ISSUE 15 - Spring 2023
fiction
THE PLACE BEYOND
"There's gotta be something else, you know, like something after we die."
"Dave, not this again…"
"You can't tell me you haven't thought about it. Life after death. Everyone thinks about it at some point or another."
"Can we just drop this?"
"What if we get reincarnated? You know, like come back as something else? That would be exciting."
"Even if that were true, you'd have no memory of your past life, so this version of you who thinks it's exciting wouldn't even be able to appreciate that you're living a new life."
"Maybe, but the idea of it is pretty wild. Reincarnation, a new life, maybe as a dog. I'd love to be reincarnated as a dog."
"I have nothing further to add to this conversation," said Frank, turning his head to look out the window.
"Or maybe we die, like, our physical being, but the soul lives on. Do you think there's a heaven or hell for us?"
"It doesn't matter to me either way."
"You're not concerned about the possibility of eternal damnation? Perpetually lost in a sea of souls, condemned to torture and pain for all eternity? Or what about heaven? Everything you could have ever wanted, reunited with your family and no pain or loss ever again."
"When I die, I die. That's it."
"So you think, in this great world of ours, with all its intricacies and miracles, that when we die, NOTHING happens? We're just dead, and that's it?"
"That's it."
"No place beyond this life? No great beyond? No final frontier?"
"None. And the final frontier is about space, not life after death."
"Well jeez, Frank, what's the point of even living if there's nothing to look forward to?"
"I didn't ask to come into this world, nor will I miss it when I'm gone," said Frank, now turning to look at Dave, hoping he would catch on to his lack of interest in the conversation and drop it.
"I wonder who, or what, determines exactly if I've lived a good life, you know? Like, who decides if I go to heaven or hell? Is there a checklist of all the good and bad I've done? And are certain things worth more points? I wonder what my score is…"
"Believe me, it doesn't matter. And I don’t think anyone is keeping track of your ‘score’."
"That's sad, Frank. You've got to believe in something to make this short life here on earth mean something. What about your family and everyone who came before you? Are they also just dead, with no chance to ever reunite with them?"
"That about sums it up."
"No way. I refuse to accept the idea that there isn't at least something after we die. Maybe we'll come back as ghosts to haunt this world forever, or perhaps just until we fulfill something that we didn't have the chance to do when we were alive."
"Heck, maybe we'll come back as zombies…"
"Yes, Frank! That's a possibility too, now you're thinking! That'd be pretty crazy, right? Can you imagine being a zombie? I wonder if we'd be hungry for brains, eternally roaming the earth with no thoughts of our own, yet somehow alive."
"I was joking…"
"Some people say Jesus is a zombie. And look at him, revered and worshiped around the world. Maybe someday, people will build huge temples and shrines in our names, praying to us as gone but not forgotten deities. Books written in our memories and a special day commemorating our lives when people bow down and pray to us."
"That's unlikely," said Frank, letting his eyes now wander over to the unwashed dishes in the sink.
"But it's possible. You never know, and that's what makes life so fascinating, the idea that no one can confirm what happens when you die. I mean, it's not like someone died and then came back and told us all about it. It's mysterious, isn't it? Personally, I think what happens is…”
The buzzing in the kitchen had reached a dull roar, so much so that Mrs. Peterson had reached for her pink fly swatter and brought it crashing down onto the counter, only managing to squash one of the flies while the other took off. Frank flew to the top edge of the dusty refrigerator and watched as Dave fell to the floor, already dead before he hit the linoleum. Mrs. Peterson, with her pink curlers and floral bathrobe, took another puff of her cigarette and did a slow scan of the kitchen, hoping to find the remaining fly, but soon gave up and retired to the living room and her faded green sofa. Frank looked down at Dave and hoped that his death had given him the answers he had been searching for, while also taking solace in the fact that if not, well, no one else had them either.
—Degen Hill
ON-SAY-SAY
The woman at the counter takes Jim’s passport, runs it under a scanner and checks the computer screen. She wraps a label around the handle of his suitcase, then hands him his boarding pass.
“On-say-say.”
“I don’t understand.” He looks from the boarding pass to the woman, taking in her sallow skin, dark eyes and the jaunty cap perched on her head.
“On-say-say.” She says something else in quick sibilant Spanish, then points to his left.
Jim hesitates, and she beckons the next traveler. He’s in the way, so he steps aside.
