Josh Dale 9/28/21 Josh Dale 9/28/21

(32) Eddie Creamer: Falling

If a whole life can be told in a couple of paragraphs, then here it is. Begin in London, 1959, with the bloody push and the bright hospital light, his mother’s screams then his own, and life, new and fresh like a blank white page. Skip over the early years when the world is what he can see or what he can reach with a stubby arm then a crawl then a half-walk, half-run across the room, parents watching with glazed joy and fear where he might be going. Soon it’s school where he struggles a little shy and prone to outbursts of tears. Not the kind of boy’s-boy who gets an easier ride. Often if he’s home alone he’ll go into his parents’ room and put on his mother’s jewelry, scarves, maybe a pair of shoes, just to see how it looks in the bathroom mirror. He never lets anyone see and one day he stops, there’s a last time and he doesn’t do it again. Around that time, he falls out of a tree and breaks his arm, shock of bone sticking out through the skin, and for the rest of his life, he’ll have a scar to remind him he was foolish. But for now, he’s a teenager, hard for everyone though maybe particularly hard when you kiss a girl for the first time—also the last—and realize you don’t like it, lips too delicate and a body beneath her clothes you don’t want to touch, soft and curving in all the wrong places. He craves something else, a hardness that matches his own, which he finds in his last year of school with another boy in his class. He loses his virginity—well, almost. Both of them too scared or too excited to get as far as that dark wet place, pink and puckered like the cowrie shells he used to seek out on holidays to Cornwall, those shells being the hardest to find and therefore the most precious. After that it’s university, passing in a flash of books and exams and fucking when he plucks up the courage, which in those days is technically illegal at their age but who’s checking? Into the 80s and we know where this is going, unavoidable for this story though at the time it might have been stopped if anyone had cared. But as it is nobody does, or no one that matters, and people he knows, lots of those boys from university and after, are dying and he might have done too, a life cut short right here mid-senten—

But he’s lucky. He and the man he happens to be seeing around that time, name Derek, make a pact they’ll be exclusive just till all this blows over. Kind of like a game of musical chairs: the music stops, and they’re stuck with each other. It doesn’t really blow over. In the meantime, the thing with Derek becomes more than convenience: they’ve been through a lot and when they hug Derek’s smell is like coming home and maybe that’s what we mean by love. When Derek gets a job in New York they go together. He doesn’t have a passion like Derek does, but the idea of New York is exciting, like something from a film or a story. It’s good and then it isn’t—Derek so often working, the city large and unfathomable. He spends a lot of time walking the streets by himself: crowds of people, each one with a purpose he still hasn’t found, buildings tall and flat like so many dominoes all waiting to fall. In the end, it’s him who falls—this time not from a tree, just collapsing right there on an American pavement—he never says sidewalk. In the hospital, they say it’s exhaustion, nothing terminal. What he has to be exhausted about he doesn’t know, but even so he and Derek agree they’ll go back to London, nearer to friends and family. It becomes possible to get married and they do. After all the years it means nothing, and it means everything. His mother is there, in her 90s now, but still going strong. She gives him her ring, for the engagement. Derek retires soon after and these are their golden years, enough money to travel when they want and when they don’t, they’re at home, both of them in the garden or reading next to each other on the sofa. They might exchange barely a word of an evening, but the silence between them is deep and filled with a meaning they both understand. When the end comes it’s easy, slipping away in his sleep. Probably, he knows nothing about it but if he does, if he wakes in the night with some premonition of death, he might take a look at that old scar, like a message from the boy that he was, and all there is in response is the thought, it wasn’t so bad after all.

Eddie Creamer is a lawyer and writer based in London, who writes short stories and fiction mostly about queer Londoners. His work has previously appeared online in Queerlings Magazine and the 2021 Goldfish Anthology. He is currently studying for an MA in Creative and Life Writing at Goldsmiths University, London.

Bec Lane 9/28/21 Bec Lane 9/28/21

(31) Mingzhao Xu: Flat Was Good

A few weeks ago, I got fired from my Technology Coordinator job in Seattle, WA, and had to move back into my parents’ house in Riverside, CA. Every morning, I’d look for work online, sending resumes to seedy recruiters and companies with generic names, expecting little.

My desk sat across from the closet, which overflowed with grown-up clothes, forgotten junk, and remnants of that seaside city. On its mirror doors, I saw my reflection—a pallid face, tangled black hair, and wrinkled pajamas.

Mom entered unannounced and asked how it went. Even indoors, she dressed in neat slacks with her hair tied back. I shrugged—bad economy or bad luck. She suggested that I ask some third cousin, twice removed from my dad’s side of the family, for leads. He wore suits every day and worked at a bank! I suggested that since other people’s kids fascinated her so much, she should mother them. She pouted for a second, but like a toddler eager to plow through, rambled on about whose kids got promotions, married, or bought their first house. Hovering above, she eyeballed me for imperfections—slouching, unclipped toenails, weight gain, etc. She’d later comment on the glaring ones. She’d theorized, since childhood, that these habitual remissions were linked to my repeated failures. She could’ve nagged me harder but didn’t, knowing how much Seattle meant.

