table of contents
Xenogenesis
by dina pfeffer
Falling asleep
by ava rahman
longer than advertised
by dina pfeffer
the desire for flight
by soomin lee
euphemism
by dava sitkoff
love (xoxo)
by soomin lee
abhors a vacuum
by avery selk
night pleasures
by eitan sengupta
vernon, ct, 1970
by amalya labell
thumbtacks
by grace pariser
the executioner
by dava sitkoff
cover art by soomin lee (the tiger and the magpie: a collage)
Xenogenesis
by Dina Pfeffer
And here I am on the stark page
Serif font aglow in blacklight
And here I am as the clock face winks
The minute hand past twelve again
And here I am tracing a finger
From aleph to omega, your chin to your heel
And here I am led by the sound of your voice
To the river at sunrise, we crouch in the reeds
And here we are by the ancient desert dune
Our palms lying open and asking
We draw maps down the lines of each other’s hands
Like facts lost in the front matter
Like expecting mothers, like pirates
Let us dance upon this great expanse of parchment
And smudge the ink with our toes
Falling Asleep
by Ava rahman
The girl woke up to the sound of the window frame slamming against her bedroom wall. Pale light spilled over the bedroom floor, illuminating the foot of her bed, the chest of drawers, and the mirror. She propped herself up on her elbows. Outside, cars drifted lazily in the streets.
People walked close together beside them, their arms and elbows interlocked, their faces washed yellow in the lamp light.
A laugh echoed below her window. The girl stood up from her bed and pressed her body against the ledge. A man stood on the sidewalk with a green glass bottle in his hand. The people in his path crossed to the other side of the street. Their faces were pallid in the leering shadows of the shuttered windows. Their features pulled into each other, eyes to nose to mouth. They lost themselves to obscurity, teetering off the bend in the road.
Laughter clawed out of the man’s throat as he watched them go. He sidled beside a woman in a red dress and tipped a green bottle against his lips. They swayed together in the bright circle of the lamp light. Headlights reflected on the walls opposite them and the woman’s body tilted forward. The shadows of the street, pooling in the gutters, seized her body. Just as the car rushed past them, the man’s arm shot out and gripped her wrist, pulling her back.
The woman exhaled, steadying herself with the man’s arm and fumbling with her purse. Seconds later, a plume of smoke trailed off above her head. Her gaze followed it. When she saw the little girl in the window, she waved, but her smile faltered. The man whispered something to her. Their words had become fuzzy and drawn out. The woman shook her head, and the man threw the green bottle onto the pavement. The glass screamed as it hit the surface, covering the man’s shoes and spilling into the gutters of the street.
The girl tore herself from the window and ran out of her room, stopping and standing still when she reached the end of the hallway, out of breath and shivering in her pajamas. Her parents sat at the table, their faces illuminated in the warm light of the kitchen.
“Darling, why are you up so late?”
Her mother peered down at the girl’s face.
“I can’t sleep.”
“You can’t sleep,” her father crooned. He stood up and reached down, pulling her up so she could see over his shoulder. The kitchen bobbed like water as he walked back to her room. Her mother, sipping her tea cup, became smaller and smaller until she disappeared behind the wall.
“Here we are.”
She felt her father’s voice vibrate against the crook of her elbow. He set her down on the bed and pulled up the sheets so she could wriggle beneath them. In the darkness of the room, her father’s face was thin and flat. He had withered away to one dimension.
“Good night, darling.”
Footsteps shuffled. Light flooded in as the door opened, then blinked out when it whined shut.
She kept her body very still and closed her eyes. The fan’s air currents blew over her face, the tops of her shoulders. Every once in a while, the engine would stutter and hiccup as it droned on.
She opened her eyes. A bluish haze bathed the room. The shadow of the window crept up to the foot of her bed. The chest of drawers bulged out from the wall. The mirror wore panels of light over its chest that rippled as if it were moving.
Her body felt cold. The weight of her legs and arms sunk into the mattress, and when she pushed herself up, swinging her legs so she stood on the ground, she almost fell forward. Outside her window, the streets had emptied out. The man with his green bottle and the woman with her wavering smile had disappeared.
As she made her way down the hall, she could only hear the stickiness of her feet peeling off the floor and the shuddering of her breath. Cool air pressed against her skin through the thin fabric of her pajamas. She wrapped her arms around her body, pressing them into her stomach.
