Flash Archives

NOOSE TATTOO by Nick Farriella

October 2, 2018 · Fiction

When my uncle showed up at my door unexpectedly, he had a noose tattooed around his neck and carried a long rope bundled up in his hand. Over the few days he lived with me, he’d toss the rope over the counter when coming in the door. He’d sling it over his shoulder out in the yard when doing what he called, “Jailareobics;” propane tank bicep curls, cinder block shoulder presses, push-ups with his feet three stairs up. When I said, “Uncle Frank, what’s up with the rope?” He said something about casting his own judgment, that the rope was a reminder. “Reminder of what?” I asked. He lowered the collar of his shirt revealing that crazy tattoo.“That we’re born with our heads in the noose,” he said.On Monday, I called my dad and told him about Uncle Frank’s tattoo and that he’s carrying a six-foot rope around with him.“When did he get out?” He asked.“He just showed up on Saturday,” I said.“Keep an eye on him, will you?”“He even lies down with it stretched out next to him on the couch, like it’s a snake,” I told him. The next morning, I awoke to the smell of pork roll and heard it crackling in the pan. There was Uncle Frank, shirtless and completely tattooed, leaning over the stove, rope bound up like a scarf around his neck. He asked how I slept. I asked if he did at all. He held a can of beer in his left hand. It was 6:45 a.m.“Hey, I got the paper,” he said. “Read me the front page, will ya?”I read him the front page of the Times, some story about the governor getting locked up for tax fraud. He let out a manic laugh and said, “He’s not going where you think he is. He’s going somewhere with tennis courts.”“Is that where you were?” I asked.“No, no,” he said. “I was in a hole.”He clicked off the burner and scooped up the pork roll, egg, and cheese and slapped it on a split bagel on the counter. He took a sip from his beer then dropped the plate in front of me and said, “For you.” When I asked what he was having, he lifted his beer, smiled that jackrabbit insane smile, and said, “I’m good.” It was Tuesday. I had to call out of work from my late shift at the warehouse to give Uncle Frank a ride to a meeting with his parole officer. The meeting was at two o’clock, so we spent that morning digging trenches in the yard to lay some ties down. Frank wanted to make a garden. When he showed up a few days before, I didn’t know what to think. He was always carrying some unforeseeable hook with him, that came around when you didn’t expect it. Like this past Thanksgiving. He had disappeared all afternoon, missed the Giants game and everything. We started dinner without him. He turned up halfway through, burping and stinking of the bar. He told me to follow him out back, that he got something for me. It was a new Huffy mountain bike with shocks on the forks. He was so proud. The elation of the gift carried over into the living room where we watched the highlights of the game, ate pie, drank some beers. I thought things would be okay for a while. That maybe this time, he’d stay for good. Until there was a knock at the door and Uncle Frank fled to the basement like a dog in a storm. It was the cops. He had stolen the bike. They took him away with pie cream still on the cusp of his mustache. So when he turned up again, out of the blue, talking about building a garden in my backyard, carrying that long rope, I didn’t reject the idea that he might consider burying somebody in it. Near the George Street exit, Uncle Frank told me to pull over. He had the rope twisted around the entire length of his arm. I asked him what was the matter. He said that if he went to his PO meeting he was going to get locked up—he owed $120 that he doesn't have and that they’re going to test him for alcohol, which would be like testing his lungs for air. I had a decision to make. His hands were shaking in his lap. I watched the panic rise in him and course through his veins up to his neck as he took quick short breaths. He squeezed the end of the rope with both hands.“Yeah, the noose is getting tighter,” he said. “I can feel it.”I didn’t know what to do. Trucks blew by us, making my car rattle. For some reason, in that moment I remembered something that my dad once told me about Uncle Frank. It was after my tenth birthday party. Someone stole all of the cards with the money in them. Everyone blamed my uncle because that’s the kind of guy they took him for. Tattooed, biker, drunk. After they accused him, he left the party, went to a bar, got roaring drunk, and laid down his motorcycle going 90 miles an hour on the turnpike. His handlebar ripped through his spleen. On the way to the hospital in my dad’s truck, he said, “My brother will be paying for his sins with his body for the rest of his life.” That really stuck with me, cause every time he’d show up, he’d have a new injury to report; a bum knee, broken fingers, missing teeth. I never did tell my dad that a week after that, I found my birthday cards in my cousin Nicky’s car, with no cash in them. I think he had used my birthday money to shoot heroin. I decided to not drive Uncle Frank to his parole meeting. I said, fuck it. We kept going on Rt. 18 all the way to the shore. He turned up the radio, Black Sabbath was blaring. He drum rolled on the dash and let out dog calls. Ow Ow Owww! He even tossed the rope into the back seat. I thought maybe he had some sense of freedom back, which I felt pretty good for giving him. I couldn’t knowingly drive him to that meeting. It would have been like dropping him off at the prison gates.In Asbury Park, he asked me to stop at a liquor store. I said, cool, and asked if he needed money for some beers. He said, “You kidding? I’d never take money from my nephew.”He was in there a while, so I smoked a cigarette on the outside of my car and watched two crows walk along a telephone wire. They were the biggest crows I ever saw and they moved in unison. I had the feeling they were watching me. Perhaps, it was me feeling guilty for breaking the law and technically aiding a wanted criminal. I thought, what if the cops were able to use birds for intel? Just use some sort of chip that makes them follow and report crime. So, I looked up at them and flashed my middle fingers. I said, “Fuck you, crows.”My uncle rushed out of the liquor store with his hands in his pockets.“What, are you talking to birds now?” He said.We got back in the car. I put on my seat belt and backed out of my spot, looking both ways. Uncle Frank said, “A little urgency please.” It was then I realized the store clerk rushing towards us waving his fists in the air. I sped off.“Frank, what the fuck? You just rob that place?”“I borrowed,” he smirked, sliding a few tall boys of Natural Light and shooters of Jim Beam out of the inner lining of his denim jacket.We went to the beach and got drunk. The weather was shit since it was April, but it was nice to have it all to ourselves. Heavy clouds rolled over. The sea looked angry. The sun came in bursts; one minute it was there, the next it wasn’t and all was cold and gloomy. We sat near the jetty, drinking and smoking. Uncle Frank told me stories about his days with the Hells Angels, running guns and crank. What a life. I threw French fries at seagulls. It was the best damn day I ever had with him. I figured the memory of that day would stick forever. He was so much like that sparse sun, that when he came around, you had to appreciate the shine and warmth of his presence. He was kind of electric like that, full of energy. I told him that I felt pretty bad about not taking him to his meeting.“What’s going to happen next?” I asked.“Another warrant, probably.”“You know you can’t stay at my place anymore, right?”“I know. I never stay in any place for more than a few days, anyway. You take care of that garden.”I told him, I will.A strong wind came over the beach. It was bitter cold and whipped up sand in our faces. The problem with memory is that I’d like to imagine he was crying instead of wiping the sand out of his eyes, because if I saw some tears, that would have been an inkling to the sort of pain he was in. Instead, I couldn’t see shit, just sand.We drove back with the radio off. He kept to himself, not saying much, just staring out the window, watching the signs on the parkway blow past. I wondered what kind of movie was playing in his head. I hoped it was something nice, like those old westerns he used to love and make me watch. The ones where the bad guys always got away. I thought he would figure something out, he always had.He told me to drop him off at Edison Train Station, so I pulled right up to the awning to let him out. It was raining. He gave me a hug and told me to take care of myself. He said, “Thanks for a great day, nephew.” When he walked off, I rolled down the window and yelled, “Uncle Frank, you forgot your rope.”He said, “No I didn’t,” tapping the tattoo around his neck.” The next morning, I awoke to a phone call from my dad. He asked if I saw the news. It was all a blur from there. The family had a wake and a funeral and no one knew what to say. My aunts made up reasons for why and my cousins didn’t want to talk; they took shots of Jameson in the parking lot of the funeral home. That’s the thing about a suicide; it’s like a bomb that goes off in a family with shrapnel blowing through the rings of whoever was close enough to feel the blast. No one knows how to cope. The survivors are left removing shards of guilt and anxiety from what is left of their defenses, trying not to bleed out, with one lingering question: Why? I knew why. I told myself the noose around his neck got so tight, he felt like there were no other options. I always thought my uncle would be the type to chew through the rope, but the noose was a part of him all along, like the damn tattoo.After it was all over, I told my dad about our day at the beach. He said it wasn’t my fault.“I know,” I lied.Then I sat on the porch of my parent’s house, smoking cigarettes, and watching crows take off and land on a telephone wire. Nothing and everything had changed.