The airport concourse stretches before him. A sign above a bank of elevators directs him to Departure Gates. He walks behind a straggle of gleeful children, jumping about and waving inflated pillows. One girl tugs her mother’s sleeve, urging her to hurry, caught up in the adventure of travel.
Jim stands on the moving stairs. The computerised voice repeats… mind the step. He inspects his boarding pass. Departure 07:15, Madrid to Edinburgh, Seat 11C.
“So that’s what she meant. 11C… on-say-say.”
He puts the boarding pass in his pocket, and worries that the couple behind may have heard him.
Travellers mill about the waiting area. Jim checks an information screen, then makes his way to a less crowded area with vacant bench seating. Two girls sit cross-legged on the ground by a window, gesticulating and laughing and eating sandwiches wrapped in tin foil. Jim places his hands on his knees to stop his legs jiggling. It’s a short flight, only two hours, a routine shuttle—no need to worry.
His flight is announced. He gets up, dawdles by the information screen before joining the end of the queue, and is the final passenger to board the plane.
He finds his seat and examines the illuminated 11C overhead. A large woman across the aisle complains about her seatbelt. She harrumphs and twists in her seat.
“It doesn’t work,” she tells Jim.
A flight attendant brings an extension and clips it in place. She touches the shoulder of the passenger in the next seat, a man with a ponytail protruding from the back of his baseball cap.
“Can you please hand me your bag to put in the overhead locker?”
The man nods. “I just need to get my book.” He unzips the bag and takes out a glossy doorstopper with an image of tanks and flames on the cover.
The passenger in the window seat beside Jim begins muttering. Whatever he’s saying is unintelligible, but the rhythm suggests prayer. Jim hadn’t paid him any attention when he sat down. All he can see from his peripheral vision is the cuff of a dark suit and short thick fingers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the crew I ask that you please direct your attention to the monitors as we review the emergency procedures. There are four emergency exits on this aircraft. Take a minute to locate the exit closest to you…”
Everyone here is going to die. A surge of realisation grips Jim. The queasiness in his guts tells him it’s certain. The passengers, Jim included, have been assembled on this plane, which is going to crash… into the sea, or a forest, or buildings.
The plane rolls forward. Jim pushes back against the seat, his fingers interlocked, thumbs rubbing together. The plane bumps, and bumps again as if rolling over cobblestones. This can’t be right—the runway should be flat. A heavy bump sends the passengers swaying, their heads bobbing. The plane judders, the creaking sounds ominous.
No one will survive this flight.
Jim squeezes his hands into fists and focuses on the seat number. On-say-say. He imagines the news coverage.
Flight from Madrid to Edinburgh crashes.
A list of names, ages, occupations, details regarding the pilot and co-pilot, how many hours they’d flown, an unblemished record until this fatal flight. Photographs of the victims: Jim pictured alongside the large woman and the guy with the ponytail, people he’d never seen before.
His brain burns at the prospect of the final moments; knowing what’s happening, grabbing and clawing and screaming, hopeless acts of desperation as the plane goes down.
The man with stubby fingers beside him continues muttering. A flight attendant walks by, checking seatbelts and smiling. The guy with the ponytail turns a page.
Jim thinks about his wife in Edinburgh, fast asleep or luxuriating in drowsiness, ensconced in the security of her soft quilt world. He hadn’t wanted to take this trip. The client insisted on meeting a senior member of the accounts team, and management decided that had to be Jim. He delayed the trip as long as he could, and now he’s ended up on this plane.
He grips the armrest, every sense tuned to the rocking motion. Did the engine sound just change? A different pitch, deeper rumbling. The plane brakes abruptly and stops. The sudden stillness accentuates his unease. His chest hurts. He can’t get enough air, as if his lungs have shrunk.
The plane rattles down the runway, springs and ratchets surely coming loose. Lumbering onwards, a cumbersome heaviness and, then, weightlessness. The plane veers to the right, dipping and turning. A vibrating growl as the landing gear retracts.
Jim glances across at the window, but all he sees is the surface of the wing. A leak of air comes through the overhead unit. The engines thrum. He checks his watch. Two hours to go.
Arrive, his nerves scream. Arrive. Arrive.
The flight attendants come by with trolleys. The large woman wants tea with skimmed milk. She asks if they have shortbread. The guy with the ponytail is handed a wee can of Heineken.