The kitchen stood still. The table where her parents had sat, their hands clasped and their heads leaning towards each other, was empty. The tiles stretched out into the distance until the shadows clamped down on them like a curtain. In the ceiling, the light bulb sockets sucked in the darkness until they became an abyss. Each time she turned her head, she felt as if there was someone standing behind her. The potted plants on the windowsill began to writhe and swell into silhouettes of the street posts. The chairs became slanted as their shadows reached towards her. As she passed the counter, her elbow tipped over a mug. It fell, screeching and stuttering like the man’s laugh. Its handle was decapitated. Glass scattered over the tiles.
She turned away and ran back to her room, slamming the door behind her. Climbing into her bed, she yanked at the sheets and pulled them over herself until they covered her face. She could feel her heartbeat against the mattress. The warmth of her body enveloped her. Her knees curled into her stomach and her chin tucked into her chest.
Over her head, the fan hummed, its blades whirring through the air. The window was still open, its frames shuddering on its hinges, as the darkness emptied out of the streets.
Longer than advertised
by dina pfeffer
Mostly, things take longer than advertised
Love, chemotherapy, waiting for a taxi
If I were in a movie I would sit
In the bodega door for a second, not a month
I wait and a taxi never comes
Sharp clicking boots throw change in my cup
Cosmopolitans have places to be meanwhile
I’m melting through the doorstep
Dripping through my palms
I wait and a taxi never comes
They boarded up the bodega around me
They didn’t touch my seat for fear
Of seeing me. I am a ghost selectively
I’ve lived as long as one
I wait and a taxi never comes
Which car honking is for me
Which brake and bumper whizzing
The crowd is a blanket
How cold I feel when it’s gone
I wait and a taxi never comes
the desire for flight
by soomin lee
It is exactly 8:09 PM. Lying on my bed, I listen to the raindrops tapping on my windowpane, their touches meek and gentle. I imagine them dripping down, reaching the windowsill, and finally submitting to the force of gravity as they dive into the glimmering void of streetlights and bright yellow taxis that churn within the unnatural cadence of the city.
My fingers drumming on the edge of my nightstand, I close my eyes, hoping that the action will silence the drowning roar of thoughts that threaten to drag me down into a sweet, a beckoning spiral of insanity. I think about those raindrops again, their elegance dissolving into unruly streaks, and the thoughts whirl just a bit slower.
Sitting up, I rub the space between my brows, as if that will calm the rushing tides that threaten to flood my shores. Listening to the drizzle on my window, I open my eyes, looking at myself in the mirror on the other side of my small studio apartment. I do not recognize myself.
I shakily stand up, the thin cover that I had wrapped around myself gently sliding into a puddle on the wooden floor. I barely notice. I stare hard at my face, the very face I swore I would erase. It all looks the same, yet so different.
My eyes are as dull and dark as the waning moon. They look sulkily back at me, the glimmer of youth so easily stripped away that it seems almost laughable. My cheeks look ghastly, pale, sallow and sunken in. My hair has shriveled into long, dry stalks, tangled in a dysfunctional nest that even birds would not dare to live in. I shiver in both disgust and admiration.
A shell, I think. I am a shell.
I remember those weekend mornings that Momma designated as her “baking days.” The rustic scent of sourdough bread would fill the air, lifting my spirits until I was able to climb out of even my worst slumps. Looking at myself now, I wonder if Momma’s baking days could have still helped me.
I turn away from the mirror, unable to look at myself any longer. I catch a final glimpse of those raindrops, their momentum slowly fizzling away until I can only see myself in the dark glass of the window.
Something about my reflection draws me closer and closer, and I walk forward until my nose is nearly brushing the cold window. My breath fogs the smooth surface as I exhale, staining it with silky imperfection. I stare into my blank eyes, the dim shadows dragging me deeper into the depths of my roaring thoughts.
A ding rips through my haven of solitude, and I cannot help but flinch as my studio is bathed with artificial light. I look back, and I can see that my cracked phone screen has lit up with a notification. I look at myself in the window again, but the moment of introspection is gone.
I tear myself away from the window and slowly pad to my nightstand where my phone sits. Tapping on the screen, I see that Adam has texted me. It is 8:25PM.
Hey. U up??
I almost laugh at my friend's innocent nonchalance. With it comes the stinging bitterness of his ignorance. I should not blame him, but inside, I resent the cheerful disposition Adam always seems to carry with him.
I lift a finger to reply, but then stop at the sight of my chewed nail. I slowly drop the phone onto my nightstand and examine my raw skin. I must have bitten my nails again without knowing. For some reason, I want to laugh.
The rain has started again. The tap, tap, tapping of the raindrops accentuates the ringing silence in my room. Everything seems so small, so tight, almost choking. I make my way to the window again, inhaling and exhaling and inhaling and exhaling. My breath fogs up the cold glass, and I lift my chewed fingers to rub at it.