Nick Farriella

THE FLASH FLOOD by Gregg Williard

October 1, 2018 · Fiction, Williard World

The flash flood made it impossible to drive home. She had to leave her car in a Walgreens parking lot and walk the rest of the way. Later she heard that someone was washed away when he left his car. She’d been guiding her boyfriend home, trying to avoid the worst streets, though she didn’t know what was and wasn’t impassible and could only describe the google street map of the area. He made another turn but couldn’t see the street sign. Then his phone died. Before it gave out he thought he saw something big and white bobbing in the water rushing down another street. What is it, a body, she asked, laughing nervously. He didn’t answer and she said, what are you going to do? I’m calling the police, he said. She said, I’ll call, where are you? But he wasn’t sure. There were flares at the top of the street that made the water red. No, yellow. But he couldn’t read the sign. She gave him more directions and the white thing moved out of view. Never mind, he said, and then his phone died. In his mind, he thought about the best way to get back, and the best way to tell this story to her and other people. The water glowed red. Green. Green red. The white thing was this big. This big. When he came to the next intersection, it was completely submerged. He saw the white thing floating in the water again. It seemed to be snagged on something and was bouncing against the current, very much like a little flailing man. There were no other cars and it was very dark and had started to pour again. He would have to turn around again. What a story. The thunk of the wipers and the rattle of the rain on the top of the car. He wasn’t afraid. He felt a mounting fear. Mounting dread. If the water kept rising at this rate, it would wash over the street. Rise over the hill. Mount the hill. He started to turn around, then peered out at the white thing again. He got out of his car to try and see it better, but it was raining too hard. He got back in and wiped away the rain from his face and inched the car forward, trying to bring his headlight beams closer to the white thing. The street seemed to be on high ground, but there were only a couple of houses and they were dark. At the rate the water was rising, it could come over the hill behind the houses. He had to turn around. But the white thing kept bobbing in front of him, clearer now in the beams. Judging from the submerged stop sign the water directly ahead looked like it might be about six feet, not so bad, but it was moving fast. He imagined wading into it, then diving into the water. He was a good swimmer. What if the white thing were his girlfriend, or his mother or father. A person, any person would look like this in a flood. Drowned, or almost drowned, and white, even a black person would be white under these conditions, an Asian person or Latino/Latina, or maybe that would sound weird. Anyway, anyone would be just such a bundle, turning, worthy of rescue. Would it make a better story to speculate about, not who it could be but what it could be, and then lead up to who it could be, and then, boom who it really was, and boom, it tolls for thee kind of thing, that he actually goes out there and tries to get it and boom, the person who was washed away was him and you’re hearing the story from a ghost kind of thing? He could go step-by-step: the white thing could be a white garbage bag. Then a white garbage bag of ransom money for the kidnapped kid in the trunk of the car over there abandoned in the water, (go to the car or go to the bag for confirmation that the kid’s in the car?) or a white duffel bag off a Brink’s truck, loaded with payroll, the robbers ironically drowned. Then the bitter irony of wading in and being washed away trying to retrieve the white thing that turned out to be a white laundry bag, from the hospital nearby, maybe the one where his recovered white body lay on a gurney being worked over by desperate paramedics, but the bitter, more bitter, irony part because the laundry bag was stuffed with sheets (like one of his students who had worked in a hospital laundry had once described to him) filthy with shit, blood, vomit and apocryphal secret abortions or organ thefts gone wrong.

The flash flooding started up again, and water from the next street banked over the little hill behind the dark houses and came crashing down, washing over his car as high as the windows, moving so fast his story couldn’t keep up with the waves.