Jim stares at his knees, avoiding eye contact with the attendants. He looks over at the window once they’ve passed. The clouds below are too thick to see anything. Above, a glaring blue. Puffy white balls and gossamer-thin striations glide by.
He closes his eyes, and opens them immediately. Dozing is out of the question, his veins fizzing at the thought of waking to the reality of being on this plane. Instead, he gazes at the seat number, on-say-say, and performs mental calculations. Eighty-five minutes to arrival—thirty percent of the journey complete, each minute almost an extra percent. The second hand of his watch stutters forward.
The sky changes, reassuring blue replaced by caliginous grey and mistiness. Water droplets spread across the window. Darker grey fingers of cloud reach out as the plane flounders, drops, steadies and lurches.
He breathes through his mouth and keeps his eyes on the back of the seat, following a line of white stitching on the green cloth cover. The passenger beside him flexes his thick fingers, his muttering relentless. Jim studies the stitching but he has to look, has to see, and turns to face the window. The sky is black.
The air in the cabin tastes stale. Sweat runs down his back, his shirt clinging to his skin. The airplane drops. His insides shrivel.
The cabin lights go out, come back on, and flash on and off.
The large woman crosses herself. A child somewhere at the back of the plane squeals.
An announcement from the captain…experiencing heavy turbulence…necessary to take a slight change of course...
The flight attendants return, strained smiles, uttering reassurances. The plane vibrates, shaken by a monstrous force, plummets and stops in mid-air.
Jim repeats his mantra… on-say-say on-say-say... Just get free of this, he begs, fly out of the grasp of what’s doing this.
Arrive. Arrive.
The plane lands in Edinburgh. The pilot gives the local time and details of connecting flights. The passengers get ready to exit, their eyes glittering. Jim stands to one side, allowing his neighbour access to the overhead locker. He’s not how Jim had imagined him, this stern middle-aged businessman with sharp blue eyes. Jim considers saying something to mark their safe arrival, but can’t find the correct words. The businessman turns away. They wait for the doors to open.
As he walks down the steps, Jim marvels at the solidity of the buildings, the grandeur of the control tower, and the workers unloading bags onto carriers. A gleaming morning, the air chills his forehead and cleanses his lungs. It’s the first day of October, and he will experience the whole of autumn.
In the forecourt, the taxi roofs are coated with frost.
“Where to, pal?” the driver asks.
“The top of Leith Walk, by Picardy Place.”
Jim settles in his seat and looks up, momentarily surprised not to see an illuminated 11C. The taxi drives by long-stay parking lots, passing the replica Spitfire, and joins the queue at the exit traffic lights.
Jim leans forward, compelled to speak, to tell someone.
“The plane I was on almost crashed.”
The taxi driver half-turns, and shakes his head. “Almost crashed?”
Jim regrets sounding so melodramatic. “Terrible turbulence,” he says. “The worst I’ve ever experienced, plane thrown around like it was a toy. The lights in the cabin went out.”
“Sounds scary. I wouldn’t fancy that.” The driver checks his rear mirror, then pulls into the middle lane. “Well, you survived.”
The flat is empty. Jim puts his suitcase in the bedroom, sits at the kitchen table and stares at the fridge. He hears the front door open and close with a loud click.
His wife calls from the hallway, “Are you back?”
“I’m in the kitchen.”
Jim waits. She takes her time, hanging up her coat and then going into the bedroom, the sound of drawers opening and closing. Finally, she comes into the kitchen and lays her bag on a chair.
“So, how was the trip?”
“The plane almost crashed.”
“Really?” She opens the fridge, and takes out a carton of milk. “Would you like some tea or coffee?”
“Did you hear what I just said? The plane almost crashed.”
She looks at the wall clock. “But you must have arrived on time.”
“Terrible turbulence. The plane plummeted repeatedly and was knocked this way and that, flung about like a piece of flotsam. The lights went out in the cabin.”
“You get flotsam in water.” She unplugs the kettle. “You must be exaggerating.”
“I’m not.” Jim puffs out his cheeks. “It was the worst experience I’ve ever had. I was sure that was it. The end.”
She turns on the tap and fills the kettle.
“I was in seat 11C.” He fiddles with a jute coaster on the table, running his finger along its edge. “On-say-say.”
Her phone pings. She takes it out of the bag, and swipes the screen.
“On-say-say,” he repeats.
She continues swiping the phone.
“Are you listening?”
