They say hello to me, I say hello back although I don’t know them, nor do they know me. How well I look, I lost weight haven’t I, they say, even though it’s the first time they see me. They send their greetings to my sister and ask me to convey them to her. We look a lot alike, they say, even though I only have a brother. Our parents know each other, they insist, they’ve been neighbors, even though we grew up in different cities. They ask how much time I spent in Madrid, even though I have never been to Madrid. They say they saw me strolling in the park, even though I was at home, they say they saw me on the street with a stranger with his arm around my waist and he looked at me with love in his eyes, who is this stranger, tell us about him, even though no one put his arms around my waist and no one looked at me with love in his eyes. Only a stranger, I reply, after all it’s probably a stranger. I spoke engagingly on the radio, they say, even though I never was on the radio. They bring me layered honey cake because they think I like it and offer me a spritzer to return the favor from last time, but I have no idea what they are talking about. They read what I had posted on my message board, what post, I ask. They liked the photo series about me, they can’t recall the name of the magazine, I should remind them which one, it appeared a few weeks ago. Sometimes I just keep nodding when they tell me what a nice chat we had last time, even though it’s the first time I’ve met them, and I only turn in their direction by mistake when they shout her name. By the way, her name really suits me, it’s not my fault that it’s not mine. When I tell them that it wasn’t me, they get confused, leave me quietly while whispering something to their friends while looking at me, or start laughing and say how funny I am. Sometimes they get embarrassed and apologize. I assure them that I am often mistaken for her. They accept this and from then on keep their distance. They say I gave a beautiful rendition of that song, and I only nod. They ask me to sing something, and I have to come up with different excuses, for example, I say that I can only sing on Saturdays or on Mondays, if it happens to be Saturday. Sometimes I apologize when I tell them that they have mistaken me for her, and they answer that it’s no problem. Sometimes I wish I liked jazz, then I would enjoy this concert to which they invited me because I supposedly liked jazz and the pianist. Sometimes they’re right about what I like and at those times I let them mistake me for her. For example, if they bring me a cinnamon bun, I thank them and eat it, or when they take me to a place where I really want to go. I promise to write a song about them, it will be on my next album. They go home and anxiously wait for the album while telling everyone that a song will be written about them.

Anita Harag was born in Budapest in 1998. After finishing her first degree in literature and ethnology, she completed her graduate studies in Indian Studies. Her first short stories that appeared in magazines earned her several literary awards and prizes. In 2020, she was the winner of the Margó Prize, awarded to the best first-time fiction author of the year for her volume of short stories, Rather Cool for the Time of the Year. Her second volume of short stories, including this one, came out in September 2023.

Walter Burgess and Marietta Morry are both Canadian, and they translate contemporary fiction from Hungarian. In addition to stories by Ms. Harag (ten of which have been published), they also translate fiction by Gábor T. Szántó, Péter Moesko, Zsófia Czakó and András Pungor. Many of these translations have appeared in literary reviews in North America and abroad, including The Stinging Fly, The New England Review, The Southern Review, and Ploughshares. Szántó’s book, 1945 and Other Stories (six of the eight stories being translated by them), was published in May 2024.

James is main boy.

Atwood is second main boy.

Tomothy is neither tall nor short, but a secret third thing. He is also third main boy.

Notch is forth, but only in maths.

Frau Gruber is not a boy at all, but serves us supper and consoles us after exams.

Frail Misty is my secret love. The headmaster’s youngest daughter. I must not admit to this in public. And neither is she in the ranking of main boys.

Danovan is headmaster’s favorite although he is not even in the top ten of main boys.

Rickan was once main boy, but no longer. He has fallen out of favor. For shame, Rickan.

Mark and Other Mark are fine friends who care not for rankings. I celebrate them.

Welsh Jonathan admitted to loving Frail Misty last year, during the Feast of St. George, and he has not been the since same. The same since. Poor, unfortunate Welsh Jonathan. He is sixteenth main boy and shan’t rise any higher.