Gregg Williard

SONNY CROCKETT CIRCA 2004 by Ryan Hall

September 27, 2018 · Fiction

The chain-store you were employed at made so many bad decisions that you pictured board meetings full of cross-eyed and drooling executives, giving power-point presentations that were actually crude finger-paintings rendered in their own feces.And it was there, at the end of things, that you met Ricky. He first showed up wearing faded acid-washed jeans and neon blue cowboy boots, with fluffed and teased hair pulled into a pony-tail. He walked right up to you, stationed in the cafe slinging shit coffee and stale snacks for every third customer that didn't ask where the nearest Starbucks was.Standing in front of your register he pleaded into a giant mobile phone."Hello? Hello? I swear if the weather turns south this damn thing just goes kaput."In this act, he looked like a failed country heart-throb purged from Nashville circa 1991, three parts Ichabod Crane to one part Billy Ray Cyrus."Excuse me, sir, but you got a place I could plug this damn thing in back there?" he asked. "I got some business I need to sort out on this hunk of junk, and it just went and dogged out on me.""Sure, no problem." This was a phrase you used multiple times a day, trapped in a ghost town mall filled with bare drywall. The coffee shop was the lowest level within the hierarchy of the store's dwindling skeleton crew. You were put there because they wanted you to leave, not deeming you worthy of sticking around for the meager severance package that everyone knew was coming.The only co-worker who bothered talking to you was the guy from the music department, who broke store code by playing heavy metal on the overhead. But, there was Ricky, who would come in with his phone and have long conversations littered with random business jargon and silver-tongued negotiations."This is ground floor I'm offering here, Randall. And I just happen to be offering you the honey spot in all of this. You read them numbers? Sweet as cake, baby. Sweet as cake."On these calls, he carried a folksy charm and confidence. But between the calls he would look around the cafe nervously, getting up to pace while carrying a worried look. He would sit back down, and stare at his phone planted like a monument on the table. He would then pick the device back up, this time with a weariness."Hey, baby. You sleeping? Ah, you shouldn't nap so much. How you feeling today?"He would wait for answers within these exchanges like a man walking a tightrope, his expressions changing from anxiety to relief within seconds."I just got off the horn with Randall. I'm telling ya', he's as tight-assed as they come, but you'd think I was trying to sell him on bricks of shit. I know. I've pulled in harder cases before. You take care now. I miss you too, baby. How much? Like a man in need of savin'."He would hang up, let out a long breath of air and sit with hands and elbows propping up his brow, his eyes closed, twitching in place as if electrical currents were sending tremors through his body.You found yourself anticipating these visits. He never ordered anything, just setting up camp in the corner, pouring himself a glass of ice water. His phone never rang, but he'd eye it for long pauses as if he was sensing it to spring to life. Eventually, his patience would give out, and he'd pick it up and hammer in a call. Suddenly he would beam with new blood, taking clients through the various virtues of what he was offering, the benefits weighed against the pros and cons.But towards the tail end of his second week, more and more his eyes would flicker with the pain of recognition that he wasn't going to land this one. After such a call he wandered up to the counter, eyeing the daily specials on the lunch boards."Man, I'll tell you what. They say it's a rough go out there, but that ain't hardly the half of it. I just spent the last week getting strapped over the barrel only to end up with squat to show for it. Any of these sandwiches any damn good?""In a pinch, they aren't too bad. But nothing you would want to write home about.""Those the real prices? What the hell is an aioli?" When he pronounced aioli, he butchered it horribly, with a sour look like he just took in crop-dusting of fresh methane."It's just a fancy word for seasoned mayonnaise.""Now why can't they just say that? Why they have to put on airs just to sell a damn sandwich? I don't mean to talk down on your place of employment, and I'm sure you had nothing to do this aioli business. But goddamn there's a bunch of stupid shit in this world I'm never gonna understand."He looked dead tired like he was just about to collapse in place."I'm sorry for my use of language, partner. I've just had one hell of a week, and I'm dreading having to call my lady-friend with the shit news. Speaking of, you mind charging this thing for me?" He handed over his phone. "It's just about bone dry on juice.""Sure. No problem. No problem at all."For the first time in what felt like years, you meant it, and once he sat back at his table, you slipped him a roast beef sandwich, some chips, and a Dr. Pepper. When you put the food down, he grinned up at you wildly."Well, I'll be. A gesture fit for an angel."He ate like a man who stumbled on food after nearly starving in the wilderness. Looking at his gaunt frame and pale skin you wondered how long it had been since he'd actually taken the time to eat. Once he finished, he thanked you and asked for his phone back. He reached out for a handshake and asked your name. Usually, you lied to customers about it, but this time you gave it up. As you shook his hand, he looked deep into your eyes with a warmth that felt so pure you almost had to look away. "Ricky, the name's Ricky," he said. "Always good to meet a new friend."He went back and sat at his phone, trying to muster up the nerve to call and inform on his failure. "Hey honey, it's me. Oh, I've been doing right rotten. Yeah, in all his divine wisdom Randall is taking a pass. Well, there is no cure for stupid, so they say. Just trying to do best as a breadwinner. Now speaking of breadwinner, this fella in the cafe I'm working out of gave me one of the best damn sandwiches I've ever had. That's right. Been working out of a fancy cafe since I got here, in the biggest goddamn mall I've ever laid eyes on. God, I wish you were here to see it."You were wiping down tables, taking in Ricky's conversation when the music department guy walked in on his way for a coffee refill."Checking out Mr. Headcase Chatterbox over there?"You found yourself feeling defensive. "Come on man, he's OK.""OK, huh? This is what happens when you geezers shut out technology." The music department guy was only eight years younger than you but fully immersed in new social mediums, while you stubbornly paid your monthly phone bill for a landline. "When was the last time you saw anybody use one of those things, outside of an episode of Miami Vice?"You wouldn't see Ricky again until the home office delivered the news to liquidate inventory before closing the doors for good. Bargain bin shoppers descended like a biblical mob of locusts. Ricky showed up the second to last day of business, with a middle-aged woman that might have been his mother, but just as easily could have been a paid handler. He had gained about twenty pounds, his hair cropped short and uneven. He was wearing purple sweatpants and a stained t-shirt sporting the main alien character from the tv series "Alf."Shifting through the store with his companion, he stared at the racks of priced-to-move items like he was on the terrain of a distant world, weaving through the throng of shoppers with heavily medicated eyes, silently mouthing an unknown language. You tried to remember the Ricky from before, immersed in conversations through an archaic phone. You tried to remember you and Ricky, right before the end of things.

Ryan Hall

WHERE WE MARCHED, HIS FINAL YEARS by James McAdams

September 26, 2018 · Fiction

Here’s a pic of Dad and me marching at the Inauguration Protest, January 20th, 2017, he’s holding the IMPEACH TRUMP sign I duct-taped to his hand. He voted for Trump but that didn’t matter—what mattered, according to his neurologist, was that he get fresh air, sunlight, and exercise, away from the confinements of Lush Horizons. This one, yes, that’s him marching with the pink Breast Cancer Awareness cap at the Women’s March, January 21st. His gait palsied, hands slapping the air, mind still in the 60’s, the decade he said changed everything, the decade I was born.

At the airport, on January 28th, we marched against the Trump Travel Ban.

In the county park, on April 29th, we marched for People’s Climate Change.

