“Silent Night”
Swetha Amit
When I answered the call, it wasn't good news. The phone and the steaming cup of hot chocolate slipped from my hands. I watched the burning brown liquid splatter on the wooden floor. I didn't have time to clean up. I grabbed my car keys, phone, and purse and rushed out the door. The town was lit up with holiday lights glistening obnoxiously in the backyards. Soon, a crowd would gather in the church at midnight. Prayers would be said. Presents would be opened later. Here I was, driving feverishly to the hospital where my ailing grandmother was admitted last week after a continuous bout of illness.
A runny nose, chest congestion, and incessant coughing. She barely slept, imprisoned by the coughing that refused to let go of her. No amount of honeydrops or cough suppressant that I gave her helped. Last week, her lips turned bluish. She began to experience breathlessness. I immediately called an ambulance and accompanied her to the hospital. Later, the doctor told me that he and his team were monitoring some tests on her. I spent the entire week praying at my office desk, wishing my seventy-year-old grandma would survive this ordeal. Surely she'd live to see my wedding, which was in two months. I'd visit the hospital during visiting hours and sit next to my grandma. Her eyes were closed. Wires and a beeping machine surrounded her. I hoped that she was catching up on her much-needed sleep.
The walls in the waiting room were pale green. There was a tangy smell of lemons, probably from the room freshener sprayed by the hospital staff. I sat there listening to the clock ticking seconds, every minute feeling like a month as I waited for the doctor to come. I checked my phone and read a message sent by my fiancée two hours ago. A huge Christmas tree was placed just outside the waiting room, decorated with multiple-colored ornaments and a golden star on top. Grandma once told me that if something ever happened to her, she would turn into a star and watch me from the sky every night. I stared at the bright star twinkling at me from the top of the Christmas tree. The waiting room was empty except for the nurse in charge.
The last time I celebrated Christmas at a large gathering was before the accident ten years ago when my parents drove cross country to attend a wedding and got caught in a storm that tossed their car into the river. It was two months after my sixteenth birthday. I remembered clutching my grandma's hand tightly, weeping, while she swallowed the pain of her only son's death. I had no siblings or cousins to lean on. Both Dad and Ma were the only children of their parents. Ma's parents died when I was two. All I had now was my grandma and my fiancée. He was on his flight from the Midwest after finishing his business meeting, worried when he heard about Grandma's condition. He would land anytime soon.
Just then, the nurse mentioned the doctor would see me. I clutched my purse tightly until my palms hurt. I toyed around with my car keys before the doctor appeared in front of me—a tall, sturdy, middle-aged man with a beard wearing a white coat. He cleared his throat before addressing me by my first name.
"Maria," he began.
I observed the creases on his forehead and the look of his eyes.
"I am afraid…we tried...but…"
"How long?" My voice surprisingly bordered on a tinge of rudeness, unlike its usual polite tone.
"Not much time…" he began.
"How long?" I asked, sounding more aggressive than I intended. My heartbeat was as rapid as the ticking seconds on the clock, and my palms were becoming sweaty.
"Maybe until midnight," he said softly.
I took a deep breath. Everything appeared like a blurred dream. I wished this was just a nightmare, and Grandma would be by my bedside, stroking my silky black hair with her creamy, wrinkled hands and assuring me she would always be by my side. I steadied myself as I stood up and made my way toward Grandma’s room. She lay on her hospital bed, looking small and fragile. She peered at me with her black currant eyes and smiled faintly. Her coughing had reduced, but she still appeared tired. My emotions were a whirlwind, a mix of fear, sadness, and a tiny ray of hope that she'd somehow miraculously survive.
"Maria," she said in a hoarse voice.
I sat down next to her and leaned forward. She stroked my hair and wiped the fat drops of tears running down my cheeks.
"I must go," she almost pleaded.
I clutched her hands tightly and nodded.
"You have been a good girl, Maria. May God gift you with abundant happiness…" she paused.