Hankus was the main boy in the 1932/33 term. He lives in the dream attic.

On Walking Day, Chauncey becomes main boy for exactly three hours and may do as he pleases.

On Whitsunday there is no main boy. There must never be a main boy on Whitsundays.

All headmasters were once main boys. This is known as The Main Boy’s Curse.

Despite all headmasters having once been main boys, not all main boys go on to become headmaster. We have asked both Professor Steinmetz, our maths tutor, and our own Notch whether this is representative of contraposition or modus tollens, but have received no satisfactory answer.

Ex. “If it is raining, then we shall not play bowls,” therefore “if we are not playing bowls, then it is raining.”

Yet this cannot be true. We do not play bowls frequently. Or more correctly, we frequently do not play bowls. Such as on Whitsunday last, when the sun shone brilliantly and yet there we were once again not playing bowls.

The bowls pitch is named after James’s grandfather who in his day was also main boy, but never became headmaster.

As Secretary of Boy Rankings I am tasked with compiling this record. I am told it is an honor to do this, that Secretary of Boy Rankings is an honorable position. But I must admit that it does not feel honorable. The Secretary of Boy Rankings is exempted from appearing on the list and this feels to me as though I am not a part of my own life. That I am at best an observer, perhaps. A Recording Angel. I find this quite upsetting despite being treated by the other boys with all deference due my position.

Despite being exempt, I believe I would very much like to hold a position in the rankings. Though not the position of main boy with all its attendant pressure and responsibilities. But to appear somewhere on this list, to have my own name put down here so that it will not be lost to history. Our bodies fade, our contemporaries die, even our eventual children will pass from this Earth, and one day the last person to remember any of us will also cease to exist. But to be on the list of boy rankings is to live on. It is to not be forgotten.

Logic deserts us all, in the end. Frequently. Poor Notch. Poor Mr. Steinmetz.

Holm is final boy. In the end, he shall outlast us all. He shall be the last person to keep us in living memory. Long after we are gone, he shall be mute uncomprehending witness to horrors the rest of us can scarce now imagine.

But, oh Holm. Oh, friend Holm. Remember me well. I beg you. Not as a Secretary or Recording Angel, but as a mere boy who lived and played bowls and wrote letters to his sister and looked forward to Whitsundays and communed with Hankus in the dream attic and asks you now for one final kindness.

Poor Holm. Poor glorious Holm.

Oh, Frau Gruber. What is to be done? I am in need of your consolations, I think.

Tack is the median boy, appearing exactly midway on my list. He is exemplary at nothing, but well-liked by all. Spoken ill of by none. Kudos, Tack. Well done. Well done.

Andreas Trolf is a writer and director living in New York. His fiction has been published in Joyland, The Cincinnati Review, Chicago Quarterly Review, and elsewhere. He is also the co-creator and writer of the Emmy-nominated Nickelodeon series Sanjay and Craig.