During the marches, he had lucid moments when he’d look around at the spectacle of half-clothed college students taking Instas and Snaps, middle-aged women screaming into megaphones like rock stars, the squeal of the vuvuzelas. He’d croak my name questioningly but I’d just push him on, saying “Everything’s okay, Pop,” as he glanced skeptically at his T-shirt captioned “LIAR” in Republican colors.

Was it wrong of me to do this? Maybe it was because every time I watched the news I thought of him, a sort of “double consciousness,” always arguing against him in my head.

“You love him too much,” my therapist said.

“I can’t stop thinking of him,” I said.

She smiled, folding her hands. “Love can be a very frustrating emotion.”

Is my account of Alzheimer's just literary, a figuration, a synecdoche for media saturation? When Obama was elected, Dad, still lucid, entered a different world. FOX News. Drudge Report. Breitbart. Limbaugh. Our weekly dinners devolved into polite discussions about the weather and traffic, tending to Mom’s grave, was I dating any special women. I was 52, he was 75. We’d drink two Yuenglings then shake hands. He spent his days reviewing the HOA budget for his condo association, walking the streets to ensure nobody had modified their external structure.

We joined the National Pride March, June 11th.

We joined March for Black Women, September 20th.

We joined March for Our Lives, March 24, 2018, three weeks before I removed him from the ventilation machine.

After March for Our Lives, I put him to bed in Lush Horizons, changing his diaper and applying lotion to his lower joints. He was exhausted, but made a clicking sign that meant turn on the TV. FOX was running a story about Hillary’s servers. Dad sighed. I remembered that sigh from childhood, when I’d appear at the dinner table with black nails, claim Reagan was a war criminal at family parties, refuse to attend church.

I got into bed with him and secured the bed rails. “I love you too much, is the problem,” I whispered.

He motioned me closer, his face grimacing, and pointed at the TV. “Lock her up.”

“Yeah,” I said, placing another pillow under his withered head. Then I rested my cheek against his heart, back like when I had nightmares. “Lock her up, Pop.”

James McAdams

THE BROKEN TEETH DIARIES by Joe Bielecki

September 25, 2018 · Fiction

We used to be in a mouth but were evicted by a fist in the winter outside of a bar by a bouncer. We weren’t unhappy in our home, but we didn’t mind being free from being drowned in alcohol and choked by smoke every day. The snow was cool. We hibernated like little white bears.

We mingled with razor sharp salt that was used to tear through the ice that the snow was packed down to create. Our enamel was scraped away slowly. Small cracks formed and were filled with melted snow that froze in the night and expanded and widened the cracks so that more water could fill them so that they could widen more so that more water could fill them.

We were not shaped like teeth when spring came. More just little white pebbles mixed in with the gravel. Listening to the sounds of downtown. Spreading far and wide under the feet of passersby.

We were joined or joined other teeth. Fallen from homeless or babies. There was no difference here on the ground. We formed a network. All the pieces forgot the mouth that they came from. The old home means nothing to the mindful. We formed a hivemind. Mapping the city. The downtown, the outskirts, the metro area, every nook and cranny and dark alley and sewer drain.

The summer was a young woman screaming FUCK YOU into her phone over and over. Whoever she is talking to only getting milliseconds to respond or make their case. We would like to comfort her. To smother her insides with chocolate or potato chips. To filter vodka down her throat.

We are the ones who devour the food dropped by spoiled children and full bachelors. We still do our best to perform our function. We have one job.

In the fall we watched as the city destroyed people. Businesses crippled working men with exhaustion and bitterness. Hospitals turned sick kids into drug addicted teens. Crippled and bitter men turned wives into mistresses and children into bartering chips. We are the gravel under bare feet cutting into toes overhanging flip flops and sandals. Scuffing shiny shoes.

We have just become rocks in a tumbler. Doing our small part to do whatever it is that we actually have to do. We have seen the grand scope but not the big picture. But we have no desire to. Too much figuring makes us dizzy. Grinding us into dust and blowing us into the eye of a small child staring at the buildings towering above her.

Joe Bielecki

BONDO by Harris Lahti

September 24, 2018 · Fiction

That summer I started working at Lexington Home for minimum wage. I spent shifts convincing residents to swallow pills brimming from paper cups. It was a powerful position. Or at least that’s what I told friends. I told them I could’ve swallowed every pill if I wanted. But the only question anyone ever asked was: “What happened to you?” I was permanently limping. My hips, shins, elbow were riddled with lumps and eggs. The city of Albany was full of cracks that stopped skateboard wheels dead and, it seemed, I’d found every one. I discovered the pink goo of car Bondo worked best for patching. In minutes it formed a hard, smooth layer. At night I dreamt of a seamless world where one could roll forever. Back then, friends were everywhere, too plentiful. It got so the nerves inside my face ached from laughing. I decided skateboarding was a legend factory. One night, we branded our legs with a hot iron then went dancing until the blood filled our socks. On the way home, we stole things from the park. Our best find was a billboard-sized Christmas sign depicting a happy Santa tossing presents that we stole from an unlocked shed. We plugged it in and blew the fuse of the apartment before he could toss any presents though. A week later someone went to the hospital with a staph infection while my own self-inflicted wounds healed nicely. The small miracle made me feel powerful. Other times I thought I might die I was so fragile. I called out of work constantly. But they refused to fire me. I hit another crack and separated my shoulder. It healed all wrong and began hanging awkwardly from my bones, straining the muscle over my heart. For a short time afterward I became convinced I was having a heart attack and admitted myself to the hospital. When the ER nurse asked me if I’d had any drugs, I lied and said, “No, never.” She brought me pills brimming a paper cup and told me I was okay to go. I tossed them back, showed her my tongue but she wasn’t looking. On my way home, I kicked over garbage cans, thinking I’d run into someone. I didn’t know where anyone was anymore, it seemed. I tried remembering if I’d called out of work already, if I should go in. Behind one can, I discovered a painting of Black Jesus rimmed in heavenly light. I carried it home and scrubbed the glass with Windex to give my new savior a brighter domain. Why had I started working at Lexington Home in the first place? I wondered. Black Jesus didn’t know either. Was it an ad in the paper? Sometimes I thought I just showed up at Lexington Home without invitation and slipped in among the residents, all seamless. Other times it was even less deliberate. Regardless, as I limped the halls that day, a happy Santa tossing out pills, electricity surged through my cracked bones as the residents shivered and rolled out their tongues.