"Remember, I'll always be watching over you," she began. "Before I go, there is something I've been meaning to give you."
Amidst those stutters, Grandma revealed she'd left something for me in a wooden chest in her cupboard and also told me to contact her lawyer. The monitor began to beep, and she began to pant heavily. Her eyes crinkled as she flashed her one last smile before she closed them forever. There was a peaceful look on her face.
The nurse ushered me out to complete some formalities and offered me some coffee as well. It was hot and bitter, almost scalding my tongue. Just then, my phone rang. I could feel it shaking inside my purse, and I spilled some coffee on the white floor. It was probably my fiancée who must have landed. But I couldn't speak the words—I had none. I let the phone ring, heard the clock strike midnight, watched firecrackers in the sky, and saw the golden star glistening atop the Christmas tree. But I felt numb. All I could feel was the phone trembling inside my purse.
“Vibration”
Kerry Sutherland
“Don’t make it harder than it has to be.”
Stevie mumbles as he pushes me out of the way and thumps the vending machine. A bag of wavy potato chips flutters to the tray at the bottom, tapping the glass on its way.
I wanted salt and vinegar flavor, but I kept my mouth shut while Stevie walked away, shaking his head. He never says much, and I wonder why he’s here. We aren’t supposed to ask each other this question, so I don’t.
I’ve learned how to play by the rules.
The fluorescent light overhead flickers, igniting the space behind my eyes into a dull roar. There are migraine triggers everywhere; no place is safe.
I rub my eyes and absently crinkle the chip bag in my hand.
“You’ll ruin those, and then what? Whine about being hungry when we have dinner in an hour?”
The new guy chuckles, his lip curled in a sneer. Who does he think he is, Elvis?
I glance back as Stevie disappears down the hall. Everyone is supposed to be here, right now. It’s mandatory. So where is he going?
“That your boyfriend? Isn’t he a little old for you?”
Elvis slouches in his chair and crosses his hairy arms. His skin is dotted with dark patches, as if he’s spent too much time in the sun. My mother, who had a velvet Elvis painting in her bedroom, used to spend hours oiling herself under UV rays on a pink plastic lounge chair in our backyard.
The back of her legs would smash up against the loose weave of the polymer threads, sticky and sweaty like the glasses of powdery lemonade she loved to drink while she napped in the heat. I would stare at the red lines that marked her legs for hours afterwards, until she yelled at me to stop.
She’s dead now.
“You dumb or something?”
When Elvis claps his hands in front of me, I slap at them so hard he falls sideways, out of his chair, and onto the cold tile floor. I smile because he wasn’t expecting this, and the floor is filthy under his ugly hands.
Before he can get up, a guard has my arms pinned behind my back, and another shouts at everyone in the room.
“Nobody move!”
The chips slide from my fingers, but when I turn my head to ask if the guard will pick them up, he shoves my face until I look forward again, at the man on the floor and the others watching eagerly from the circle of chairs around me.
I squeeze my eyes shut and think of the last time I saw my mother, when she pushed the vacuum cleaner into my bedroom while I was watching my favorite episode of Ren & Stimpy. The vacuum cord was stiff and thick, but long enough to stay plugged in while I wrapped the middle of it around her neck, the annoying hum of it egging me on.
If she were here now, she’d tell me to do as I’m told, so I keep still and listen to the vibration of the light.
“Aphrodite In An Open Casket”
Kenna DeValor
I take the scribbled note from my hands and check it one more time, making sure I read the note correctly. It looked like a tendril of spilled ink, with a shaky hand that fervently wrote: “Garden, near the brick and stone.” My warm breath creates smoke signals around me in the cold air. At least I’m sure I’m alive. I enter a gated square with lines of stone to catch each footfall. The smell of floral rot: the rose, peony, and soil swirled around me in a delicate game of tug of war. Baby pinks, passionate reds, sickly browns and greens, a kaleidoscope of a garden on the edge of a bustling downtown.