You tell me not to come, but I’m already in the car. You’re cursing under the sound of the ignition and heater starting and I’m switching on the radio, flicking through the stations, stopping on a Queen song, hoping you’ll shout out the lyrics and forget about shouting at me. My seat warmer’s on and it usually comforts me like a cup of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom, but all it does now is make me feel more shit. I don’t deserve Bohemian Rhapsody, I don’t deserve a warm back, and I sure as hell don’t deserve you. Because as soon as I felt love, I pushed and pushed, and fucked around until I discovered the terms that made our bond conditional. I turn off the seat warmer and pull my sweatshirt, then my tee shirt, over my head, trampling them with my combat boots. I’m sitting beside you in my burgundy bra, and you act as though you don’t notice, stare straight at the road ahead and nothing else. When we first started dating a year ago when we were juniors, that would have worked, you would have parked at the side of the road and turned to me and I would have climbed across the center console and onto your lap. That was before what I did with Tyler though. It will be harder to make you care now, or—terrifying to think it—impossible. I roll down my window and stick my bare arm out, the wind slapping against it. I glance your way, but you don’t flinch, your eyes still on the dark road that stretches longer than patience. I’m hanging out of the window now, the wind whipping against my stomach, my chest, and I’m yelling the words of a prayer my mother taught me, out into the woods for the squirrels and birds to listen to because you’re acting as though you can’t hear me at all. THE LORD IS MY PROTECTOR AND HE OFFERS ME FORGIVENESS AND LOVE. You twist the volume dial and Freddy Mercury bellows the lyrics over me and my prayers and I’m pine needle-small, pebble-small, so I whisper your name instead, laced with a string of futile words. You park at the mouth of a trail and I get out, step through the teeth of it, away from my sweater, my shirt, your car, you—eyes closed, head resting against your steering wheel, and I’m running, running, running through the thick underbrush you will refuse to chase me through. And the further I sprint the less I care.

Marie Hoy-Kenny attended the University of Toronto, where she earned her bachelor of arts in English, and professional writing and communication. Her work has been published in several literary magazines, including trampset, Cosmonauts Avenue, and FlashBack Fiction. Her debut novel, THE GIRL FROM HUSH CABIN, was published by Blackstone Publishing in 2023.

Mary was the first to do it. She used silver thread, and we admired the biblical resonance of her name, her tight straight stitch. She started with the left eye, at the corner away from her nose. It was painful and messy, the needle threading through eyelid, but eventually the blood dried, and there she was in our high school hallways, eyes stitched closed.

After that, it was a new girl every day. You could tell who was new by the crust of red at the stitches, by their bumbling walk and their reaching for every wall.

The boys wrote us off. They said there wasn’t anything political about it. It was just the latest fashion. They opened doors for us, guided us from one classroom to the next. They read our homework aloud and cooked us afternoon snacks: rice with broccoli or macaroni and cheese, whatever they liked to eat.

We had told them about the ways the world worked for us, about our bodies and how they felt always on display, too big or too small, too easy to comment on or whistle at, how some boys didn’t listen when we said no or stop or leave me alone. These boys we told: they ignored us too.

So we no longer watched their football games or returned their smiles from across a room. We stopped shopping at the mall. We wore sweatpants and tee-shirts and never any makeup. The boys said things to us like, You’re really letting yourselves go. And we smiled and noticed the different shades of light that danced upon our eyelids.

We learned to do tasks alone, to take care of our own needs, our own wants. We began to question the need for boys at all. We stopped dating them, began to find pleasure in each other—our bodies smooth and desirous, our laughter light and ringing in our ears.

Eventually, the principal got involved. There were too many girls with too many needs. He persuaded our parents that if our behavior continued, we wouldn’t go to college or find jobs. We wouldn’t get husbands and make babies. Too much thinking, he insisted, is not good for a developing brain.

Our parents agreed. They crept into our rooms at night and ripped out our threads stitch-by-stitch. We protested of course, but slowly, we woke up to see again. Except: there was nothing we could fully recognize from before.

We could see, but it was as if we were seeing for the first time. We saw each other most distinctly. Our limbs and waists and faces. Beautiful, we told the world. And we wanted to look at each other all day. So we did. We looked and looked until Mary took out her needle and thread again. Nobody’s listening to us anyway, she said, and then she stitched her top lip to her bottom lip and we followed, sealing our mouths shut.

Allison Field Bell is originally from northern California, but has spent most of her adult life in the desert. She is a PhD candidate in Prose at the University of Utah, and has an MFA in Fiction from New Mexico State University. Allison’s prose has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, DIAGRAM, The Adroit Journal, New Orleans Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, and elsewhere. Her poems have appeared in The Cincinnati Review, Superstition Review, Palette Poetry, and elsewhere. Find her at allisonfieldbell.com.