I graduated from law school with surmounting debt into the Recession. Despite networking and countless resumes, no firm hired me. With little to lose, I trained myself to use esoteric legal software. When a Seattle legal software vendor offered me, a position managing their projects, I announced it on social media and told my law school dean. No more living at home or dateless nights job-hunting in front of a laptop. God had answered my prayers.

I could build a solid career, running as hard and fast upward as my short little legs allowed. The arc of my life bent toward worldly success. Once there, I believed that everything would fall into place. Seattle, my big break.

***

Before work started, I took a ferry to an island west of Seattle. Walking along its rocky beach, crunching the uneven path beneath, I looked across that great sea. Church spires and high-rises lined the main coastline. Their grandeur spelled promise. A single gray cloud hung in the sky. Friends and internet posts warned me that it’d balloon as the season got colder, eventually blocking the sun and bearing its full weight on my psyche. Eager and hopeful about my new life, I ignored them.

The company operated in a newly renovated, techno-colored warehouse at the waterfront. Admin had private offices, plebs, the cubicles. The kitchen offered unlimited junk food and a ping pong table. On my first day, several asked me whether I played. I said no and they walked away, miffed. My hometown wasn’t fancy but every Sunday, unassuming church folk would serve hand-made food. I loved their twice-baked potatoes.

My supervisor, Dee Dee, had no background in law, technology, or management. Whenever I asked her for clarification, she’d ask another and repeat their answers to me. At meetings, after saying something stupid, she’d chuckle and swivel her blond head around for affirmation. On the weekends or after-hours, if the team got an email before anyone had read it, she’d call expecting a strategic response. When I twirled my hair as an executive passed our cubicle, she pulled me aside and told me people here didn’t do that. She’d take the other teammates for fancy coffees. I asked about it once. She feigned shock that I even drank coffee.

One afternoon, she held an important telephonic meeting with a client and told me specifically not to attend since it wouldn’t interest me. Once it ended, I entered the conference room. Dee Dee sat at the table with an experienced team member, a man twice her senior.

“Did you guys talk about these?” I held the contracts up for reference. We needed the clients’ signatures, but Dee Dee was supposed to ask them first, but she kept forgetting.

“What?” Her eyes widened. She spoke louder and with a higher pitch when near someone important. “Why do you still have those?”

“Well, I thought you wanted to ask them. I’ve sent reminder emails.” Her face fell like a soccer player watching her ball fly past the net at a home game. She’d forgotten and looked to the senior for support. He kept his eyes on the table.

“You should’ve sent that weeks ago.” She chuckled with incredulity. “It’s standard procedure.” The senior, embarrassed, refused to look at me.

After that, I started missing deadlines and clients calls. The dark weather must’ve fogged up my memory. Maybe I grieved over lost potatoes. Dee Dee retaliated with negative performance reviews. I tried harder, but no spreadsheet was clean enough and no email “nice” enough. Eventually, I timidly complained to Human Resources. HR reported it to Dee Dee’s boss without my knowing. One morning, I walked past his closed office and heard her rapid-fire speech inside. He mumbled and she stormed out in a huff. Later I asked HR why it escalated.

The buxom HR Assistant just shrugged, “Standard procedure.”

I should’ve left the first month but feared that quitting meant defeat. Dee Dee's gloat about how right she was, how wrong I was for such an advanced position, her team, her city. My discipline and drive eclipsed my imagination.

A few months later, Dee Dee scheduled an impromptu meeting for us in the conference room. I walked inside, wary. The sea scent wafted in through the window, along with the wharf milieu: passing motorists, gull cries, and fishermen calls. The HR Assistant sat shoulder-to-shoulder next to Dee Dee; they formed a fortress. Was HR here because of my complaints? I sat across from them, a squat and dark figure whose heels don’t reach the carpet. You can tell I wasn’t born in this country—even the common furniture felt outsized. Dee Dee’s small blue eyes darted between HR and me. She shifted her coffee mug but didn’t drink. A fly landed on the rim.
Growing up, mom would whack flies in our house with a swatter against tabletops and shelves. She killed bad habits with the same gusto, using the tail-end to rap my hand for missed school assignments, bad language, or forgetting the dishes. At my college graduation, she asked why I wasn’t Valedictorian. I looked around to make sure there weren’t swatters within reach.
HR pushed a stack of papers toward me. Work separation documents. I suspected this day would come but still felt unprepared.

Her cue to speak, Dee Dee said, “Based on what we’ve talked about, I’m gonna have to let you go.”

“What do you mean?” Keeping my voice level, despite my escalating heartbeat, I tried to recall any recent talks we’ve had.

Dee Dee began a haltering speech about sacrifice and teamwork. She toyed with her mug, “We’re just not synching.”

HR smirked and explained that they were offering a month’s salary if I signed a release of liability, meaning I couldn’t sue them for any existing or not-yet-known future claims.

“That’s it?” I asked. I’d invested thousands to relocate, not counting the energy and time I’d sacrifice.