“Yes.” She doesn’t look up from the phone. “I can do two things at the same time. I heard you. 11C, your seat number.”
Monday, back at work, Jim struggles to concentrate as he types up the report of his meeting in Madrid. He joins his colleagues for morning coffee in the breakout space, and recounts his near-death experience.
“I won’t be taking any plane trips for some time,” he says.
Gillian from human resources grimaces in a show of concern. “I don’t blame you.”
“Terrible,” says Holly.
The other secretaries nod their agreement.
“That must have been an awful experience.”
“Dreadful.”
“Frightening.”
Jim takes a handkerchief from his pocket and blows his nose, concealing his disappointment at these banalities. Some of his co-workers ask questions, but not with sufficient awe. Was it very stormy? Which airline? Was the plane full?
One of the partners stops by, and Gillian tells him about Jim’s close call.
“You must have been relieved to set foot on terra firma,” the partner say, and walks away.
“It was complete chaos,” Jim tells them. “Utter bedlam. The air masks dropped from the overhead panel. That’s when I knew it was serious. The passenger beside me burst into tears. Other passengers had to be restrained. The captain begged for calm. He told us to be prepared for an emergency landing.”
Howard Webb, Head of Audit, purses his lips. “Sounds like a close call.”
“Who knows what the future holds,” Gillian says, then leans forward, her eyes widening. “Did you hear the latest? You know Maggie Nicholson, one of the cleaners? She won a hundred grand on the lottery.”
“Really!” Holly swivels on her chair, mouth agape. “If I won the lottery, I’d be straight down to the travel agency. A holiday in Dubai, non-stop cocktails by the pool. Or maybe Barbados. Somewhere sunny, anywhere but grey Edinburgh.”
Jim drops into The Blue Blazer for a drink after work. He sits at the bar, and leafs through a copy of The Evening News left on the counter. A fire in North Edinburgh had claimed two lives. An earthquake in Asia killed thirty. More fighting in the Middle East. He puts the paper aside and rubs his eyes. In his mind he pictures white stitching on a green seat cover.
A man with long straggly grey hair and a goatee orders a drink. The barman reaches for a bottle on the shelf of single malts. Jim contemplates the dregs of his pint and considers having another.
“Ahhh… that hit the spot.”
Jim turns to see the customer lower his glass onto the counter. He smiles at Jim, and the man’s striking blue eyes remind him of his neighbour on the plane.
“I’ll have one of those,” Jim tells the barman. “Let me get you another,” he says to the customer. “I have good reason to drink after what I’ve been through.”
“If you’re buying, why not. It would be churlish to turn down the offer of Talisker.” He shakes Jim’s hand. “You can call me Eric. So tell me, what have you been through?”
Jim describes the plane trip: the woman at the desk, on-say-say, his presentiment of disaster, the bumping and rattling before take-off, the turbulence, plummeting and rocking, lights going off, his fear and certainty he would die. He doesn’t exaggerate, encouraged by his new companion’s obvious interest in what he has to say. The man’s attention deserves the courtesy of accuracy.
“A difficult experience, sure enough,” Eric says. “One that’ll stay with you, and one that warrants careful consideration and analysis.”
“Exactly.” Jim shifts on his stool, and taps the counter for emphasis. “That’s just what I’ve been doing.”
Eric raises a hand to attract the barman’s attention, and orders two more drinks.
“Conventional wisdom would have you count your blessings and feel lucky you survived.” Eric swirls the whisky in his glass. “After coming through such a confrontation with the possibility of death, you’re expected to think that life is more precious and you took it for granted. You’ve been given a second chance. Appreciate life. Live every day like it’s your last.” He sips the whisky and places his glass gently on the counter. “You know that’s all trite, well-meaning or not. It’s the same life, before and after you got off that plane. Life hasn’t changed.”
Jim nods but says nothing, not wanting to interrupt Eric.
“That said, such an event is important in one crucial way. It can tell you things you do not know about matters that are kept hidden. Information you may not wish to have.” He pauses, and strokes his goatee. “Even so, this is an opportunity offered to few. An opportunity you should seize.”
Eric swallows what’s left of his whisky, and steps back from the bar. “I suggest you tell the people closest to you what you experienced on that flight. Reveal as much as you dare—your insecurities and frailties, your deep-seated fears.”
“He adjusts his scarf and buttons his coat, preparing to leave, all the time eyeing the silent Jim.
“Tell them, and then observe.”