Dec. 25, 1995

Dear Lucy,

Your request for a pony is denied. What do you even need a pony to go to school for? There’s something called a SCHOOLBUS.

Besides, we both know it’s just going to end up in your parents’ “House Special Soup.”

Enclosed instead is this rubber band I found.

Best,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 1996

Dear Lucy,

Again, the pony is a NO GO. Here’s a dictionary instead. (Your spelling’s horrendous.)

Also, the Tooth Fairy not leaving money under your pillow doesn’t have anything to do with me. You think all us magical people get together to play bridge something?

Go bother her for a change.

Cheers,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 1997

Dear Lucy,

I am not a misser (sic) (didn’t even open that dictionary, did you?). I denied your request for a Princess Castle because A) what the hell’s a Princess Castle, B) you’re not a princess, and C) you wouldn’t deserve one regardless.

Here’s a rock I stubbed my toe on, which made me think of you.

Adios,

Santa

p.s. The Fairy gave me two quarters at our last bridge game to make up for two years ago; I used them for postage.

 

Dec. 25, 1998

Dear Lucy,

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles is for BOYS. Here’s a one-armed Barbie.

Best,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 1999

Dear Lucy,

You’ve been accepted into Hogwarts! NOT.

Also how could this be some elaborate prank of your parents’ given they can barely write a sentence in English? I’d say use your head, but we all know how well that turns out.

Enclosed please find a piece of gum I’ve been chewing on for two days.

Ciao,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2000

Dear Lucy,

You may have thought it clever to send your letter smeared in cat shit, but that just meant Al the Elf had to spend two hours cleaning it. Don’t get me wrong, I couldn’t care less about Al the Elf, but I wanted you to add this to your list of failures (which must be longer than any I’ve had the misfortune to slog over).

Here instead is a collar for that puppy you actually want but will never get because the world’s against you.

Yours,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2001

Dear Lucy,

In honor of your first period, here’s some Tampons.

Cheers,

Santa

p.s. Mrs. Claus insists I tell you heat pads work wonders.

p.p.s. The secret to a happy marriage is doing what your spouse tells you.

 

Dec. 25, 2002

Dear Lucy,

I don’t know why you thought it necessary to tell me about this Brian. A) He’s probably a tool, and B) he’d STILL be too good for you.

Here’s a picture of someone more suitable.

Best,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2003

Dear Lucy,

That’s Danny Devito, playing the Penguin. Did you wait a whole year to ask me that? Loser.

Also how have you never watched Batman Returns? Double loser.

Here it is, along with the first movie.

Salut,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2004

Dear Lucy,

I’m glad you liked the movies, but I’m not giving you comics. A) They’re expensive. B) People already think you’re a freak.

Here’s some makeup. Lord knows you need it.

Yours,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2005

Dear Lucy,

I noticed you didn’t send me a letter this year. To show I’m above your mind games, here’s a signed copy of Watchmen.

Best,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2006

Dear Lucy,

I can’t believe you actually thought that was Frank Miller’s signature.

Also, just because boys are interested in you right now doesn’t mean jack. It’s this thing called YELLOW FEVER.

Later gator,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2007

Dear Lucy,

I don’t care that you’re going by your Chinese name now. You probably think you’re the shit and oh so enlightened, but that’s how all idiot freshmen feel. Here’s a condom.

Sincerely,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2008

Lucy,

What in any of our correspondences would make you think that I, of all people, would want to hear any of that? I told you not to hang around douchebags and I guess you should have listened.

Here’s a therapist’s card. Jesus Christ.

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2009

Dear Liew See,

No, I had nothing to do with Jackson’s unfortunate accident. There’s this thing called COINCIDENCE. Here’s a signed copy of The Dark Knight Returns.

Best,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2010

Dear Lucy,

Calling you by your Chinese name was a clerical mistake, as was sending you a copy of The Dark Knight Returns that was actually signed by Frank Miller. Also, what loser would turn down $2,500 for it?

