Micro

TEENAGED GIRL GROWS ANTENNA IN SCHOOL BATHROOM STALL #3 by Suzanne Richardson

January 22, 2025

I always thought I was a science project. Maybe all girls are. Today I listen too hard and become a sound reflector, sound detective. I click my converse and my head splits like Zeus. Through my skull my alloy daughter emerges. She is like me but picks up gossip frequencies. Particular metal. Flagellum and scape. Dipoles and cables. A sci-fi fascinator for prom. Now more radio than girl. I lean, press, pick up the waves of other girls. Someone said the trees were moving, but it was the world. Silence does not exist here on the moon, in this girls bathroom. Talk, talk, talk. Some of it alien. Who is wearing a bra that doesn’t need one? I search for my name in the washroom static: somebody fell down the stairs at a party, somebody had sex, somebody is too messed up to go back to class, someone is climbing out the window, someone’s period, someone studied and failed, someone talked too much shit. My name isn’t on the air today. I will be patient and ritualistic. I will take tests instead of falling out of the nest. One day soon I will be on the girl radio and they’ll send my name up like a rescue flare asking me how I got out.

THE CHILLED SUNLIGHT by Steve Gergley

January 19, 2025

In town there were a series of murders. Each attack occurred beneath the almond tree spiking through the pavement in the center of Second Ave. No one seemed to care. Everyone walked the sidewalks as if nothing strange had happened. They chatted about the weather and watched the mailman wander the knotted maze of the streets. They met up for brunch and dinner and played games with their children and dogs in the park. My wife and I were terrified. We drove to the supermarket using an alternate route each day. We avoided our friends on the weekends in fear of their possible secret lives of violence. We breathed the flakes of obsidian in the air and vomited blood into the downstairs toilet each night. It was a strange year. In December, the wagonwheel of reeking bodies disappeared underneath a jagged tarp of glistening snow. The engines of our cars screamed upon starting. Our neon lips shimmered within the milky glow of the chilled sunlight.

NOT HANDLED WITH CARE by M.A. Boswell

January 11, 2025

After Olivia tore out of the parking lot, Hyundai stuffed with all the nice shit from their place, Josh mixed batter and slammed it into a bruised Teflon pan. He’d survived on easy food before, when other exes ruined his life. Josh flipped the pancake, watched it coil into a lopsided heap. Earlier, Olivia changed the title of their shared playlist from Babe to You’re a literal adult child, deleted everything except one Taylor Swift breakup song. Josh rammed his spatula under the wreckage, realizing how bad this would be. The pancake grinned from the plate, torn and ugly, but never judging.

NEEDFUL by Scott Garson

December 15, 2024

Needful men, undisciplined men, look at me, and keep looking at me. My sense: it is out of compulsion. They like what they feel when they’re taking me in. They want to have more of that feeling. This boy, nineteen, thereabouts, is different. He camouflages the work of his glance in little shows of expression: it is as if he is tangled in thought. Then he goes back to his work on the page. He’s drawing. Drawing me. I say, “Let’s see it.”The boy has also hidden the fact that he’s seen me approaching his table. He blinks, unbothered, holding my gaze. I get that he’s managed to flip a page in his sketchbook. Sleight of hand. He says, “Pardon?”I smile and give a nod at the book, which the boy then turns to display. The drawings feature a man, the same man. In a sense, they’re pretty faithful: tight and scrupulous acts of capture. In another sense, they are secret romance: attuned, by weight and shading, to the question: what this person shows. Who this person is. I say, “Those are good.”“Thank you,” the boy responds, as if glad to be sure of his lines. I say, “Let’s do this.”Which is my line, and which I’m also glad to be sure of. But it’s true: I feel like I’m ready. Like I have been waiting, and for a long time. I see the boy deciding not to act like he doesn’t know what I mean. I see him looking at me in a new way. More the usual way. I peer at him. “Do it,” I say. “Turn the page.”

TWO MICROS by JP Vallières

December 14, 2024

T BALL

There’s a tee ball league for grownups. You have to be thirty-five to participate. Thirty-five is the cutoff. If you’re younger you’re not old enough. Joe hit a homer his first time at bat. We cheered and gave him back and butt slaps while he rounded the bases. We hoped to do the same. There was real glory to be had. Trisha hit a double, which is pretty respectable. Donny bunted, we think it was a joke, but Donny seemed ill-humored. Perhaps it was strategy? In the bottom of the seventh, the last inning, I came up to bat. Joe (who was going for the cycle) suffered a pulled hammy, he couldn’t risk further straining a muscle he hadn’t used in decades. I wasn’t supposed to play. I had just joined the team. They didn’t seem to want me at first but I had an in with the coach. He’s my stepdad, Greg. Greg always let me do stuff with him. All I had to do was beg. Before I got up he slapped my back, spit tobacco on my shoe, and told me if I didn’t win this one for the team I’d be a total failure, like Mom.

