Mollusk by Didi Wood

Content warning: sexual assault.

 

His hands are everywhere, squeezing your shoulders, pinning your arms, grabbing your ass and smashing you against his clammy body so close you feel all his hearts beating beating beating, and you gasp and you say Mr. Mollusk, what—but he’s covering your mouth, your eyes, you can’t move can’t see but you smell, you taste, stench of clams on his breath, tang of brine on his tongue, turn away but he yanks back your head, no, try not to gag, you’ve never liked seafood, or the sea, a bottomless murk hiding things that will topple you, drag you down, you thought you’d bob above it all, safe in your just-say-no boat but there’s so much you don’t understand, a different world populated with cold-blooded triple-hearted aliens that squeeze through cracks and hide in bespoke-suited plain sight and grow back limbs they shed when escaping, and they always escape, don’t they,

wait, he’s your parents’ best friend for god’s sake, Mr. Mollusk on the terrace with a shrimp on a stick and a hey-how-about-a-summer-job, isn’t that nice, oh he’s so nice, something’s burning and your dad hops up to check the grill and your mom hisses say thank you, pull down your shirt, behave yourself, and you know what she’s thinking but this won’t be like last summer behind the counter at Ben & Jerry’s with your friends draped like seaweed over the tables and after your shift that college boy, his mouth a barnacle on yours until your mom pulled up and honked and you shoved him away, laughing, but now,

but now Mr. Mollusk doesn’t care that you’re shoving, you’re sobbing, no, he’s biting your neck and you’re weakening, the surface so far above, wave goodbye to your parents and say thank you and he’s slithering into your mouth, no, prying apart your legs, all the soft moist dank cold salt-steeped parts of him, and that stench, putrid shrimp and something burning, how many arms does this man have,

and the phone rings on your desk, you should get that, it’s your job, your summer job, so nice, it’s ringing, right there yet unreachable, ringing, bobbing, behave, if only you were stronger, louder, if only you had more arms more hearts more sense, if only you knew how to swim, no, if only there was something you could grab hold of, a skewer a stick a pencil, a pencil, that pencil right there right here right—yes.

Didi Wood’s stories appear in SmokeLong QuarterlyWigleafFractured LitMilk Candy Review, and elsewhere. Her work has been chosen for the Wigleaf Top 50 and nominated for Best Small Fictions. More at didiwood.com.

Loneliness Is Retraining as a Life Coach by Jen Feroze

She arrives in a crowd,
points out to me in a voice needing new batteries
that everyone else here smiles with their eyes.
Say you have a headache, she tells me.

She sends me letters in the dead of night,
when the house could be leagues underwater.
This is the way it’s supposed to be, she writes,
this is the way you’re supposed to feel.

Her penmanship is flawless.
Her letterhead’s like mist.
She makes me think of uncracked eggs;
of trees falling silent in forests.

One morning in April she flies me to Keukenhof.
Look, she says, they feel it too,
so far from alone, yet so consumed
with their own blooming.

Study each one in turn; see how its stamens are held high?
I don’t reply. My head is too full of colour,
a community of petals,
an unclenching of something.

When we touch down at home,
I notice the way my neighbours’ windows
throw gold into the dusk, hear someone laugh
further up the street. Her face changes.

Later that night I receive another letter
in that maddeningly rounded script.
I am apparently no longer her ideal client.
She suggests we go our separate ways.

The world opens up like a tulip.

Jen Feroze is a U.K. poet living by the sea. Her work has recently appeared in Stanchion, Stone Circle Review, OneArt, Magma, and Poetry Wales, among other publications. She was a winner of the 2022/2023 Magma Editors’ Prize and her debut pamphlet is forthcoming with Nine Pens Press.

Darryl by Rebekah Morgan

Darryl eats eggs for breakfast every day and leaves his crusted plate on the table for someone else to clean. Sometimes the eggs are runny and he sops up the orange runs with toast. Sometimes the eggs are burnt and he feeds them to the dog and doesn’t eat till noon. He wakes up early and goes to bed late, he never gets no sleep. Some people call Darryl the most miserable man in Tennessee. Darryl’s wife steals his money in front of him, shoves it right in her purse. Darryl’s kids hate him, his kids call him “loser” and “fatso” and “gay.” Darryl watches sports on TV and his team always loses. Darryl’s truck breaks down on the way to the job site and he kicks the truck and it hurts his foot. He lays on the side of the highway as the semis plow by and no one stops to help. Fiberglass fills Darryl’s lungs and he hacks them up on the port-a-john floor. Sawdust gets in Darryl’s eyes and Darryl’s coworkers call him a faggot when he looks like he’s crying even though he’s not.

Darryl’s hardhat is too big and his pants fall down, he’s got coffee stains on his shirt. Darryl stares out the window of the job site trailer while his boss screams at him and bangs his fists on the desk for something Darryl didn’t do. Darryl gets threatened with termination, Darryl’s kids are ugly, and Darryl’s dog bites him when he walks in. Darryl’s mom died of cancer, Darryl’s dad’s got dementia, and last winter Darryl’s gallbladder up and quit.