Here’s a potted cactus, I guess.

Bemusedly,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2011

Dear Liew See,

Since you’re going to Law School, here’s Frug’s Women and the Law.

Apathetically,

Santa

 

Dec 25, 2012

Dear Liew See,

Not sure what someone as seemingly put-together as Jericho sees in someone like you, but congratulations I guess. Knowing your luck, he’s probably a serial killer. I won’t be able to attend the wedding, so enclosed is a travel voucher.

Best of luck,

(especially to Jericho, poor sap)

Santa

 

Dec 25, 2013

Dear Liew See,

I’m glad you liked Machu Pichu. You would ride a pony.

Also, the Fairy says I owe you a shit ton in compound fairy interest for taking your two quarters way back when, so here’s a wish.

Best,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2014

Dear Liew See,

Here’s me being surprised you used your wish on a baby.

Just so you know, I’m only accepting this godfather thing because she was born on Christmas, which makes it practically contractual.

Santa

p.s. I spilled some water on this letter.

 

Dec. 25, 2015

Dear Baby Kris,

Here’s a pony.

Don’t tell your mother.

Love,

your godfather,

Santa

Nicola Koh is a Malaysian Eurasian 16 years in the American Midwest, an atheist who lost their faith while completing their Masters of Theology, and a minor god of Tetris. They received their MFA from Hamline University and were a 2018 VONA/Voices and 2019/20 Loft Mentors Series fellow. Their fiction has appeared in places like Crab Orchard Review, The Margins, The Brown Orient, Southwest Review, and The Account. Amongst other things, they enjoy taking too many pictures of their animal frenemies and crafting puns. See more at nicolakoh.com.

My uncle’s execution is set for two weeks from now, which bothers my mother, not because it’s too soon or that he doesn’t deserve it, but because it’s happening on a Sunday. How could they do it then, she asks as she reads the letter aloud. Is nothing sacred anymore? A part of me is relieved, not that I’d say it—that these years of waiting will finally come to an end. His messy notes from jail, telling us he’s doing fine. Every letter signed with No complaints. My uncle, who once complained about everything, except for what mattered—the rising price of Menthols, the inconvenience of work. How few hairs he had left on his head. Always focused on himself, as if, when he looked out at the vast expanse of the world around him, all he saw was his own unshaven face.

A thing like that’ll get you killed, we warned.

But God forbid he’d ever listen.

My mother believes in justice, even if that means her own brother must go. We all have to make sacrifices—like families at war, who ration their food. Except for us, the war’s amongst ourselves. Either you work to save the planet, or you’re complicit in its demise.

By now, there’s no room for anything in-between.

I help my mother pack, since the execution’s scheduled for a glacier in Antarctica. Most of them are held there. It’s easy to ignore and no one takes blame for what happens–even knowing what we know now. The executed simply stand along the edge and wait for the glacier to melt. We board the boat with my uncle, his hands tied behind him, his hair neatly combed but thin. He is older than I remembered. More tired and bothered than his letters would suggest. I wonder if it matters to him that I’m here. If he is comforted by our presence or would prefer that no one saw. It takes four days to reach our destination. We eat with him and discuss whatever we like. I learn about his latest obsessions: his love of animals with giant teeth and TV shows from his parents’ time. I remind myself he’s part of the problem. But his eyes brighten when he speaks, two shining moons as the sun sets in the sea. I feel their warmth, his glow, when he smiles. With a spoon, my mother feeds him his favorite foods from childhood: chicken nuggets and mac and cheese and fruit loops in the morning. He is generous with his meals, insisting that I eat some. When he asks us where we’re going, we say, we are taking you to a glacier. Where you will watch the horizon for as long as you can before the ice gives way and the ocean swallows you whole. He laughs at this a little. He wonders if the earth has a belly and if it’s bigger than his own. I smile at this, until I don’t.