“I’m afraid this isn’t negotiable,” said HR.
“No, not negotiable” echoed the blond parrot, shaking her head.
HR explained the other documents. I heard nothing but didn’t show it, avoiding eye contact. I handed them my identification badge with my smiling face on it, taken the first day. I haven’t smiled like that since.
“We’ll be mailing the rest of your paperwork and if you have more questions, call us.” HR beamed: mission accomplished. She continued to shuffle paperwork.

On cue, Dee Dee rose from her seat, “I’ll walk you out.”

She followed me out the hall, to the desk for my belongings, and even to the bathroom, closing off any retreat. The open office set-up meant a gauntlet of stares, gaping mouths, and furtive looks. Someone giggled. No one rushed to my side to ask what happened or say goodbye.

On my way out, with my bagged belongings slopped across my shoulder, I kept my eyes on my feet. Mom always noted their flatness—no arches meant I’d never be as good a dancer as she. As a child in Communist China, she’d dance in red shoes. Teachers commended her patriotism and skills and recommended her for a prestigious performing arts school in the capital. The Party Leadership launched the Cultural Revolution, sending students to rural re-education camps instead. Because of those dream-breakers, she never saw those shoes again.

On my walk back home, rain fell. Sloshing through the waters, I realized that I’d have to dance back home because of my student loans and low unemployment pay-outs. To that childhood room, too small for my aspirations, and the pitiful looks of friends.

***

Outside the Sea-Tac Airport, gray carpeted the entire sky. White gulls pierced through and disappeared again. Previous storms blackened the ground. On the tarmac, I stood in line to board my flight home, trying to drown out the wailing babies, thudding engine, and hollering ground crew. Inching upwards on the stairway, I ran my hand along the cold, moist metal. I’ve no words to say a proper goodbye to the city. A pilgrim in reverse, filled with shame rather than hope, I’d never return.

***

To anyone who asked, I gave the usual spiel—retaliation, sucky weather, the Seattle freeze! The greater the pain, the louder I barked. Looking back, colleagues probably kept their distance because of the hostility between Dee Dee and me. By the time I learned how to ping pong, it was too late. I was like a dog that tried to lick someone’s leg, then got kicked instead.

For the first few days after my return, my parents gave me space and cooked me potatoes. From my calls back home, they sensed my misery. I didn’t tell her about my fuck-ups—the missed meetings or overextended deadlines. Then came the “When will yous.” When will you get another job? Get out of the house? Pay off your debts? Walk straighter? I resented it, but the truth was, I felt ashamed for not having the answers. During dinner, over the T.V. din, I asked mom why, if she cared about success so much, she didn’t dance in the U.S? She sat silent for a second, eyes glued to that T.V.

“You’re not the only one with dreams,” she said in a dour whisper. I just chewed my potatoes, pondering what she’d dreamt about all these years and whether she cared more about my success than me.

***

During church, my Pastor told us that we could ask God for anything. Be bold. Unbelievers because of their Communist upbringing, my parents never attended. I asked him if God could make my mom less annoying. He chuckled and said she wasn’t the problem. Behind frustration and anger, lied the hurt. Be honest and dig deep.
The trinity I relied on—hard work, drive, and determination—didn’t save me and couldn’t change the past. Unmoored from my life’s paradigm, I felt adrift. Some days, I’d just stare at the computer until my eyes glazed over the screen.

That night, before bed, I prayed in my room for the first time since my return. I’ve run out of options and excuses. Standing still, I rooted my bare feet in the floorboards with my palms upward like a 17th-century pilgrim. Life was much harsher back then. How did they survive, much less prosper? I conjured the image of a cold, hungry saggy-eyed man who emerged from steerage of a storm-wracked ship. In the New World, he found more rocks than soil. Against the wind, he cried for the Almighty to build a house from the rubble of his life. He thought he deserved better. Nothing could’ve shaken that sense of entitlement.

“Show me something.” I stood still and watched the dust motes in the room swirl before my eyes. “I’m asking You.”
The motes moved as I exhaled. I felt a slight ripple outward—head, chest, feet, door. I paused and looked around—the furnishings didn’t move, the walls stood still, and it remained night out. Something in the universe had shifted and lifted the weight from my heart.

Years from now, my failures and misplaced hopes would’ve lost their sting, but I’d still remember the motes, this surreal moment. I wanted to but couldn’t define or contain it with words. Should I? I’d grasped my fate with both hands, steering it toward my vision of success, only to fall short. We’d have such limited control over life. The pilgrims before me lacked certainty about their futures but ignorance didn’t deter them. Failures dodged them at every turn but didn’t break them. A naked impulse, also inexplicable, drove them. Maybe my purpose wasn’t to understand but to do.

I looked down at my feet. Pressed against the cold, wooden floor, they resembled flatten fish. These feet had leaped across a sea and back. They’ve taken me further than I’d imagined. They could take me further, still. I smiled at the revelation. Mom was wrong. Flat was good. Even when waves of bitter brine washed over me, I would stay standing.

Mingzhao Xu immigrated to the United States from China as a child. One of her greatest joys in life is using fiction to highlight the humor, challenges and pathos of her childhood. She currently lives in California.