FLOOD II

There are species that didn’t make the ark. Some were not chosen. Others simply chose not to board. A gator with monkey fists. A cat, but there were already too many cats. Opossum like reptile with gills. There were chickens that could move boulders by clucking. Plenty of orphaned dog breeds. A monster that sang sweet songs of remorse. Something called a Liptirloot, which cannot be compared to anyone or anything. Unicorns never made it. Neither did the winged liger. But none died. They’re on the bottom of the ocean, biding their time. In the underark. Huddling behind a gate caked in salt.

THE OLD WOMEN AND THE SEA by Kate Faigen

December 12, 2024

Sybil unsticks her thigh from the side of the banana boat. She’s been lost at sea with Celeste for sixty-one days now. Sixty-one salty-aired days of morning dips and back floats at sunset. Stolen sandwiches dropped by seagulls into their laps, lunches and dinners enjoyed over chats about everything and nothing. Don’t feel badly for Sybil and Celeste—the old women are coasting. In the sun, they spread their arms and tan their skin, speaking like sailors. They laugh so loud and deep they make waves. At nighttime, Sybil and Celeste lie down and hug the banana boat—Cary Grant, they call it—their heads almost touching in the middle. When the sun rises, they sit up and say good morning to schools of fish already on their way.To people on land, Sybil and Celeste are a news story, a sensation. But “presumed dead” would be sublime, they agree. Not everyone cares to be found. Some days, they lament what they miss: screwball comedies, scented candles, omakase. They’ve found, though, that unobstructed stars at night are a panacea for missing.When they’re feeling especially light, Sybil and Celeste lift the stray oar from the foot area of the banana boat. The one that drifted to them thirty-something days ago. HAPPY CAMPER, reads the blade’s inscription. Sybil and Celeste use the oar as a microphone for karaoke—today, Sybil sings Sinatra, later, Celeste will channel Elvis. The oar takes them to stages big and small, where the main act performs for a one-person audience, each show the greatest on earth.

THE QUIET SHORE by Belinda Rowe

December 11, 2024

Everything has an end — even stars, but still, when I caressed your face that morning, my fingers panicked at the cold of you.Steadfast for thirty years. Every Friday night we dined at our favourite restaurant, ordered spaghetti aglio e olio and a glass of Chablis. You sat opposite the fish tank where the blue groper circled, I sat overlooking the ocean. Remember you whispered, that’s no life.I didn’t think I could go on; cloven heart, heft of silence, but I kept up Friday nights for as long as it took, sat opposite the fish tank, declined the Chablis. I didn’t give a fig about consequences. I mean, what did I have to lose?I dressed for the occasion in my white silk blouse with the cameo carved from conch shell, the silver necklace you cast in delft clay for me, your old military pants rolled up and belted, black tactical boots from the OP shop. I tucked my hair into your green beret.I moved like a sapper to the restaurant bathroom, kindled a smokescreen from damp lichen and twigs. Orange flames crackled and hissed. Gliding through the plumes and wailing alarms, I swept the blue groper into a sack, cradled him down the path to the waiting ocean.Every Friday night since, the smell of salt and seaweed are a salve. I sip Chablis from your hipflask, light a tea light, settle it on a bed of swamp she-oak bark — gentle it out. Watch it bobbing.

POTENTIAL DOWNSIDE OF REPLACING YOUR EYEBALLS WITH CORN ON THE COB by Tyler Plofker

December 8, 2024

Me and Johnny replaced our eyeballs with corn on the cob. One cob stickin’ out of each socket. Buttered. Went in easy. Johnny’s aunt, Joann, said, “Stop that, you boys need your eyes!” We said, “Shut your trap, ya old hag!”We ran into the backyard. Could see just fine. The cobs fell into our skulls and bumped around as we climbed into Johnny’s treehouse. He dared me to dare him to jump from the treehouse to the grass, which was uncharacteristic. I dared him to jump from the treehouse to the grass. Johnny jumped from the treehouse to the grass and broke his right leg and right hip bone, and then we weren’t allowed to hang out with each other for three and a half months.