Harris Lahti

THEME PARK SUICIDE by Teddy Duncan

September 20, 2018 · Excerpt, Fiction

I'd been to six flags before and I knew that there was a ride called goliath that you could manually unbuckle the seat belt even after the ride had begun. I don't fully understand what I was thinking at the time but I don't think anyone does when you get away from a sickness like that, like when you have a stomach ache and forget what it feels like for your stomach to be normal and you wish and hope and pray for it to be normal and for the stomach ache to end, so that normal becomes a glorious thing. But when you're normal again you remember there's nothing great about normal, it's just the absence of bad but not necessarily good and when you're normal you don’t even understand why you made such a big deal out of a stomach ache. That's the position I'm in now. I did something drastic over something I now see as ordinary. I went to six flags by myself so I had to get in the single riders line with families and couples who intended to get through the line quicker but really didn’t want to ride by themselves and didn’t actually expect someone to come to a theme park by themselves and to actually ride a ride by themselves. I wanted someone to know, and I didn’t care who was on the ride with me. I knew I wouldn’t have to deal with the result and that everyone would just know I was dead or momentarily think I was just really hurt. The one’s that do it alone in their rooms are the brave ones, the one’s that can just pull a thoughtless trigger or put their heads through a loop in a rope, I just didn’t buckle my seatbelt. Well I did at first when the bored 16 year old employee came and tugged at everyone’s crotch to make sure that their seatbelts were secure. After he checked my row and went onto the next I just pressed the button and put my arm over the belt to make it look like it was still clicked into place. I could have waited until the ride started to unbuckle my seatbelt so I wouldn’t have to risk an employee seeing that my seatbelt was off and maybe seeing my bloodshot suicide eyes and making me leave. I was too pussy to do it so close to my actual death. I was just going to ride the ride like normal and try to forget that I wasn’t fastened by anything and when the first sideways loop came instead of being pushed up against the seatbelt I didn’t push against anything and went sprawling through the air for maybe 2 total seconds of fear before impact. I just really didn’t want to feel alone when I died, no matter how fucked up it is if I was going to do it I needed an audience.

This micro-story is part of an unpublished fiction chapbook that no one's fucking with, so if you like this and publish small books/chapbooks hmuuuuu here.

