margot feels as if she has intruded on a private, sacred moment, something belonging to Louis alone. She resists the urge to avert her eyes. Louis rolls over, and she sees that his cheek bears the imprint of their wrinkled sheets. Involuntarily, she steps back toward the bed, places her uninjured hand on his cheek and kisses his head lightly. He stirs, and she feels guilty about sneaking out, even though it’s only to the lot next door. Margot tiptoes to the living room. Outside the window, the sun pushes itself up over the horizon, igniting the sky. Briefly, the leafless trees in the vacant lot appear to be on fire. Some of the snow has melted, but Margot can still make out the muddied red patch at the far end of the lot. She pulls her winter coat over her pajamas and grabs the closest pair of shoes she can find, Louis’s sneakers. Her hair is unbrushed, and she doesn’t stop to check her reflection in the mirror on the way out. Heading down the stairs, she nearly trips over her own feet.The city thaws around her. Rock salt covers the sidewalk, and what was once pure and wondrous turns to gray slush. A discarded candy wrapper peeks out from a pile of shoveled snow. She cuts across the lot. The rabbit is gone. A few tufts of brown fur remain. Margot exhales, and her breath, stale with sleep, clouds the air around her. She steps back towards the apartment building, dead leaves crunching beneath Louis’s shoes. In the periphery of her vision, she senses movement. Turning slightly, she looks at the sharp, bare branches of the tree above her. The hawk is perched on one of the lower branches. It cranes its neck downward, yellow eyes fixed on Margot. She is close enough to see its downy chest feathers. The hawk’s features appear smaller and gentler, its eyes round and attentive. She notices that the feathers on its chin are completely white. The hawk feels like something she could reach out and touch.The hawk opens its beak and emits a piercing series of cries that settle into the air. It arches its wings back and out, nearly doubling in size. It pushes off from the tree, wings completely outstretched, and cries once more before swooping downwards with its legs extended, talons poised to grasp. Margot stands taller, locked in place, her eyes closed. Above, she feels the steady, rhythmic beating of its wings. She is ready—to be touched, to be eaten, to be seen.
February 26, 2025
by Mike Topp
$25 | Perfect bound | 72 pages
Paperback | Die-cut matte cover | 7×7″
Mike Topp’s poems defy categorization. That’s why they are beloved by seamstresses, pathologists, blackmailers and art collectors.
–Sparrow