WHAT I REALLY MEAN WHEN I SAY I’VE BEEN DOOMSCROLLING by Benjamin Ray Allee

December 4, 2024

We presumed the forbidden knowledge would be some eldritch thing. The death-in-thought, a word for God. A space at the universal end we could not reach. An unthinkable color. A demon in our brother.Horror of all horrors, it is none of these. The secret that obliterates the mind, the antidivinity, it is not great, it is not God, it is not ultimate.Instead, swiping up the cosmic edge, I find:A momma making breakfast. Using more eggs than I would’ve thought, apron on, divulging drama from the clothing store and I do not want to know—An athlete dancing. Sultry eyes for all who sees he sways and lets a rhythm catch him wild by the neck, tear my eyes away—A farmer mourning loss of calf. Seven hundred miles away and I can see his whiskers wet with loss, the space between proclaims heat-death—A toddler learning how to eat. How could I see it, know her name, not picture mandalic lives for her, some pruned by Murphy’s shears—Soothsayer claiming madness for the world. Espousing foolish notions that the secret is a word, a craft, a harbinger, a ghostly God whose visage is a killswitch, voice atomic bomb, a basilisk thought-virus unending and unstoppable, an elder mind we would commune with, be demanded by, and kneel to as we cry—No.There is a plum cut this evening, sweet trickle on the counter for a child I’ll never meet, and I do not want to know that.There is a meal, device, a ritual taken in my backyard by neighbors opening their folds to me look away, look away, look away—There is a quiet dance we’re sharing that once belonged to the space beneath our eyes.I have seen it. I have found the killing thought.

3 MICRO PIECES by Amy DeBellis

December 2, 2024

Yakutsk

Temperature dropping like a dive off a cliff. My lungs full of winter air, clear and sharp as ice. After the airplane and its stale box of other people’s exhalations, each breath is like mainlining oxygen. When I rub my lips together their skin is as dry as the snow beneath my boots. The salt of this morning still furs my tongue. My hands tremble brittle in my coat pockets, and my fingers rub the edge of a ticket, a mint, an obsolete coin. In only a few moments I will put my memories behind me and walk into the taiga. Try to forget your face and its smiling cruelty, the soft malice that always comes with power. Try to forget how you uploaded your consciousness into the cloud and cheated death, how you turned the ouroboros from a snake to a mute circle, a faceless loop: a splotch of ringworm, a spreading bulls-eye rash, a scrawled zero. Try not to wonder, a hundred years after I am dead, how much of this forest too will be gone.The wall of trees yawns before me. No fresh green breast here, no—here is a frozen emerald heart, holding within it no ability to nurture but only to embalm, to write my body like a stone carving, immersing it gemlike in years of snow. I step forward and the trees swallow me. They are tall and green and endless, speaking of everything I have forgotten how to say to you.

Wake

Morning: the sun smears blood across the sky. My mother’s body is as white and long-stemmed as a lily, a flower in its velvet casing. I’m drenched in black like I’m trying to melt into the shadows around the walls. Like I’m trying to camouflage myself from every distant relative—their exhalations sour with coffee, their smiles oily with false sympathy. I think of the last time I saw my mother smile: at the sea, the last place we traveled together. Inside my head I say Mother. The word flutters, dark and silent, on my tongue. I remember the green endlessness of the ocean, how we lay back on the sand and let the sun bleach the water from our bodies. Brine and salt in my mouth. The waves rising, cresting, falling. Time a noose around our necks.

Even My Fantasies Are Chronically Ill

Ringing in my ears like the seconds after an explosion, except it’s constant and unending, shrill as silver, and there was no explosion. Only days, soft and slow. I try to stand and my body fails me. A collection of diagnoses accumulates like a layer of filth on my skin: mast cell activation, dysmenorrhea, chronic urticaria. I try to stand and my body fails me. Craniocervical instability, hyperacusis, photophobia. My windows are shuttered; the layer on my skin is permanent. Postural orthostatic tachycardia, myalgic encephalomyelitis. The words of my diagnoses grow longer and longer until they might not even be real anymore, just syllables contorting themselves into agonized, impossibly labyrinthine shapes. My body keeps failing me forever, an endless loop of standing up and crashing back down again. My legs grow thin and brittle like matchwood. The ringing in my ears now more like a screaming. Lying in the soundless dark, I picture everyone who’s ever doubted me crowded around my bedside. I imagine them emptied of all the Have you tried and I don’t think and Are you sure, their throats cleared of all words, their esophaguses silent and moist. I imagine seeds sinking into the damp flesh there, weeds sprouting from their mouths, finally blooming into bright fistfuls of flowers: a perfect copy of the garden outside my window, the garden I can no longer see.