Josh Dale 9/28/21 Josh Dale 9/28/21

(30) Sean Bruce: Waves of Pink and Blue

Six in the morning brings a familiar routine: Get out of bed, put on my binder, take my pills, brush my teeth, get ready for school. An uncommon routine that feels second nature at this point. Most men my age don’t have to complete the second step, but I was born into a more difficult identity to live with.

This wasn't always the way things were. I used to wake up instead to do a face of makeup and put on a dress, feeling unhappy. Society put me in the wrong box from birth, an unfortunate product of the times. My young mind was shrouded with pink ribbons and dolls when all I wanted was toy cars. But the past is already gone, there's no sense in dwelling on it now. Pink slowly became blue, and a constant frown let up occasionally. I was Sean at that moment. My hair was cut, and my dresses were put away. The sun was shining on my face, and I was excited for life.

The man I always dreamed I would be was in reach, and I knew that I would have to fight like hell to get there.

I bore my soul to those closest to me, I told them all what I was, and who I am. All I was met with was scrutiny and doubt.

“Maybe you’re just a tomboy,” remarked my mother. I felt my heart sink, the one person who loved me unconditionally for 14 years put a wall between us.

“You’re going to hell, you’re a girl,” filled my direct messages from the day that I came out and continued to no end. Death threats kept me in the office for sophomore year, the pain it caused kept me in the counselors afterward. Every day hurt to go through, I was alone and waiting for adulthood. That painful wait, I counted the days with lines on my wrist. Every class felt like torture, hearing the wrong name, and having to grin and bear it for the sake of my reputation. Sean was a forever distant dream, and I was living in a nightmare. He was gone.

He returned in the summer, I greeted him like an old friend. I was whole again, happy, scars faded and were replaced by a tan. August was a welcome guest; school presented a fresh start for me. My friends now accepted me, and I found love, confidence, and support outweighed dysphoria tenfold. A binder arrived in the mail addressed to Sean.

“This is it,” I thought to myself. “I’m blue.” Blue was never a sad color, even when I was a young man. It reminded me of the ocean, of the books I read with my grandmother, it was who I was and who I am now.

My school posted auditions for the play and my new friends made sure I auditioned. I was cast as a man. I learned how to lower my voice and feel happy in my own skin. I was put into a suit, and I was addressed by ‘Mr.’ Pink was blue at long last. Until one of the actors I saw as a big brother and a mentor decided that he wanted to hurt me, and a horrifying wave of pink washed over me, pinning me down. I felt damaged like I was an imposter in my own skin. I clung to Sean for dear life, I couldn't let him be taken away from me once more.

But it passed, months of pain slowly washed away until the world saw me as blue again. I fought like hell to keep myself blue, I couldn't stop now. No matter what I knew that I could never stop working, striving to keep myself blue in an ocean of pink that surrounded me. My name is Sean, not ‘it’ or ‘she’ or the name given to me at birth. Sean was no longer a distant goal that I just couldn't seem to reach, he was me, I am him.

“I am Sean,” the phrase turned into sort of a prayer to keep good faith. I whispered it quietly to myself at family reunions, at the house, when I came back to the theatre to heal. I say my prayer to keep myself safe, to stay confident, to tear away from all my pain. It keeps me afloat while I traverse this pink ocean to find a blue horizon. I say it to keep the wind in my little blue sail made from the dresses of a little boy I knew long ago.

I am Sean, and I am a man. I am a man no matter what people say, or what they comment under my pictures. My world will be blue, no one can beat it out of me. My normal childhood years may have been taken from me, but my blue never will. Until my world is fully blue, I am just a young man, on a little blue boat.

Sean Bruce is a transgender man living in Missouri. He uses writing to lift up queer voices in similar situations to him and dedicates his life to the LGBTQ+ community.

This episode was sponsored by:

The Spiral Bookcase, Philadelphia, PA

Dive into the magic of stories with a delightfully strange indie bookstore. From small press to folklore, The Spiral Bookcase carefully curates stories that peer through the worn spot in the tapestry and make you feel like you can step out of your skin for a moment or two. Explore magical books alongside a bewitching collection of candles, tarot decks, crystals and ritual objects, all hand-selected for their wonder and enchantment. Visit The Spiral Bookcase virtually at spiralbookcase.com or follow along on Instagram for recommendations, sneak peeks and more from bookseller & owner Victoria. That's @spiralbookcase.

Sophie Peters 9/28/21 Sophie Peters 9/28/21

(29) Anastasia Jill: The Cone of Uncertainty

Misty and I scavenged the stores for water less than forty-eight hours out from a major hurricane. In a couple of days, Hurricane Andrew would crawl up the coast like a starved raccoon, ripping our trash bag city completely apart. Misty was passive about the storm, dismissed evacuation. “We need to hunker down,” she said, “but we’ll be fine. We’re not going to leave.”

Her parents were in Mississippi, but she would rather die than stay there.

“Congratulations,” I’d said. “That’s your only other option.”