We try to prepare him for what’s to come. My mother bows her head and prays, as he peeks at her with one eye open. He loves when my mother says “mercy.” The sound of it on his tongue, as he echoes her prayer: Mercy for his sins. Mercy for what he must not understand. His hands are tied so instead of reaching for my mother, he leans his head on her shoulder, then mine. I press my ear to his, try to hear inside his mind. To know how a man at the end might feel. But it is quiet inside and empty, uncaring, unlike his eyes. I want him to know that I see him—not only now, but as the man I remember, chasing me through the backyard. When he paused to pick a flower and blew on the seeds so they scattered. He was a child in an aging world.

Complacency, we knew, was the enemy.

On the Sunday we were promised, my uncle steps onto the glacier, smiling as he’s told to move closer to the edge. We stand where the ice is solid, knowing it will melt soon enough—that where we are now will be forty feet of nothingness before the frosty, swirling sea. I imagine myself suspended, witness to this place but not a part of it. Two others move beside him, as they study the faint pink glow on the horizon. I wonder if they’re guilty of the same shared crime—of doing too little, too late, to help. To help what? This, I guess, as we stand there. My uncle chants, Mercy, again and again and again. My mother watches him, unmoved. The man who steered the ship clears his throat: It didn’t have to be this way, he says. I watch as my uncle aligns himself, the back of his hair tousled by the wind. He holds his shoulders straight, as if waiting for a command, but I want him to turn, to run, to get back on the boat and drive. To say to hell with it all, you can take my place in the sea.

But he waits as the captain follows his eyes to the skyline. It is dim, no longer pink, and only then, I promise myself not to look away.

Matt Barrett holds an MFA in Fiction from UNC-Greensboro, and his stories have appeared or are forthcoming in The Threepenny Review, The Sun Magazine, West Branch, TriQuarterly, The Cincinnati Review’s miCRo Series, Best Microfiction, and Best Small Fictions, among others. He teaches creative writing at Gettysburg College and is working on a novel.

The new telescope was decades in the making. It made the Hubble look obsolete, the Webb amateur. Scientists promised a disinterested public that this will let us view the beginnings of the universe. We can unlock the Big Bang! What was once solid became a smokescreen, through which a frightening number of stars could be seen. Black holes became purple. Each galaxy was registered in crispy high-def. With every new image sent back to earth, scientists came alive. Group chats exploded, phones pinged, forums unfurled with wonder. What would they be witness to today?

No one expected the eyeball. In the shot, it was the size of the moon as seen from earth, so bright it erased the stars nearby, as though it wore a thick skirt of eyelashes. Its iris wasn’t blue, or green, or brown; it was all of those colors, and others. Rust, aubergine, vermillion, onyx. The image of the eye had that uncanny quality to it, where if left on a desk or tacked to the wall, it would follow anyone around the room. Tracking in silence.

The eye was an immediate sensation. It was proof of alien life. Or of a higher power. Or evidence that Earth was all part of a simulation run by some uber-genius AI. Hashtags #fermisparadox, #getrightwithgod, and #bunkerbabes went viral. Membership to stargazing clubs skyrocketed. Money flowed like honey into the cups and coffers of space agencies around the world.

The team of scientists behind the telescope were whisked away to a private compound in Montana, which had a direct line to the president. They received calls demanding we need to see more. We have to beat the Russians to this. We need a movie! We need to send a crew! They did their best to soften expectations. They promised a series of still photographs, taken in quick succession. Milliseconds. From that, they could create a slightly jerky reel of the eye in real time.

The first film showed the eyeball blinking. This was huge; no one knew it had lids. It pulled shut like a spiral galaxy, black velvet corkscrewing until it covered the entirety of the white orb. It reopened, in reverse, like a flower unfurling in the sunlight. All of the scientists wept upon first viewing, clutching each other by the shoulders, gripping each other in the sleeve of a hug. Their faces stretched into large smiles, their eyes blinking slowly in unconscious imitation. The eight-second series gripped the world  for days.