Teddy Duncan

OPENING WEEKEND by Clare Nazarena Tascio

September 19, 2018 · Fiction

OPENING WEEKEND

THE HARD PART IS THAT IT ISN’T HARD.TO GO ON LIVING. AFTER. THE LIVING JUST…GOES. JUST GOES ON AND ON! WITHOUT ME. AND I HAVE TO WATCH IT GO. AND I CAN’T CATCH UP TO IT. AND I CAN’T REALLY WANT TO. SO IT GOES. ON AND ON. SOMETIMES I SIT IN THE FRONT ROW, BECAUSE NO ONE WANTS TO SIT IN THE FRONT ROW, AND BECAUSE IT’S LIKE SITTING REALLY CLOSE TO A BONFIRE. I WANT YOU CLOSER AND BIGGER. BUT SOMETIMES I SIT ALL THE WAY IN THE BACK. WHEN I’M THAT FAR AWAY FROM YOU I FEEL THIS HARD FISHING LINE PULLED TAUT BETWEEN US. LIKE I’M TESTING HOW FAR I CAN GO, BEFORE YOU SNAP ME BACK TO YOU. I LIKE THAT. IT FEELS LIKE I’M TOUCHING MYSELF EVEN THOUGH MY HANDS ARE ON THE ARM RESTS. I ALMOST COME. I DON’T LIKE SITTING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE THEATRE. IT FEELS LIKE A TRAP. OTHER PEOPLE END UP SITTING NEAR ME, AND I CAN’T PRETEND IT’S JUST THE TWO OF US IN THE WORLD. I DON’T WANT ANY FRIENDS, AND I DON’T NEED ANY FRIENDS, AND NOW I’M GLAD I DON’T HAVE ANY FRIENDS, BECAUSE IF I HAD FRIENDS, THEN THEY WOULD HAVE THEIR OWN OPINIONS ABOUT YOU, AND THEN THEY WOULD RUIN YOU RIGHT TO MY FACE. I STARTED GOING TO THE MOVIES A LOT, SO I COULD BE IN A DARK PLACE THAT WASN’T MY BED. SO I COULD BE AWAKE, BUT ALSO ASLEEP. THAT’S WHEN I SAW YOU. I ONLY BOUGHT A TICKET TO SEE YOU BECAUSE YOU WERE TWO HOURS AND FORTY MINUTES LONG, AND I WANTED LONGER AND LONGER MOVIES, TO MAKE THE DAY SHORTER AND SHORTER. I LIKED EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU. YOUR FRAMES. YOUR COLORS. YOUR SOUNDS. YOUR PACING AND YOUR SILENCES. I FELT A FLICKER OF SOMETHING, LIKE WHEN YOU START TO FALL IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE, AND YOU CAN ALREADY SEE HOW FAR THAT DROP IS, AND YOU KNOW YOU’RE GOING TO GO FOR IT ALL THE WAY. I’M SAYING I FELL IN LOVE WITH YOU THE FIRST TIME I SAW YOU, AND I CRIED WHEN YOUR CREDITS ROLLED THAT FIRST TIME. MY THERAPIST TOLD ME TO FIND THE “LITTLE THINGS.” SIMPLE THINGS I COULD ENJOY. SHE TOLD ME TO GRAB HOLD OF THEM WITH BOTH HANDS, NO MATTER HOW STUPID OR CHILDISH THEY MIGHT SEEM! I COULD SPEND ALL DAY BLOWING UP BALLOONS JUST TO LIKE HOW THEY LOOKED CROWDING MY BEDROOM! I COULD VISIT TEN PET STORES IN A DAY JUST TO PET THE PUPPIES AND KITTENS!WHATEVER. I DIDN’T WANT TO FIND “LITTLE THINGS” TO ENJOY. WHAT A WASTE OF TIME. WHAT AN INSULT TO MY ESSENTIAL HUMANITY, WHICH I THINK, FOR EVERYONE, IS A STRETCHING TOWARD “BIG-NESS.” AND THEN I FOUND YOU. AND YOU WERE BIG. YOU WERE LONG, AND RAMBLING, AND BEAUTIFUL, AND FULL OF SO MUCH, AND NOTHING HAPPENING, AND EVERYTHING HAPPENING TOO. YOU MADE ME FEEL LIKE I WAS FALLING IN LOVE. WITH WORLD. WITH NOT BEING DEAD YET. I DECIDED THAT SINCE I COULDN’T KEEP UP WITH THE PACE OF MY OWN LIVING, I WOULD KEEP PACE WITH YOU. I DROPPED OUT OF SCHOOL. GAVE UP MY APARTMENT. CHANGED MY PHONE NUMBER. FILLED A GARBAGE BAG WITH CLOTHES. BOUGHT A NOTEBOOK AT THE GAS STATION, AND DROVE. TO EVERY CITY AND EVERY THEATRE THAT WOULD PLAY YOU FOR ME. YOU, FLUNG UP SO BIG ON THE SCREEN, THROWING LIGHT ALL OVER MY CRUMPLED BODY IN MY DIRTY HOODIE AND JEANS IN THE FRONT ROW. I DON’T NEED SLEEP. I BARELY NEED TO EAT. COFFEE IN THE MORNING, AND LEFTOVER CANDY, WHILE THE SUN RISES OVER THE HIGHWAY. SOMETIMES WHEN THERE’S A RAMP GOING UP ON A BRIDGE OR SOMETHING, I FEEL LIKE I’M GONNA DRIVE RIGHT INTO THE FUCKING SKY. AT NIGHT, IT’S RED BULL AND STALE POPCORN FROM THE DAY BEFORE WHILE I FIND THE NEXT THEATRE. ONCE I FIND IT, I BUY TICKETS FOR EVERY SHOWTIME I CAN THAT DAY. IF TWO SCREENS ARE PLAYING YOU AT ONCE I SOMETIMES WATCH YOU ALMOST ALL THE WAY TO THE END, THEN SLIP INTO THE OTHER SCREENING, TO WATCH YOU ALL THE WAY TO THE END AGAIN. IT FEELS INCREDIBLE THAT WAY. IT IS CLEAR TO ME YOU ARE A MUCH MORE LOVED THING IN THE WORLD THAN I CAN EVER BE. NO MATTER WHAT THEY SAY IN THE REVIEWS. THE REVIEWS ARE BULLSHIT. I THINK ABOUT HOW MANY PEOPLE CAME TOGETHER TO MAKE YOU, AND HOW MUCH MONEY AND TIME WAS PUT IN TO BRING YOU TO THE SIZE YOU SHOULD BE, AT THE SCALE YOU DESERVE. NO HUMAN HAS HAD SO MUCH TIME AND MONEY AND PEOPLE PUT INTO THEM. SOMETIMES I THINK THAT A PERSON’S LIFE IS A LOT LIKE THE LIFE OF A MOVIE IN A THEATRE. OPENING WEEKEND IS A PERSON’S LIFE AGE 1-18. YOUR FIRST FORAYS INTO FINDING YOUR PLACE IN THE HIERARCHY OF PEOPLE. YOUR FIRST EXPERIENCES WITH BEING PUT DOWN, CRITICIZED, OR PRAISED. PEOPLE WILL CONTINUE GIVING THEIR OPINIONS ABOUT YOU FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, BUT THAT FIRST WEEKEND OF LIFE SHAPES THE REST THAT WILL COME LATER. NO APPRECIATION LATER ON DOWN THE ROAD WILL CHANGE THE WAY YOU WERE TREATED THAT FIRST WEEKEND. THOSE FIRST INSULTS. THOSE FIRST COMPLIMENTS. YOU NEVER FORGET IT. THIS OPENING WEEKEND DETERMINES HOW LONG YOU WILL BE AS BIG AS YOU WANT TO BE. HOW LONG YOU CAN HOLD YOUR OWN ON A BIG SCREEN. BEFORE YOU ARE DEMOTED TO TV SCREENS, LAPTOPS, TABLETS AND PHONES. YOUR FORM COMPRESSED TO SMALLER AND SMALLER VESSELS. SO WE COMPRESS OURSELVES. AND TELL EACH OTHER TO TAKE PLEASURE IN THE “LITTLE THINGS.” AFTER WE ARE RAPED BY THREE BOYS IN OUR COLLEGE DORM. TAKE PLEASURE IN LITTLE THINGS, BECAUSE BIG THINGS ARE NOT FOR YOU ANYMORE. YOUR LIFE. YOUR SELF. GETS A BAD RAP. PEOPLE SAY SHIT ABOUT YOU. THEY SAW THE VIDEO AND THEY STILL SAY SHIT ABOUT YOU. I DON’T WANT TO LIVE MY LIFE ON SMALLER AND SMALLER SCREENS. YOU ARE THE THING THAT MAKES ME FEEL ALIVE, EVEN THOUGH I’M NOT TALKING. NOT MOVING IN MY SEAT. BARELY BREATHING. YOU ARE MY LIFE NOW, TWO HOURS AND FORTY MINUTES. THEN ANOTHER TWO HOURS AND FORTY MINUTES. MY DAYS AND NIGHTS EXIST ONLY IN THIS INTERVAL: TWO HOURS AND FORTY MINUTES. THERE WILL COME A DAY, AND VERY SOON, THAT I WON’T BE ABLE TO FIND YOU ON A BIG SCREEN ANYMORE. THIS IS A LITTLE LIKE RELIEF, THAT THERE IS AN END IN SIGHT, AND A LOT LIKE GRIEF. I WONDER IF THOSE BOYS FELT EVEN A MICRO-BIT OF THE FEELING THAT I FEEL WHEN I’M WATCHING YOU. WHEN THEY WATCHED ME. THEN LATER WHEN THEY RE-WATCHED ME ON THEIR PHONES, ON THAT VIDEO. HOW DID THAT FEEL TO THEM? COULD THEY HAVE FELT ANYTHING AT ALL? THE DAY I SAW THAT VIDEO WAS THE DAY I STOPPED LIVING AT THE SAME PACE OF MY LIFE. THERE I WAS. SO SMALL. SO MANY PIXELS OR BITS OR WHATEVER THE FUCK. SUCH A SMALL SCREEN. IF THAT MOVING PICTURE OF ME WERE TO CLIMB OUT OF THAT LITTLE SCREEN I COULD CRUSH HER WITH TWO HANDS LIKE A MOUSE. MAYBE I WAS SIMPLY ONE OF THOSE “LITTLE THINGS” THOSE BOYS ENJOYED IN LIFE. BUT IF YOU WERE TO CLIMB OUT OF THE SCREEN YOU ARE ON, AND ACHIEVE A PHYSICAL FORM, YOU WOULD BE BIG. I WOULD BE THE MOUSE. AND YOU COULD CARRY ME IN YOUR POCKET, UNTIL I BLOOMED INTO A GUN.

Clare Tascio

DROP SHOT by Louis Dickins

September 18, 2018 · Fiction

Sonia is ashamed of her husband.