Darryl cherishes the bad and lies awake at night staring at the ceiling hoping more bad things will come while his wife rides his dick and calls him the wrong name. Darryl’s wife fucks the neighbor and cums harder than ever. Darryl’s pastor tells him he’s going to hell. Darryl is missing a finger which he blew off while cleaning his gun. The hospital tells Darryl it wasn’t an accident, the hospital tells Darryl it was actually a “negligent discharge.” A bus crashes into the trees near Darryl’s house and he walks down hoping to see something bad. Darryl’s daughter is killed in the bus crash, all the other children survive. Darryl goes to his dead daughter’s funeral and no one shakes Darryl’s hand. The man who fucks his wife tells him he’s real sorry about losing Darryl’s daughter, that she was a good kid. Darryl scarfs potato salad after his daughter’s funeral while his wife cries on another man’s shoulder. Darryl gets food poisoning from the potato salad and shits his brains out while laughing. Darryl stands in his dead daughter’s room crying and calls himself a waste of breath, a sorry loser, and a faggot. Darryl forgets his surroundings and masturbates on the floor. Darryl slips in the shower and Darryl misses work. He tells his wife that his back is crooked as she leaves the house and Darryl’s wife says “good.” Darryl sits alone in his chair and watches TV. He sees a commercial for the miserable, the sad and the depressed and dials the hotline. The operator calls Darryl a faggot, and Darryl says “thank you” and hangs up the phone.

Darryl wears camouflage and goes hunting alone in the woods and misses every shot. The deer laugh at Darryl and follow him to his house, and the deer fuck Darryl’s wife too. Darryl sleeps in his dead daughter’s bed beneath the pale pink sheets clouded with rings of piss and dreams about fishes. Darryl dreams of standing on the shoreline in the muck of the Pigeon River but every time Darryl’s about to net a mighty bronze back, the fish breaks the line and swims away from Darryl. Darryl don’t catch nothin’, not even in his dreams. Darryl goes back to work and builds a house, Darryl crushes his fingers with his hammer, Darryl hits his head on a wooden beam and the stars laugh at Darryl swirling round his head. Darryl takes pills for his back and drives home pretending he is drunk. Darryl hits a mailbox, just for fun. Sometimes Darryl cooks dinner and burns down the kitchen, sometimes it turns out good and he howls as he eats. 

Darryl loves misery, Darryl loves pain. Darryl goes to his brother’s farm and gets kicked by a mule named Josephine after his mother. Darryl finds himself to be an enemy of all living creatures and eats them with spitefulness. Darryl eats their meat and savors the tissue and grit stuck between his inflamed gums and cuckold cheeks. Darryl loves the idea of perfection. Darryl thinks about death, his gravestone, the inscription reading “Here lays the most miserable man in Tennessee.” Darryl barrels down I-40 going the wrong direction but his truck don’t break down, Darryl don’t wear no seatbelt. Darryl collides head on with a truck bigger than Darryl’s truck because Darryl’s truck is small. The engine comes through the dash, pinning half of Darryl to the floorboard and the other half to the dash, and a li’l bit of Darryl splashes across the back window too. A spider web splinters the windshield and no one stops to help. The police take pictures of Darryl’s body and show them to their friends. No one claims Darryl’s remains as family or friend and there ain’t no funeral and there ain’t no gravestone. Darryl’s wife and dead daughter’s ghost move into the house of the man who fucks Darryl’s wife. Darryl’s body burns in the cremation chamber and his fat burns hotter than his muscles and his bones burn the longest.

Rebekah Morgan is a writer living in good ole Eastern Tennessee. Previous work can be found with Bull Magazine, Fence, Joyland Magazine, Maudlin House, and New York Tyrant, among other places.

Leech by Eben E. B. Bein

Today, I read about a mother bleeding
mysteriously from her vagina
not quickly, but enough to stain,
something dark inside, and
when the gynecologist found it,
attached to the slick muscle
by its two suckers and tugged it free,
and it kept bleeding for hours, I thought
about how leeches, too, are mothers,

how I once spotted one, undulating
through the shallows
of a New Hampshire pond,
a stripe the color of leaf litter
down her rippling back, and at her side,
a wriggling cloud of S’s—a tiny school
of leechlets. When I reached out my net
they ducked beneath her awning
and disappeared.

Host dearest, what do little white boys take?

Back at the lab, I scraped her
from the bucket wall,
into a vial of ethanol. She writhed,
shrank in seconds
to a close parenthesis, stiff enough
to roll through the swirled preservative
onto her back, revealing
a small cluster of petals
clinging to her underside—
an umbilical flower
of dead children.

Eben E. B. Bein (he/they) is a biology-teacher-turned-climate-justice-educator at the nonprofit Our Climate. He was a 2022 Fellow for the Writing By Writers workshop and winner of the 2022 Writers Rising Up “Winter Variations” poetry contest. Their first chapbook Character Flaws is out with Fauxmoir Lit and they’ve published with the likes of Fugue Literary, New Ohio Review, and Columbia Review. They are currently completing their first full collection about parent-child estrangement, healing, and love. He lives on Pawtucket land (Cambridge, MA) with his husband and can be found online at ebenbein.com or @ebenbein.

Cancellations by Grace Marie Liu

Most days, I wake up wishing I were something
like cold thunder. As in Zendaya, or the girl
in a pinafore dress who bakes rhubarb tarts in a cottage
made of cheese. I am instead trying to be punctual.
Zoom calls, grocery store appointments, downtown Zumba classes,
the studio slanted between the bank and a fruit market. This
is how I comfort my mother when she calls. Today, it’s five
across and the cause of this summer’s poor air quality
across U.S. cities, except I can’t stop talking
about the green bottle fly nailed to the windowpanes,
how I killed it with my right hand. Really, I should be sad
about bleach and glaciers, but I’m still mourning
my premature white hairs. The Zumba instructor emails
Saturday, apologizing because she can’t go outside, the fumes
disrupt her chakra. I call my mother, tell her it was smoke all along.

Grace Marie Liu is a Chinese-American poet from Michigan. She is a 2024 YoungArts National Winner with Distinction in Poetry, and an alumna of the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship Program and the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Minnesota Review, Peach Mag, Sundog Lit, and Vagabond City Lit, among others. She serves as an Editor-in-Chief of Polyphony Lit.