Manhattan is beautiful, cast in the rich, dark tones of night. The skyscrapers have been lit up with what seems like millions of windows, their glow as bright and warm as the fireflies I sometimes see in Central Park. The steady, unrelenting stream of cars and yellow taxis rumbles below, and I can make out the frenzy of pedestrians pushing and pulling as they envelop the sidewalks, the constant movements reminding me of my whirling thoughts.
Looking down at the crowds, I contemplate the thought that has been broiling in my mind ever since this evening. I lean in further, standing on my toes, my nose flattening against the pane, the thin barrier that separates my body from the freedom that is flight. I wonder what it must feel to be a bird—flying higher and higher and higher and higher until it can no longer see the glowing lights or the unnatural rush of tourists. Flying until it reaches the cool, calm peace that it is so desperate to claim. For a moment, I feel my lips twitch up in a smile, rusty and painful from years of disuse.
I lean forwards, pushing more and more weight onto the glass, hoping that it will yield to my touch and give me the sweet taste of freedom I so desperately desire. I can almost feel the wind rushing through my hair, brushing against my cheeks, giving them rosiness and life again. I can imagine the gentle tendrils embracing me, sliding through my fingers, as I follow the path that the raindrops have outlined for me. Down, down, down…
Another ding from my phone, and my room is bathed in light again. I open my eyes and see myself in the glass. Instead of the level, calm waters I expected, I instead notice fear has taken over my features. My eyes are bright, alert, and ready. They are ready.
I stare at my eyes for a moment, not realizing that I have settled back onto the balls of my feet. I marvel at them—how long has it been since they were this brilliant and full of life? Days? Weeks? Months? Years?
The thought of time scares me. How much of it has really passed? I feel an involuntary twitch of my lips and immediately purse them together, looking away from the glass. I spot my phone laying on my bed sheets, and I pad over to it, picking it up and tapping.
It is another message from Adam.
Hey, if ur up, want to go grab some gelato? I know a great place just a few blocks away.
I see him typing for a few moments, and then I receive another message.
Ik we havent talked in a hot sec, catching up would be nice!
I feel something warm in my chest. It reminds me of the times when I would sit next to Momma on one of her baking days, watching her make my favorite sourdough bread. The warm, rustic scent always enveloped me in a comforting embrace, tickling my nose with a teasing wisp. The memory is familiar but faint, enough to quiet the thoughts.
My hand shakes. I look at it curiously before I feel a warm drop on my palm.
The tear slides down my skin, defying gravity for just a moment before it submits. It falls down, down, down onto the cold wooden floor. It is followed by another one, and another one, and another one, until I realize that I am on the floor, too.
Through the haze of my new tears, I raise a finger to type a response.
Gelato sounds nice. Thank you.
As I slowly pick myself off the floor and make my way to the bathroom, I stop and take one last look at my window. The rain has stopped again, and droplets litter the smooth, cold surface, sliding down the pane, reaching the edge, and finally falling. Falling to freedom.
One last ding sounds from my phone. Unlocking it, I stare down at Adam’s message, the warm tingling feeling in my chest growing and growing and growing until I feel like the envied bird again, flying high above the skyscrapers, feathers ruffled and heart light as it soars through the night.
I miss u.
It is exactly 8:47 PM.
National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255
Crisis Text Line: Text Hello to 741741
YouthLine: Text teen2teen to 839863, or call 1-877-968-8491
euphemism
by Dava sitkoff
inside the uncanny valley of my memory,
lies your time, made fleeting
by getting better, moving on, recovery.
stability should close the gaps,
yet the quake rages, all to reject fire,
or end vain pleas for hollow sympathy.
the irony of reappearance
should be a morbid inside joke, yet only i understand
how this pulls me towards the seismic chasm.
perhaps only halfway into magma, lava--
but at least, your heedlessness owes me
volcanic euphemism for what we’ve lost.
love (xoxo)
by soomin lee
when i close my eyes
you stand looking in the mirror
fingers brushing against the pane
as if it were one of your contemporary art projects
just the way i like it
xoxo xoxo
you turn and your eyes open wide
fingers leave the tapestry of glass, rest by your sides
rush of tingles, wondrous to feel
just the way i like it
xoxo xoxo
you leap into my arms
fingers curl my hair, you giggle
warming my heart
just the way i like it
xoxo xoxo
you lift your head to look at me
fingers brush against my lips
my heart does cartwheels
(or are they somersaults)
around and around and around and around and around
just the way i like it
xoxo xoxo
opening my eyes
to see my reflection in the mirror
fingerprints staining smooth glass
to perfect with imperfection
memories painted on the pane
and my heart beats again
just the way i liked it
xoxo xoxo
Abhors a Vacuum
by avery selk
Looking up into the sky, Jarred reached a hand out towards the stars. The boy lay on his side, back to the house. His cheek was pressed against the grass, undoubtedly leaving a stain. Jarred just laid there miserably, too tired to care. None of tonight’s events were foreign to him. His father cleaned the house every Friday, leaving his eight sons to roam the yard. Jarred would always try to get as close to the river as possible without leaving the family property. He liked to let the sound of the current drown out any rumblings from the house. Still, it wasn’t enough.