She’s sitting with a crowd of people at the local tennis courts in horror, as her husband Paul prepares to serve. He hasn’t won a game, and he and his opponent are deep into the third and final set.

It’s a hot, windy day at the South Morang Tennis Club. There’s a barbeque sizzling in the corner and cups of cordial set up for the kids. It’s the quarterfinals of the local tournament, and Paul’s lifelong dream of winning the cup is being violently dismantled.

At 48 years old, Paul is seriously overweight and has onset emphysema from years of chain smoking. Paul’s heritage is Albanian, immigrating to Australia as a ten-year-old, he loved the place immediately and connected to the nation’s love of sport.

Unfortunately, he’s being torn apart today by a much younger opponent.

His wooden McEnroe racquet has seen better days - it’s tired and wants to die. His Dunlop volley runners are undone and overcome by depression. Paul is out of breath, his sweat-drenched polo shirt clings against his skin.

He lifts the tennis ball into the air and connects with a powerful serve - off spin, curling into the court. A perfect serve, he thinks, until his opponent hammers it down the line. ‘Christ,’ Paul calls out as he throws his racquet against the artificial grass, ‘I can’t do anything right!’

Paul is a butcher by profession, he’s owned a shop in Richmond since the mid-eighties. His lamb chops are acclaimed by the locals, and he’s well-liked because of his social, happy disposition. His aspiration, though, has always leaned toward tennis and becoming a champion. As a boy, posters of his idols like Rod Laver and Fred Perry hung on his bedroom walls. At night he dreamt of aces and topspin backhands.

What was the defining moment of your life in tennis?

PAUL- Pat Cash’s 1987 victory over Ivan Lendl at Wimbledon. Boy, he played a magnificent match. Wonderful, graceful groundstrokes, ripper serve, and a killer drop shot. And he had presence. Something indefinable… he was magic. I sat transfixed as he played Lendl in ’87, I couldn’t look away. When he won, I started crying, real, physical tears. It changed my life. See, Pat Cash and I are around the same age, and we both grew up in Melbourne, so in a way, it was like I won Wimbledon, truly.

What is it about tennis you love?

PAUL- I’m into the unpredictable nature of the game. I thrive on its sense of competitiveness, and I like the community aspect of it. But, really I love the way the ball moves through the air, the sensation of movement. To me, there’s nothing better than hitting the ball with the sweet spot of the racquet, right in the middle. It’s wonderful.

Paul’s down three match points. It’s over. Even Paul’s resilient sense of determination has conceded defeat. He lifts the ball into the air and hits it with his dejected racquet. It lands in but is crushed back cross-court, Paul watching helplessly as the ball bounces away. Done, disappointed, his head sunken, he walks toward the net and shakes his opponent's hand.

‘Good game, mate,’ Paul says.

‘Yeah, Thanks.’

Defeat never changes. It hurts Paul in the same way it did when he was six. His whole life he’s dreamt of winning, the praise and adulation of being the best. Not just trophies and confetti, Paul wants admiration.

On quiet days at his butcher shop, Paul would rest his arms purposefully on the counter, close his eyes and daydream. He could see the shots, the pattern of the rallies, drop shots and smashes. He could see them. Seizing each moment, he could hear the roar of the crowd. He was the man, and this was his game.

In the months he spent preparing for the South Morang Tennis Tournament, he never considered not winning. It didn’t dawn on him that he could lose, it just wasn’t his destiny.

But now, as he shuffles off the court, his racquet packed up across his shoulder, sipping at an orange Gatorade, defeat hits Paul like a pile of bricks. He wasn’t good enough, not even close. Reality hasn’t lived up to his expectations, losing hurts like nothing else.

Inside the clubhouse, Paul walks straight toward the men’s bathroom. He turns on a tap and splashes cold water onto his tired face. He lights up a low-tar cigarette and looks at his reflection in the mirror.

Obscured by his heavy eye bags and grey hair he can still see the ambitious, dream-induced kid he used to be.

As a teenager, Paul had a wonderful tennis coach. They trained together every Thursday night for close to eight years. His name was Frank Price. Unbelievably overweight, he insisted on wearing track suits two or three sizes too small. He had dark black hair, slicked back. Frank was a part-time drug dealer, he supplemented his income as a tennis coach by selling crack cocaine from his car. His dedication to tennis was tremendous. He was not a preacher of push-ups, of weights and treadmills; instead, he was a believer in the beauty and spirit of the game.

Can you describe the influence Frank Price had on you as a young man?

PAUL- Frank believed in me, he understood me. He sat me down one day and told me the most important thing about competitive tennis was eye contact. You could size up and intimidate your opponent by looking at them directly in the eyes, their weaknesses, their insecurities, it was all in the eyes. In terms of style of play, he told me to be creative, to be original in your shot selection. Whatever shot, a lob or a drop shot, you had to hit it with conviction. Don’t doubt yourself, he’d say, don’t second guess your instincts, have belief… I was shattered when he was convicted of drug trafficking, I lost someone very special.

Paul reaches for some paper towel from the dispenser to dry his face, but it’s empty. He sighs and heads outside toward the carpark. Sitting in the passenger seat of their Holden hatchback is his wife Sonia. As he approaches the car, she gives him a smile.

Paul sits down and closes the door.

‘I’m sorry Paul, bad luck.’

Paul doesn’t respond, he sits in silence looking at the steering wheel.

‘It’s ok, Paul.’

Outside Paul can hear kids laughing and locals chatting. The summer wind whistles through the trees as cars go by on the highway. All Sonia can see is a sad, disappointed man.

‘I’m so ashamed,’ Paul says quietly.

‘… Why?’ Sonia asks.

‘Weren’t you watching, Sonia, he smashed me. All those people watched me lose. They saw a delusional old man embarrass himself. Nothing worked for me out there. From the start it was a total train wreck’ Paul removes his tearful headband, ‘All that work and all that preparation and all I did was disappoint myself. I was going to put the trophy up in the window of the butcher shop, I told everyone about this tournament, and I let them down. I let you down.’

‘Paul, no. You didn’t let me down. I’m so proud of you.'

‘What are you talking about,’ Paul says sharply.

‘You gave that match everything you had. You had it all on the line, and you had a crack. Listen to me Paul, the only losers in life are the people who don’t try. Who aren’t willing to have a go, who give up on their dreams. I don’t care about the score, you’re a ripper for trying, you’re a real champion.'

Paul turns to Sonia. Her blue eyes and tied back blonde hair.

‘Ok,’ he says.