She barely spoke to me since, but we both knew I wouldn’t leave without her. So here we were, a two-woman army, tearing through the aisles of Dollar General while being serenaded by “Achy Breaky Heart.”

By this point, not much was left, and we had to make do with the rations that were crushed like the potato bread in aisle five.

“Why don’t we try Winn-Dixie,” I said as a woman nearly shoved me into the wall.

Misty chomped her gum extra hard. “It’ll be just as crowded, I’m sure.”

The aisles were crammed with people pushing plastic buggies full of soups and water. I looked in our basket and all we’d amassed: a roll of duct tape, a bottle of soap, and a guitar-shaped container full of Elvis Presley popcorn. “There might not be a point,” I said. “But we’re not going to get by on this.”

She turned around to face me, reached over to squeeze my fingers. “We’ll be okay,” she said. “Maybe we’ll get really lucky, and it’ll turn at the last minute.”

“Last minute is not our specialty,” I said, hoarding the last of the Saran-wrapped cake snacks. “Last minute’s idea of help is that we’re gonna get by on oatmeal pies and popcorn.”

She stopped and leaned over the lip of the cart. “Carrie, I mean it.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll get through this.”

“If you say so.”

Her boot dug into the wheel, preventing me from moving. “I know you’re upset, but we can’t stay with my parents. They don’t know about us, and how would I explain a girlfriend and your father?” Her eyes softened from the color of iron to molasses. “The highways are backed up for days regardless, and now it’s too late to get out.”

That was true, now. I told her we had days to leave before the highways closed. “You’re a baby about storms. You curl up in my lap at the hint of lightning.”

This was different -- the news anchors rolled up their sleeves and lost their composure against millibars and wind strength while angry yellow lights on maps warned of danger at our back door. The uncertainty of it all consumed me, and I teared up in the middle of the Dollar General, managing to croak out, “I really don’t want us to die.”

She pulled the gum from her lips, wiping its rubbery residue off on her jeans. “Stop trying to make me feel guilty.”

We lumbered up to the front of the store and joined the other idiots at the registers. Neither Misty nor I spoke the half-hour we waited in line. My anxiety flared by the time we hit the parking lot. I watched her as we loaded our groceries into the trunk, brown mentions of sun appearing along her nose the longer we stood outside. It was my turn to lean in and kiss her, leaving a lingering suggestion of calling her parents one more time.

“No,” she said, terminally.

When we got in the car, the radio stayed off, the only sound coming from Misty grinding molars into her gum. A string of hair hung around her bare finger, black and glowing against the glaring hot day.

“You’re staring. What do you want to say?”

I shrugged and said nothing. There was nothing to say at this point.

The static over the radio warned of the storm again, already rummaging around the ocean like a woman searching for bus fare. Misty changed the subject, asking if Winn Dixie was next.

“No,” I said. “Let’s go check on dad, help him board up the last of his windows.”

My father was a breed of man journalists made their salaries on, with their American flag-clad trailers and unwillingness to leave their condemned property, pets, and new television sets. Mobile homes were under mandatory evacuation, but my father chose to stay with his cat with no tail and put a few pieces of plywood around the structure.

When we pulled into his trailer, our plywood from the day before stood in its same dusty spot on the grass. Misty went in before me, squeezing my father into a hug against his recliner that smelled of Pall Mall cigarettes and cheap beer. He embraced him like a daughter, asking, “Is my girl driving you nuts with this hurricane talk?
Before she could answer, I said, “It’s not just my talk. The weatherman won’t stop bringing it up for five minutes.”

Misty rolled her eyes. “Carrie’s convinced we’re going to die.”

His throat released a rusty noise. “We’ll be fine.”

Misty lingered on his lap, back pressed into the arm of the chair while I rearranged the pictures on the mantle, then turned the TV onto the local news station. I went between channels for a while, and the motions drove him nuts, to the point he told me to stop. “Sit your behind in a chair. Worrying ain’t gonna halt the storm.”

I sank into a rocking chair and put the television on a non-hurricane-centric channel. A soap opera played while ticker tape scrolled across the bottom. I tried not to read the message, didn’t realize I was until Misty sat before me and took my hands. Her chest curled over my lap, ribs locking their sharp fingers in prayer under her skin. “Carrie,” she said, and when I didn’t focus, said my name in full, “Carrie Marcy Mau, listen to me. We are going to be fine.”

I tried the same approach but with a shakier voice, telling her, “No, Misty, we are going to be fine. We’ll be lucky if we’re in one piece, which is the furthest from fine any of us could be.” Both my father and girlfriend tried and failed to reassure me, at which point I barked out, “We should have left when we had the chance!”

Misty grew exasperated. “Can you please drop it already?”

“I’ll drop it,” I said, “when you can give me a better explanation than the pair of them being homophobes. I’ve put up with worse and stayed for dumber reasons than dying.”

My father rose out of his chair, bones cracking as his arms rose over his head. “You’re driving me nuts, Carrie.”

“Yeah,” Misty said, “That makes two of us.”