During the worst nights, Jarred would curl up into a ball—gaze fixed upon the sky—and pretend he was a star. Warmer than any other in the vast expanse above him. But before he could completely drift off, a breeze would always rush by, suddenly awakening him to the cold air. Cold existed everywhere, even in a place as beautiful as the sky. At least up there, he thought to himself, there could be quiet. Maybe then he could rest. He’d give up breath for the comfort of his ears. He’d give it all up for some rest. Just a bit.
If only Jarred were a star. Then he too could be warm, no matter the temperature around him. The idea of it made him smile.
night pleasures
by eitan sengupta
Hayakawa Makoto was laughing at some long forgotten joke as he stumbled—or, more accurately, was pushed out of the bar's door by its two burly bouncers. Eyes squeezed shut, his body was wracked with unceasing waves of good humor, his arms clutched tightly around his stomach. The bouncers exchanged a look. This was nothing they hadn’t seen before. Some traveling merchant, new in town, heads out at night to see what the streets have to offer. He hits up a bar or two, and the next thing you know he’s incapable of seeing straight. They had a solution for people like this. It wasn’t very ceremonious, or, really, even kind, but it got the lush out of their hair and that was all they really cared about. Nobody paid them enough to care more. “Go home, old man,” one of them called as he planted a hand on Hayakawa’s shoulder, knocking him to the cobblestones, “You’re drunk.” With that, they slammed the door, leaving the merchant rolling around in front of it as he continued to laugh.
Passersby only cast token glances at him, as his situation wasn’t an uncommon one around here. Nobody bothered to help him up or make sure he was all right. He wasn’t their problem. As he lay there, the only contact anybody made with him was when a farmhand looking for a drink after a long day of work roughly kicked him out of the way of the door in order to get past. Hayakawa’s hysterics continued through it all.
Eventually, as all things do, his fit came to an end and he was simply lying face-up on the stones, staring at the night sky. The sounds of camaraderie, though muffled, still came through the walls of the bar, and he could also hear the footsteps of people passing by him on the road. After lying there for a few minutes he decided that the bouncers had been right and that it was time for him to go home. He’d enjoyed his night out, but he still had a day full of work tomorrow. It wouldn’t do to get back to the inn at a time that wouldn’t allow him a healthy sleep. With some effort, he grunted and pushed himself to his feet, then immediately sat down again as he was overcome with a spell of dizziness and nausea. The street whirled around him as though he were caught in a tornado, and he blinked a few times to clear his head. Then, more slowly and carefully this time, he stood up, using the wall of the bar as a crutch. He still felt somewhat queasy, and his head felt like it was under a blacksmith’s hammer, but he could probably make it back all right. With a deep breath to steady himself, he pushed off of the wall and started down the street.
It didn’t take him very long to realize that he was going in the wrong direction, but by then he was completely lost. The buildings had shifted from sensible, unobtrusive constructions of smooth wood to ramshackle huts thrown together from whatever their builders could get their hands on. The street below his sandals, which had been a well-kept cobblestone, was now soft, moist dirt. And, it was not simply the city that had changed—the people were different as well. Where common travelers or simply-dressed residents had once walked alongside him, allowing his ornately-patterned kimono to not stand out so much, now skulked shady characters who eyed him with far too much curiosity, taking special note of the way he stumbled, clearly still inebriated.
He had evidently wandered into a sector of town that he should not have been in, but, his head still being clouded with liquor, he continued to walk haltingly forward, convinced that somehow he would still wind up, one way or another, back at the inn. Hayakawa barely gave the thugs surrounding him a second glance, even as a gang of them swapped looks with each other and fell into step a few meters behind. Their hands slipped nonchalantly into their pockets, fingering whatever instruments of criminality lay within, as the disoriented merchant puttered along obliviously before them. They knew this part of town like the backs of their hands, and so narrow smirks spread across their faces as Hayakawa took a turn into a district they knew contained numerous twisting alleyways, easy for a newcomer to become lost in. Their opportunity would come soon. They needed only to wait.