The rot condescends the brick mansion, its permanent partner in decay. It feels peaceful at a time like this, the day feels a little bit like night, while birds still sing their sonnets.
Suddenly, I hear a voice call out to me, dark and deep, so much so that I feel it in the depths of my chest, like a bass drum.
“You’ve found it.” He says.
I turn to face him, the teeth grinding in my jaw being the only stable bravery I own.
“Yes? Of course I did, I’ve compared every piece of this city to this very description.” I hold up the note as I shake my head, ignoring the sly smile peeling across his face.
He leads me to a patch of flowers, fallen and rotten—I could taste the nausea boiling in my stomach. The stranger points a pale finger to a particularly macabre flower, white and grey as ash with patches of pink that still made it look beautiful in its fate, lying beautifully like Aphrodite in an open casket.
“There,” he says smoothly–but sharp as a knife, “See that? In the study of plants, whenever you see the rot, you cut it off to save the other plants.”
My body stills as I peer down, frozen, feeling as helpless as the garden itself, the fog-turned-rain adorning their petals with pearlescent teardrops.
“This one, a shame, couldn’t be saved.” He continues.
His hand snakes around my neck like a python, and I am its prey, his breath warm against my freezing neck.
“Sometimes, you must sever the blight at just the right time, so nothing else is affected. Will you be that beauty saved, or will you lie in rot— like that poor thing there? The choice is yours, but sometimes nature does it for you before you can cut the rot out.” His voice softens, almost apologetic.
I swallow hard, my insides twisting and turning.
I sigh, but it comes out more as a heave.
My mind begins to play tricks on me, my head swirling with begging whispers of escape, escape, escape.
“How to Remember Your Dreams”
Matt Leibel
Before you go to sleep, swallow three memories. These could be anything: the time you made S’mores in Iceland; the time you were set up on a date in a new city and the woman brought her sister and her mom along, and also their dog tried to bite you; the time a neighbor kid played you “Christian Rock” and for months, doggedly tried to convert you. Imagine the memories in capsule form and wash them down with artificial dream water (available over the counter at selected Walgreens). Dream a stenographer, park them in the corner of your dream with an old-school Smith-Corona typewriter, a coffee, a muffin, and leave them there throughout the night. Proceed to let your dream wash over you like an image tsunami. Don’t worry if any of it makes sense. Don’t worry if it’s traumatizing (your great-grandmother being reincarnated to sing L’il Nas X’s “Old Town Road” loudly in a Kosher Deli, for instance). Just let the stenographer do his/her/their thing. When you wake up, there should be a full-color printout of your dream waiting on your nightstand. Take this to your therapist’s office and ask them to analyze it. It’s probably about your fear of failure, your fear of losing teeth, your fear of flying insects, or your fear of your mother. You might also have accidentally dreamt the nuclear codes, in which case your therapist is legally obligated to report you to the FBI. To avoid situations like this, try to control your dreams in advance by “pre-dreaming” while still awake. On a sheet of paper, draw a line down the middle and label one column “what I do want to dream about” and label the other one “what I don’t want to dream about.” Fill in both sides. Just before you go to sleep, reverse the column headings so the “dos” are in the “don’ts” column, and vice versa. Because your dreams are not going to give you what you want: that’s much less fun for them. If the paper is blank in the morning, it means you dreamt of nothing at all. It could also mean you literally dreamt of a blank sheet of paper all night, which could signify (no therapist’s interpretation required here) that you have writer’s block, which I’ll admit I’m feeling a bit of, trying to find an ending to this brief disquisition on dreams. Maybe I’ll sleep on it, and the answer will be clear in the morning. Or maybe it will be a four-headed dog, singing the Gettysburg Address, barbershop-quartet style under a full moon—which, in the moments just before waking, morphs into the face of every writing teacher I’ve ever had, imploring me: DON’T PUT DREAMS INTO YOUR WORK.