The second film caused less of a public uproar, though the scientists were no less moved. The iris sidled to the left, with intention. Then moved back to the center, with its milky stare. And finally, before the photos cut off, it started to slide to the right. This looks like communication, the president inferred. But what is it trying to say? The scientists didn’t know. They needed more time, they needed more funding. Black money poured into their accounts from sources unknown.

What could one say about the art of the gaze? Eye contact was on the decline. Hours were spent looking at phones and computers, rather than another’s face. The scientists had to practice on each other, with glances that stretched like taffy into prolonged stares. Often, their faces moved closer by small increments. Their breaths broke the silence like soft moths bumping against a window. Then they mouth-touched, kissing, connecting. Twice, a pair of scientists ended up naked and coupling on the floor, their sweaty flesh suctioned to the white marble. One encounter, between a theoretical physicist and a cosmologist, ended in a pregnancy, the infant later named Iris.

The president didn’t know about the kissing and fucking, the intimate conversations that spilled like web-silk from the mouths of the scientists awoken to each other. For weeks, the entire compound forgot about the cosmic eye. They all took to staring at themselves in mirrors, in puddles. They walked around like clumsy puppies, paw-footed and giddy. It was only when the red phone rang that they re-emerged, though no one took the phone off the receiver. They knew what the president would ask.

The third film was easy to interpret. It was terror. The eyeball was rolling around in its space socket, if one could call it that. Frantic, unhinged. It never paused, not once. The scientists watched it first in silence, and then again in grief. They cradled each other and synced up their anxious breaths. The cosmologist put a palm to her belly. Beneath the lid of skin, her baby spun and kicked. You have to see this, Mx. President, the scientists said. But no one else should.

Once the film left their hands, however, they had no control. It did leak, of course. The reaction was not of horror or concern, but of malice, delivered via memes and self-described body language experts and  talking head segments. Where the scientists saw fear and discomfort, the public saw prey. They saw an undefended target. No one thought of the satellites pinging their signals around the sky, lobbing joke after mean-spirited joke through space dust and comets.

The last film the scientists took showed a rusty tear forming at the bottom of the eyeball. It dripped down onto the Pillars of Existence, made see-through by the telescope, and hardened like a clay-colored stalagmite. When they tried to take more shots, the eyeball was no longer visible. It was somewhere inside the hardened carapace of brown debris and with it, it took many thousands of stars, only briefly witnessed, and never again able to be studied. The line of communication broken, the president quickly lost interest and pulled funding.

The scientists were evicted from the compound, left blinking in the cold Montana wilderness, shielding their faces from the bright snow. The cosmologist and the theoretical physicist pleaded with the neurobiologist, the astro-chemist, the developmental psychologist to stay together, but the artifice of their intimacy—the close quarters, the thrill of discovery, the threat of extinction or mass salvation—was gone, and with it, their interest in each other. They looked away, looked to their phones for guidance, called taxis or family to take them home, scattering like birdseed until only the theoretical physicist and the cosmologist remained together. They absconded  under the harsh light of the unblinking sun, taking flight from anything with a lens. They wore scarves around their faces, sunglasses over their eyes. They spray-painted over any surveillance camera they came across. They promised to only look at each other and—when their baby arrived under the black scrim of a new moon—they promised to look at her, too.

Iris and her parents ended up in the mountains of Peru, living in the thin air where they could be as close to the sky as they could get. For years, whenever there was a full moon, they would stand outside, holding hands and gazing upwards, chins tilted so hard it hurt to swallow. Even though Iris didn’t know what they were waiting for, she held very still. She rarely even blinked. She didn’t want to miss it, the thing her parents lived for, whatever it was. But it slept, and never came back.