I shoved her away and stomped towards the door, slamming the screen hard as I could when it shut behind me. Rolling up the sleeves of my shirt, I grabbed the hammer and nails and set to putting the last of the plywood against the hole-filled windows of my dad’s trailer. Metal scratched metal, and the panels themselves laid lopsided against the frame but they were sturdy as any band-aid could be on a disaster. A can of spray paint sat in the garage. I took it and wrote, ‘Don’t loot me, I’m poor’ on the wood.

Misty chuckled behind me. “An unnecessary warning.”

I turned to her and said, “Assuming we live long enough to get stolen from.”

She sank into the dirt and motioned me to join her. Dropping the can, I curled into the patch at her side. Taking my fingers in hers, she tried to wipe away the slick remnants of paint. “I’m sorry,” she said. She stroked my arm in a calming manner and said, “You want to hear the story of how I got my name?”

Her parents came to this country when she was six, and since most of her peers couldn’t pronounce her given name, she elected to go by Misty. This time, she cut me off and said she was different. “You know what I didn’t tell you? We were refugees. We escaped on a boat, rowed for miles until we found refuge in another place, and eventually came here.

“You know why I picked Misty? Because we learned about it as a synonym for water, and to me, at that point, for me water was strong.” She brushed the trail of moles on my knuckle. “And water is strong, but so are the people who live by its command.”

She held my arm in her hand, skin sparking across the shallows of my wrist. “I have to believe we’re stronger. Because we can’t run away this time. Not from this, but we’ll be better for it at some point, I’m sure.”

“What if we get hurt? What if we die?”

I watched her sit solid, taking the hurricane into her veins until her core of being hardened to an eyewall. “This is going to be fine. It’s not that big of a deal.”

Getting on my feet, I dusted my hands off on my thighs and strode back inside to find my dad feeding his cat in the kitchen. He didn’t turn around when I said, “I’m putting back on the news.”

“Do what you want,” he said. “It won’t change anything.”

I nodded and went to the couch, watching the storm’s path squeeze its pupils tight against the lower half of the state. Dad joined me, sat down with a freshly cracked beer while I studied the newscast furiously.

The man on the news loosened his tie and said, “This thing is coming right for us.” Any uncertainty had since passed -- if you ignored the evacuation commands, start making plans: Contact next of kin, write your name on your arm in sharpie, so you’re easier to identify.

Standing up, I hollered for Misty to get in the house. Once she joined me, I threw a hand over at the television. “You wanna tell me this isn’t nothing anymore?”

Her eyes flickered to the broadcast, and her skin went pale as tissue paper. She started to cry, eyes producing enough water that her cheeks turned red. She sobbed relentlessly, and on instinct, I pulled her into my arms. She was a head shorter than me, and her gum stuck against my lower neck. Even once she pulled away, bits of it wouldn’t come off my skin.

With a kitten voice, I told her, “The highways may be closing but we could take side roads if you want to leave.”

She shook her head against my chest. “No, we can’t.”

“Why not?”

Pushing me away, she said, “We still have to go to Winn Dixie, remember? We just need to go.”

I gave one nod and told my dad, who gave us twenty bucks to top off our wallets. I asked if he needed anything, to which he replied with, “I’ll be alright.”

The car kicked back a few times, low on gas and steam, but I gathered myself and my girlfriend inside and got us to the grocery store in one piece. This store was fuller than our earlier stop, and the pickings were even slimmer.

Misty stopped crying, adopting a bitter attitude, cursing at each person who dared to look in her direction. Carts wormed their way into our hips, toes crushed under kid-sized shoes.

After being trapped in an aisle, Misty spat, “This is a suicide mission.”

I wanted to tell her that staying in south Florida was a suicide mission but knew better unless I wanted another fight. My thumb crawled between my teeth, nervously hid behind my back molar, and took the hits as I tried to bite down my frustration.

Roaming the store only turned up a bottle of cheap wine and a package of saltine crackers, a can of condensed milk, and a few bruised bananas. The crowd buzzed around us in a state of hysteria, which only worked to heighten both of our nerves. I was about to give up entirely until we made it to the last aisle, and one lone jug of water stood defiantly against an otherwise empty shelf. I grabbed it before anyone else could, slam-dunking it into the cart.

“Great,” Misty said, grabbed the cart’s rubber ear and leading it. “Now we can go home and get this over with.”

We made it to the apartment and stashed our findings, neither of us speaking to each other in the process. After a few minutes, Misty announced she was going to fill our tub with water and not to bother her for a while.

An hour passed and she hadn’t returned. I went inside and found her standing in the overflow pooling around her ankles. The tub was already full, but she turned the knob harder, filling the porcelain like an endless idea.

I forced her aside. “Are you out of your mind? The tub’s overflowing.”

“So what?”

“So what? Now we have to clean this.”

Her tone bit through me like ice. “We could be dead in a few days, and you’re worried about how clean our bathroom is?” Just as I stood to scold her, she sank to the floor and curled around the toilet. “You were right. We should have gone. Hope you’re happy about that. At least you can die knowing you were right.”