—Mark Keane
TRAIN HOPPING
I ride the train half-expecting to be ejected at the next station, half-expecting to be left alone because I do not look like I belong, the only white man in a sea of brown people who smile and stare, an exchange of nods and the few who manage to speak whom I—the dumb American—do not understand them.
The young girl across from me carries a backpack and reads from a book that looks twice her age. She only looks at me in passing, never looking directly, unlike the older women who analyze my place. When the train fills to standing-room only I am uncertain if I should offer my seat but my stop is four hours away and I paid for this seat, a row and a number. The further we get away from the city, the more people fill the train.
I hear people walking on the roof of the car and I recall pictures of people riding on top of trains here in India. I suspect there are no tickets for the people above me, braving injury or death to simply get from one place to the next, likely a job that requires such a trip daily. When I get off at my stop, I turn around and am shocked that there are no handles, no fencing on top of the train to prevent a slip or fall. While mostly young, there are people of all ages riding on top. No one is reading, they are staring off to a distant fixed point or talking to someone next to them now that they can get in a few words while the train loads and unloads passengers and packages.
Back at his house, my host explains that riding on top of the train is technically illegal. If you get hurt you cannot sue for damages. He says it is tolerated because it serves a purpose: how the poor get to and from work, visit family, attend funerals. He tells me this while walking around the house closing the windows despite the heat. He explains that a cremation is scheduled for the hour, and that the smoke from down the hill will fill the house if he doesn't close it up.
He says many of the people who got off the train at my stop are probably there to attend, as the deceased was a beloved headmaster and also his father. I ask if he means actual father or is that a term of reverence. My actual father, he says. The man my grandmother raised.
—Mickie Kennedy
FIRE IN THE SKY
Far off to the west, a shawl of muted colors moved and broke apart as the memory of the sun gave way to a gray darkness. Lightning flashed in the near distance. He could smell the coming rain.
In the hills, twenty miles from the nearest town, he made his home. And a mile down a winding gravel track to the highway sat his store and gas station. He had one employee who alternated the six-hour late shift with him. That’s all he needed. A small store for a meager income and a small home in the hills. He was happy, rarely questioning his aloneness or wondering of the happenings beyond. And he sat on the flat table-rock behind his home and looked down on the light and shadow of the steel canopy that sheltered the two gas pumps. This he did on his off nights, counting the cars that visited his store.
A car pulled in, then disappeared from his view, parking close to the store. His vision took in only the canopy lights over the gas pumps and the shadows. A couple minutes later, another two cars arrived, seconds behind each other, and parked at the pumps. Busy night, he thought.
A young woman stepped from her car. She eyed the gray sedan parked close to the store, then turned as a small sports car pulled into the bay next to her. The young man in the convertible smiled and stood, closing his car door.
“You’ve been following me,” she said to him.
“I have. Sorry. It’s a lonely road, and I thought if this British machine dies on me, I could flash my lights at you, and you would rescue me.”
She laughed. “I’ve not heard a line like that before.” She stepped to the pump.
“I stopped to put the top up. It looks like rain. Did you see the lightning?”
“Where are you going?” she said, waiting for the credit card approval. “What’s your destination?”
“Bakersfield. Yours?”
“L.A.” She pulled the pump nozzle to her car and saw two men inside the store stalking the front aisle. Behind the counter, the clerk loaded a dispenser with packs of cigarettes.
The man for Bakersfield finished latching his car’s top in place. He said, “Los Angeles. Can I follow you? This car really is finnicky.”
“If you can keep up,” she said over her shoulder, then glanced back to the store. The two customers were talking to the kid behind the counter.
A flash of light from the sky, then thunder echoed. Heavy drops of water hit the pavement and sounded atop the metal canopy like falling marbles.
She removed the nozzle and hung it on the pump. Her follower filled his tank. He looked up and smiled. She couldn’t help but smile back. That smile, his eyes…
Claws of lightning opened the sky above them, illuminating the store and the surrounding hills. Immediately, thunder sounded. The young man filling his tank felt a shiver of electricity hit his hand. He dropped the pump nozzle.
“Damn.”
A muffled pop, followed by an explosion of sparks on the power pole.
The lights went out. They stood in darkness listening to the remnant thunder peel off the hills.
“Wow,” she said. “The transformer got hit. Are you alright?”
“Every hair on my arm is at attention. I don’t think I want to touch that pump.”