Quinn Rennerfeldt (she/they) is a queer parent, partner, and poetry/prose writer earning their MFA at SFSU. Her work can be found in Cleaver, SAND, elsewhere, Salamander, Fractured Lit, Flash Frog, and The Pinch. Their chapbook, demigoddess semilustrous, is forthcoming from dancing girl press. She is also a reader for Split Lip Magazine.

Apartment in Downtown Wilmington, N.C.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Posted by Kelly M.

May 2024

Perfect place to go with best friend after a parent has died. Easy off-street parking for the car her mom left her that still smells like her mom did at the end – orange blossom perfume to cover up the smoke from the joints friend’s mom and friend would drive around with (for the pain). Friend would buy the weed, roll the joints in that delicate, careful way she has with things, and the two of them would laugh about their covert mother-daughter drug deals. Bathroom is modern and well-appointed. Plenty of hot water and pressure for the hours friend spends scalding her body and the hair she just cut boy-short (looks so different, but amazing on her). Two blocks away from coffee shop that makes strong cappuccinos, which are necessary after drive and also since pretty sure caffeine is the only thing keeping friend going, because she moves like she’s wearing one of those lead aprons for X-Rays. Coffee shop also has assortment of fresh baked goods friend has a bite or two of before pushing away, shedding crumbs on the breakfast table. Breakfast table is nice, maybe stone? Easy to clean. Couch is small, but perfect for sitting hip-to-hip with friend and binging Buffy. TV is good, picture with plenty of clarity to see Sarah Michelle Gellar’s flawless face (always want to ask friend, who is straight, if she’s not at least just a little attracted to SMG? But not the right time) and that commercial for dog food we can’t watch, because friend’s mother was a veterinarian. Friend and friend’s mom used to hate-watch The Dog Whisperer together, friend’s mom shouting back at Cesar Milan about all the ways he was screwing up while friend laughed. Appreciate boxes of tissues placed strategically around apartment. Good for grabbing and bringing when unsure what to do for friend when sobs jerk out of her. Mattresses are soft and comfortable – lack of sleep not at all because of bed, but due to friend’s snoring (likely a result of congestion from crying). WiFi is fast when Googling “Can someone die of grief/being very very sad?” and getting concerning articles about studies on elephants. Plastic cups in kitchen are very big, just right for mixing ginger ale and whiskeys the next morning, because friend says she wants to drink – and there’s room for heavy pours after intense first day and intense night of elephant mourning research and those times got up to put a finger beneath friend’s nose just to be sure, to feel the gentle puff of life, then fearing would wake/disturb her. Cute fish pattern on cups, their big lips make friend laugh a little and pucker her lips too and for a moment she seems like she could become maybe not entirely what she was before, but something near. Cups are also sturdy so do not break when friend suddenly throws one down and screams, “This isn’t fucking fair,” and “I don’t want to be here!” Beach is only about a fifteen-minute drive. Nice beach, good for coaxing friend out of the ball she’s made of herself in the passenger seat and down to the water’s edge, where the waves drift around the ankles neither of us bothered shaving, swishing at the fine growth of hair, as our feet slowly sink into the sand. I let myself take my friend’s hand for the first time ever and I try to charge mine with something like healing, as I squint up into the sky that is blue blue blue forever and with my heart say to it, Please, help me know what I should do.

Host, Ryan, is very communicative, and allowed us to stay for an extra three days. Would highly recommend.

Wendy Elizabeth Wallace (she/they) is a queer disabled writer. She grew up in Buffalo, New York, and has landed in Connecticut by way of Pennsylvania, Berlin, Heidelberg, and Indiana. They are the editor-in-chief of Peatsmoke Journal and the co-manager of social media and marketing for Split Lip Magazine. Their work has appeared  in The Rumpus, ZYZZYVA, Pithead Chapel, SmokeLong Quarterly, Brevity, and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter @WendyEWallace1or at wendywallacewriter.com.