
IN THE MICROPLASTICS by Caleb Cloaca
The world’s all burning. You might as well buy yourself a pretty little (not so little) mansion. You can too: make love in the microplastics.

The world’s all burning. You might as well buy yourself a pretty little (not so little) mansion. You can too: make love in the microplastics.

I heard my liver slapping onto the tile floor. My pancreas half falling out of me, hanging all the way down into the sink with my old skin.

The teacher hated the children. Ashley with her electric fence and Michelle with her little doll and Daniel with his frog.

MOMS FOR LIBERACE !! WOODY WOODPECKER !! YOU’LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE, PIGS !!

I don’t think Max’s colonization of the bathroom is an accident. It’s a place where we feel vulnerable, and many times we attach a lock to the door to prevent others from walking in unannounced.


But today there was a cabin. A small, rough thing. Caked in leaves. Inside, they found old cans and an old bed and an old table. Inside, they found a calendar stuck on July 1992.

I found a wallet today that contained $200, some credit cards, and some family pictures—my family now.

I’ve just vomited into my mother’s coffin. The pallbearers rush me out of the parlor. The funeral home director eyes me fiercely. He isn’t wrong.

To refer back to Jeanette’s advice again for a second, it’s not just that no one will care if you don’t do it. In a lot of cases, it’s that no one will even know if you don’t do it. For me, ‘doing the thing’ has changed my life.