Her body chugged like a dying engine, cyclone-sized gasps trapping her breath on the wrong side of her throat. I pressed her into a hug, attempting to pick words out of the drain of her mouth to help them find sense.

She apologized. I asked what for.

“My parents won’t let me come back up.”

I shifted so she could face me and told her to elaborate when she was ready.

“They’re traditional in many ways,” she said. “Found God when they came to America. They were always so unsure about my being gay.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

She caressed my cheek. “They won’t let me step foot in their house.”

I shook my head. This had to be some mistake. She assured me it wasn’t. She’d called them many times over the last few days.

“But we could die.”

“Maybe that’s God’s way of punishing me for living in sin.”

“No,” I told her. “No. Baby, don’t even think like that.”

“They didn’t say so much, but that’s what they meant. I know they did.” She went on to tell me how she’d exhausted every excuse; how we had nowhere to go, especially on the salary of a bartender and freelance construction woman. “I told them how scared I was, and they still told me no.” She kissed the bottom side of my mandible. “I’m sorry. This is so shitty.”

“Yeah.” I rubbed her back. “It really is.”

The yellow haze of a cheap light bulb made our skin appear lean and old, older than we would reach naturally at this point. We weren’t stupid—our apartment was junky and would rest along with our bones in a pile of rubble that would be glossed over by news cameras in a sequence of collateral damage.

Misty cried on my shirt, teary arms extending from the neck to gut as she lamented the fact, she couldn’t run away from this. I helped her up from the floor and took her to the bedroom, opening the curtains so we could watch the sunset tonight.

A melon gradient coated the sky, pink and green moisture bleeding into the clouds. I faced my girlfriend to the window, running my hands up and down her side. Once she was calm, I picked the gum from behind her ear. She took it and put it back in her mouth and proceeded to chew.

After a while, she turned on the television. The reports grew more cataclysmic, and the same warning about labeling yourself with your name came and went for those of us who chose not to run from the storm.

Misty sat up, pulled a Sharpie from her batch of art surprise, unceremoniously marked her arm, then mine, with our names and social security numbers. The ink ran down my arm, not fully dried before I touched it.

I choose to ignore the numbers and our aching hearts. I turn off the television, collect my girlfriend into our bed and crack open the popcorn. My teeth work in cyclones to make the food small enough to swallow, and with a dried mouth, I reassure Misty with my smile.

Anastasia Jill (she/they) is a queer writer living in the Southeast United States. She has been nominated for Best American Short Stories, Best of the Net, and several other honors. Her work has been featured with Poets.org, Pithead Chapel, apt, Minola Review, Broken Pencil, and more.

This episode was sponsored by:

The Spiral Bookcase, Philadelphia, PA

Bec Lane 9/28/21 Bec Lane 9/28/21

(28) Kyungseo Min: Week Fourteen

Week Seven:

Your baby is as big as a blueberry! New brain cells are forming rapidly, so are its arms and legs. Expect that nagging pregnancy nausea and enjoy your fuller breasts.

You blueberry. You tiny, fragile blueberry. What am I going to do with you?

Can I raise you into a decent human being? Can respect and honour and dignity even be taught? I’ve only been taught injustices and spite and frustration. Am I going to be an awful mother? What if you hate me? I can’t survive that. It would kill me.

Have I ever said that to my own father?

Yes. Yes, I have. I remember.

He grabbed my forearm and dragged me out of the principal’s office. His hands were so big—or maybe my arm was that small—they wrapped around the entire circumference with fingers to spare. His strength clamped my veins shut. My tendons grated against supple bone.

He said something. What did he say? I was confused. He had always told me to be proud. So why did he make me apologize to that bully?

I pulled out the only weapon I had then. I mumbled, “I hate you.” He must’ve heard it. My tears clouded the world, so I was spared his expression. How much did I shatter his world? With but a squeaky, trembling voice.

Dad never knew this, but his hand had bruised me. I would look at the blue-purple storm clouds for days. Before his bruise, I never realized how thin my skin was.

Oh. I remember now. “Don’t fight battles you’re going to lose.”

But I could’ve handled that little boy. I could’ve. I think.

Week Eight:

Only seven months left to go! The boy parts (or girl parts) are beginning to develop but it’s too early for the doctor to detect the sex of your baby. Expect headaches, thanks to your increased blood volume!

You are growing too fast. Stop it. How can you already be a boy or girl? If you’re a girl, how can I protect you from all the eyes and words and hands that I couldn’t even protect myself from?

If you’re a boy—no. I can’t. Even just imagining it drills at my eyeballs and teeth. Can I teach you to hold back your rage and strength? To unfurl your fists and declaw the glint in your eyes?

I promise not to raise you with fear. Though I may be in fear. Like how I was with my own father. No. I wasn’t scared of him. I was scared of his strength and how it would split the seams of the walls at home.

I remember tiptoeing around the carcass of the crashes and shatters and clangs. The walls, the frames, the windowpanes were unrecognizable when our chairs and books and plates became the legless chairs, the spineless books, the bloody plates.

