
HERE AND NOWHERE ELSE by Claudia Schatz
The window over the bathroom sink, up high and pointing out, the only window in the whole house where all you see is sky.

The window over the bathroom sink, up high and pointing out, the only window in the whole house where all you see is sky.

Catastrophe, he thinks. Couldn’t have gone worse.

Your eyes follow their tiny finger and, sure enough, there’s a nine-millimeter handgun lying in the middle of your neighborhood street at eight in the morning on Fat Tuesday.

Once my father finishes and leaves, my mother leans back into her chair, rests her eyes on the clock above us, and begins to recall the lovers of her past.

They ask her if she knows what day it is. They try to make her guess how long she drifted for. She won’t. Four days. That’s what they tell her.

When anger threatens to disturb my indifference towards the customers, I breathe deep, I take smoke breaks to cool my nerves in the gnashing waves.

Unbeknownst to you, you were in a ménage à trois with me and depression and I was only able to pleasure one of you.

His mom made a quiet bleating sound under her breath. Fear bolted through him, but now he was seven and so he stood his ground.


Ultimately, she accepted me, weird diet and all. And last night, for the very first time, she slept over.