The pebbling rain muffled his voice. An emergency generator started. Behind him, she saw the interior of the store light up. He could see her face now and followed her gaze. The two customers stood behind the counter, one holding a gun, the other rifling the cash drawer.
He pointed. “Holy shit.”
“Did they kill that kid? We should go. Now.”
She stepped to her car.
“I’ll follow you,” he said, his eyes on the robbers.
“Hurry.” She started her car, watching as the gunman walked around the counter to the door. Pulling forward, she angled for the road, then looked over her shoulder for the man in the sports car. He flashed his lights. His car wasn’t starting. She braked. In the rearview mirror, she saw the robbers standing at the doorway. Her passenger sprinted into the rain, carrying his backpack.
On the hillside, rain fell at the store owner’s feet and stopped. As if he had nature on a leash. He often felt, high above the store, watching the hills as their hues and shadows changed in the twilight, that he was a god on some new Olympus. Tonight, though, he had to deal with a power outage. He’d seen the sparks from the transformer. He shrugged, gazing down at his store, the pumps beneath a dark canopy, only a faint glow from within the store. His thoughts were on closing the store as quickly as he knew how, rearranging the coolers, shutting a couple down to minimize the load on the generator. The store was his life. It occupied the full extent of his vision from the table-rock to his dreams: a tiny structure along a tiny stretch of highway. All else was unimaginable to him, all else happened beyond his knowing.
Lights from two vehicles left the parking lot, moving west. Perhaps, he thought, the other driver is lingering in the store, searching for a Klondike bar for the long drive ahead. He turned toward his home. He would call his night help and tell him he was on his way down.
A coyote barked. The man stopped at his door and listened. He smiled. Life goes on, he said to himself, and to the coyote: “I think I’ll get a Klondike bar. Before they melt.”
—Ben Raterman
THE DAUGHTER
It’s concerning to think that my daughter has been on the phone this long, twirling the coiled cord around her index finger, discussing plans of her 10th birthday party with her friends. There will be party favor bags with Wooly Willy kits, lip gloss, magnifying glasses. No clowns. That’s what she tells me just before she dials the next number, tapping her nails against the medicine-pink phone like she’s someone older than she is.
I glance at the clock. I suppose it’s more concerning that I don’t actually have a daughter, that I’ve been staring at the phone off the hook for hours, dial tone humming into the room.
I wipe a bit of drool from the corner of my mouth. It’s not like me to be so concerned.
I get up from my pretzeled position on the woven rug and head to the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee. It makes my stomach hurt, too much acid, and I gulp a bit more as I look out the window above the sink and watch a cardinal jam its beak into its bright red chest, over and over again.
My daughter would laugh hysterically at the sight of something like that. She’d pull out her notepad and pen and write a story about a neurotic little bird who needed sessions on a couch in some psych’s office. She’d call the bird Luther and imagine a life for him and his brood. I like them best, she’d say, because the males have errands to run and food to find, they play a faithful role.
By the end of her story, she’d write something utterly horrific and you might let out a little scream as you finished it, and she’d laugh, but not in a troubling way. A pure laugh that can only mean she’s done her job and the cardinal’s life has stretched beyond the branch of the tree in front of the kitchen window, just before me, where I stare.
I say my daughter because of the way I’ve always wanted one, or thought I wanted one. Maybe it was some kind of societal push or a secret ingredient in my birth control pills. For a while I thought that it might have been the way my own mother looked at me when I stopped needing her for help, for anything, really. But I knew I wanted it early on - to have a daughter.
I imagine all kinds of scenarios in which my daughter exceeds all the expectations of this life. I imagine her to be so unreal that she seems alien. She doesn’t have any particular color of hair because she doesn’t need it. She doesn’t wear pants or dresses because she’s actually thought of some yet-to-be-named garment that she likes best. She has a smile and she uses it when she pleases. She eats, she shits. She walks the earth as if she conceived of it. She’s my biggest inspiration.
A bit of coffee spills onto the floor. I’m lopsided when I think this hard, I don’t mean to be that way. In the corner of my eye, I feel Luther watching me from his branch, Bradford Pear blossoms raining down atop his soft head, releasing that familiar stink. He’s no longer jamming his beak into his body. I’m the sideshow he likes best.
I reach forward to pull the curtains closed and head upstairs to change mother’s bedpan. It’s a Monday, so she’ll be needing extra help today.