I picked up a shard, blood already glazed and hardened around its edges. It reminded me of dad holding up my bleeding baby tooth, a piece of floss dangling around its crown. Him, grinning. Me, wailing.

So, I kept it, wrapped its sharp fragility in one of his ties—the one he was always looking for. It reminded me of many, many things. And I prayed that reminder would keep me safe.

Week Nine:

Your body is working overtime to create the placenta, the lifeline between your blood supply and your baby. No wonder you feel exhausted!

You are leeching my life away. Any youth I have left, you slurp it up. You little parasite. My little parasite. Every heartbeat with you feels like a period. Dot. Dot. Beep. Beep. Tap. Tap.

I remember another bedridden moment.

Through the darkness of my eyelids, the sounds of his nervousness seeped through. Tap, tap of his loafers. Smack, smack of his lips.

He must’ve known I was faking sleep. But he didn’t disturb me. In the white noise of a semi-private hospital room, we simmered. Him in guilt. Me in blame. I blamed him—the first man in my life, the man who would always protect me. I blamed myself too. Since when did I turn helpless? Since when did I roll over and offer my belly to the world? To a gaggle of drunk boys with a merciless sense of humour and a curiosity for cruelty?

It took a while to see my own face without the black eye, the red neck, the violet cheekbones. Even when the sunset faded from my flesh, my body—this female body—reminded me: I am a target, and I am fragile.

No matter how much time has passed, there are a few moments that will never heal. His grip around my arm that afternoon in elementary school. The first slam of my bedroom door. His guilt congealing my respect into a tough crust of a scar that day in the hospital room.

I wish I said it: was this what you meant by don’t fight battles you’re going to lose?

I promise you my little one. You will learn to fight for your body and your life. You will be strong. You will command respect. You will win your battles.

Week Ten:

Congratulations, your baby has graduated from embryo to fetus! Bones and cartilage, knees, and ankles are forming this week. Your baby bump may be starting to show this week too!

You are a tiny, soft skeleton, coffined in my womb. When I’m throwing up, I half-expect a bone to climb my throat. I eat more than I ever have. I sob every time I eat an egg or veal. Even baby spinach makes me shed a tear. I must nourish you, fill the sea inside with waves of courage and tides of toughness. Even though I can’t hold back my tears, I keep the food down. The wish to be strong vicariously through you swells higher every day.

When will you show yourself to me? I long to touch your supple, soft skin. I can’t wait to meet you.

Week Eleven:

Your baby is starting to look more human, with little fingers and toes! Don’t forget to add baby nail clippers to your baby shopping list!

Why did I dream that? That awful, awful day. Is it infecting you with horror too? I pray this memory hasn’t been implanted inside of you.

In the dream, all of father’s friends, one by one, hugged me. I asked them not to, but they continued to touch me. Their faces were but fake smiles and phony tears. Over their shoulders, I saw his matte pupils, watching me. His funeral portrait. Hollow. Heartless. His gaze pointed a finger at me. His friends changed, barely looking human. Shadows of selfish adults. The lines and colour of his portrait melted into ashes. Human ashes. I saw remnants of burnt bone and… that broken plate. Shiny and sharp. The Corelle logo still crisp and blue.

What does it mean? Maybe I should book a check-up, just in case.

Week Twelve:

If you haven’t already, you may be able to hear your baby’s heartbeat at your next appointment. Prepare the tissues!

Another dream. This time, I was in a hospital bed. He was crying, holding my hand, and then… he thanked me.

He thanked me. Through sobs, he whispered, “Oh thank you, thank you, thank you.”

A father’s tears are always disconcerting.

Why? Why was he thanking me?

Even now, my hand feels unsettlingly warm. And I know I’m being superstitious but I’m careful not to touch my belly—you—with that hand.

Week Thirteen:

This is the final week of your first trimester! Vocal cords are now forming, the first step to hearing your baby say, “I love you, mommy!”

I feel empty. But heavy. Is my body a womb or a coffin?

Something’s wrong. I don’t know why but I itch. Everywhere. That tickle of new skin stretching over a wound invades every pore.

Make it stop.

Week Fourteen:

Welcome to your second trimester! This week, fully developed genitals can be detected so it may be time to finally choose a name for your little boy or girl!

It isn’t a sudden realization. No exact moment. But I now know. Now I understand.

He—father—dad—you thanked me for surviving, didn’t you? And survival wasn’t your low expectation of me. It was your hope. You knew, didn’t you, how dangerous the world was—is still. And the weapon you chose to give me was not sharpness but softness. Because you nor I can win this battle.

So, you thought at least I could survive. And not all victories are glorious.

You’ll never know this dad, but your victory is a prison. You’ll never know, not because you’ve already passed away, but because you’re a father. A man. Because you loved me.

I wish you could know that I forgive you. That prison was the best you could do.

Can you forgive me? For aborting your granddaughter?

Kyungseo Min is a Korean-Canadian writer, playwright, and performer. She writes for video games during the day and crafts plays and short stories by night. When writing starts to ache at her joints, she performs various genres of dance. She focuses on challenging Western standards of storytelling with her heritage and expertise in Asian narrative philosophies.