He turns the key in the ignition, puts the car in gear and heads back home. It’s a quiet ride as Paul thinks over the match and his opponent. He can’t get over what Sonia just said to him; those beautiful words have slowly lifted his soul. As he puts the indicator on and pulls up at the driveway to their house, his resolution and commitment to tennis have come back. He’s no longer bitter or upset about how the match turned out, he’s starting to move on.

What motivates you?

Paul- You know, for a long time it was emulating the champs like Lendl or Pat Rafter. As a kid, my old coach Frank Price really pushed my buttons. But right now, really it’s Sonia, she just lights me up. She makes me want to be a better tennis player, a better butcher. The best me I can be. I can’t help but be excited about next year’s tournament, I’m already signed up. I can’t wait. And, you know with some hard work, a favourable draw, maybe a new racquet and with Sonia on my side, I think I’m in with a chance of clinching the trophy. Bit of luck here or there and who knows? I’m in love with the possibility of it all.

Louis Dickins

GRANDMOTHER by R.E. Hengsterman

September 17, 2018 · Fiction

A low metal growl rises, and I leap from the bed.

Ten... nine.

By seven, she's reached the cornered hill of Fletcher and Fields. Her brakes protest with a tinny squeal. By five, I'm half dressed. At three, the throaty rumble of the eight-cylinder engine grows.

By the time I reach zero, Grandmother has arrived. She slides from the bench seat of her station wagon and navigates the piles of dog shit left by our beagle.

Her pink, black-strapped handbag drapes her forearm. Her coifed hair is motionless. She has pressed her clothing into fine lines of order.

Mother, Father, and Grandmother have a silent, transitory meeting on the lawn amongst the dog shit.

***

In the kitchen, Grandmother unpacks her handbag; Kleenex, three pieces of bread, Pop Tarts®, a small change purse, cheese and crackers, a sleeve of thin mints, and a handful of peppermint candies. She is squat heavy and gray but determined to ignore the angry pop of gas trapped within her arthritic joints as she prepares my breakfast. On school days, Grandmother feeds me Pop Tarts® or Thomas’ English Muffins® slathered in butter. On the weekends, when without Grandmother, I resort to sneaking dry oatmeal from the kitchen cabinet.

While I am at school Grandmother tackles the laundry and cleans the house with meticulous detail. In the afternoon, with her chores complete, she appoints herself to the living room couch to watch General Hospital. After school, Grandmother chatters nonstop. She's upset that Mikkos Cassadine has a plan to freeze the world using a weather machine.

***

The following Monday Grandmother was ill. There was no rumble. No tinny squeal. No announcement. Just Mother heavy-footing her way around the kitchen, slamming cabinets and cursing.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Grandmother is unreliable. I’m going to be late for work.”

Mother goes on to tell me Grandmother had visited Grandfather in the Army when they were dating and never left.

“Hung around,” Mother says. “Like a stray dog.”

Your Father says Grandmother is the reason he gets angry. But I believe Father enjoys being angry.

Mother tosses some crackers in my lunch box and says that years back Grandmother drove a red convertible, smoked cigarettes and killed her unborn baby in a car crash. The Grandmother I know is wrinkled and kind. Not a baby killer.

Mother talks all the way to school.

The next day, when Grandmother is feeling better, I tell her what Mother told me. Grandmother says Father is an asshole and Mother is clueless. I’ve never heard Grandmother be foul-mouthed.

Grandmother never missed another day for the entire school year.

***

In the summer Grandmother and I take the old, ugly wagon everywhere. I sit in the rear facing, third-row way-back seat and watch the faces of terrified drivers who follow to close behind Grandmother, and her sudden, unplanned stops. I lip-read as their blood drains. Sometimes a smile jostled by fear escapes my lips. Most don’t smile back. Instead, they honk, shake their fists and flip me the bird. Grandmother flashes a wolfish grin in the rearview before tapping the brakes again.

“Keep them off my rear,” Grandmother says.

***

Today we have lunch at the Apple Knockers on Pawling. Grandmother and I are regulars. They have the best battered, deep-fried fish in town with large pieces of naked Cod poking from the tiny bun. Apple Knockers should buy bigger buns.

Grandmother likes the house-made tartar sauce with her fish. I order the semi-sweet tangy chili sauce, a milkshake, side of homemade cinnamon-flavored applesauce and unsalted fries (you have to salt your own).

We sit in our favorite corner both varnished with a permanent layer of vegetable grease. As Grandmother wipes tartar sauce from her lips, I realize how ordinary we are.

After lunch, we shop at the Price Chopper. For Grandmother, it has the better coupons. For me, the better toy aisle; filled with jacks and paddle balls and weird gum that you stick to the end of a straw and blow into lopsided, ugly bubbles.

On the way home, Grandmother and I pass the Pentecostal Church. Grandmother says I attended daycare there when I was younger, and she still worked at the department store. There’s sadness in her voice. I search my memory but have no recollection of daycare or God or Grandmother working.

“I don’t remember,” I say, and her face brightens.

***

We arrive home in time for Grandmother to settle into her soap. As General Hospital demands her attention, I sneak into the basement and unlock the metal door housing the water well pump. The pump sits in a small stone room cut into the earth. The air inside is dank and reeks of musty dishwater. Using my father’s wrench, I loosen a valve and let water spill onto the dirt floor.

When my parents return home from work that evening, and Grandmother has darted from the house, I ask why they are so mean to Grandmother. Mother brushes me aside, and Father swats at the air above my head.

They prattle. Work this. Work that. There’s no mention of the spotless house, the folded laundry or waxed linoleum floors. I wait several minutes and then interrupt.

“I think I hear water in the basement. Come quick.” I say.

Father rushes into the basement while Mother grabs a handful of laundered towels. It’s the most excitement our house has seen in weeks. Standing at the top of the stairs, I hear wet cotton socks slapping the concrete floor.

“Where’s my wrench,” Father yells.

I say nothing.

Mother and Father submarine into the low-slung pump room. The stone tomb muffles their cursing.

“Come here,” Father screams.

I slip to the threshold of the pump room door, and Father tosses me a flashlight.

“Shine the light here,” he says.

I position the light. “Not there, here!”

As Mother and Father scramble to stop the water, my hand hovers over the brass lock.

***

Days later, Grandmother and I are on the couch. Mikkos Cassadine and his brothers Victor and Tony are held up at Wyndemere Castle on Spoon Island. Luke, Laura, and Robert Scorpio are desperate to stop the weather machine.

Grandmother pinches her eyebrow into a curious arc, smiles, and turns up the volume as Mikkos is seconds away from flipping the switch and destroying the world.

R.E. Hengsterman

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