Without warning, Hayakawa clamped a hand to his mouth and lurched into a nearby alley. The thugs’ leader held up a hand and they all stopped short, and the sound of the merchant emptying his stomach onto the ground drifted over to them. The lead thug waited another moment in silence, then indicated for them to move in. Hands were drawn from pockets, revealing wickedly sharp steel knives that gleamed in the white moonlight.
Hayakawa was on his knees, head bent over a puddle of what had just been inside of him. He panted and coughed, wiping his mouth. The vomiting had served to sober him up a little, but the buildings still spun, and he still had no idea where he was. He was about to stand up and continue on his way when he heard footsteps coming into the alley behind him. His eyes widened and he froze, suddenly unable to move. He heard the scrape of metal on wood as one of the thugs dragged his knife along the wall of a neighboring building, and heard the low chuckles of the predators sizing up their prey. They formed a half-circle behind him, leveling their knives at him. It was silent for a moment, then their leader, a tall, thin young man, spoke.
“Where you from, eh? Don’t get a lot of folks dressed like that around here. Bet you got a lotta money in that kimono...” The man’s cronies laughed, a dull, ominous sound. Hayakawa didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. He just stayed there, shivering in the night air.
The thugs’ leader didn’t like his silence. “Huh? Answer me, you idiot.” He gave the merchant a light kick, resulting in a doglike yelp. “So you can talk. You gonna answer my questions, then? Hm?” Hayakawa remained silent, his mouth frozen open in a shivering rictus of fear. This did not please the thug. He bent down in front of the shaking merchant and brandished his knife. “You see this? This can cut through your flabby flesh like it’s nothing. And it’s gonna be doing just that if you don’t pipe up.” Slowly, Hayakawa’s eyes met the thug’s, who smiled. “Actually, it’s gonna be doing that no matter what. You'll just delay it a little if you talk. But I can tell you don’t care about that.” The thug straightened up and tossed his knife in the air. It rotated once before dropping back into his outstretched palm. “So in that case…” The other thugs grinned and started moving forward.
Hayakawa did care. In fact, he cared quite a bit. But his fear had completely paralyzed him, and he was unable to move a muscle. All he could do was wait, open-eyed, as the knives would descend on his body and he would die, die on top of his own vomit. How disgusting.
His breathing quickened, and he managed to squeeze his eyes shut. It was over. He shouldn’t have drunk so much, he shouldn’t have gone out so late, there were so many things he shouldn't have done, but he had done them, and now here he was at the end of his life. It was his own fault. He braced himself, as best as he could.
Suddenly, there came a shout, and the thugs all seemed to move away from him in a flurry of footsteps. He heard some quick, muttered speech, and then a loud shout from one of the thugs. “Hey! Who the hell are—”
There was the scream of a sword being drawn, then the scream of someone being cut with it. Even before Hayakawa heard the body crumple to the ground, there came another scream, then another, and another, and soon all he could hear was a cacophony of screams, fleeing footsteps quickly interrupted, and bodies hitting the earth. Then, just as abruptly as the noise had begun, there was silence.
Hayakawa didn’t dare breathe, didn’t dare open his eyes as he heard footsteps come out in front of him and then stop. There was more silence, a longer silence that seemed to stretch to eternity. And finally, when Hayakawa thought that perhaps he had died, a voice came to his ears. A woman’s voice, speaking with a high-class yet unmistakably rural accent.
“You can look up now, if you want.”
Perhaps against his better judgement, Hayakawa slowly opened his eyes and tilted his head up to look at the speaker. She was difficult to see in the darkness, especially because she was dressed in all black, but he could make out a pale face with two bright blue eyes that seemed to glow, illuminating the night. Her hair, a pale grey-streaked black, tied back in a long tail behind her, swayed in the wind. In her right hand she held a blood-streaked katana. As Hayakawa watched, she flicked it to her side, shaking off the blood in a clearly practiced motion, then returned the sword to a nondescript sheath at her side.
“New in the city?” she asked, with a completely conversational tone. Hayakawa almost couldn’t believe it. The shock seemed to have shaken off his fear, so he was able to respond.
“Who… who are you?” He coughed as he said it. The woman didn’t show much of a reaction. A ronin? She was certainly dressed like one. Hayakawa had heard tales of ronin enacting vigilante justice in seedy areas. Perhaps she was one of them.
“You didn’t answer my question. Anyway, I’m not really anybody, not nowadays. I just get around, you know?” Hayakawa didn’t know. “Hm, well you clearly don’t belong here. Got drunk, ended up somewhere you shouldn't have ended up, and ran into the wrong types of people. Not good.” She tsked a little, shaking her head. “That’s a lesson for you, be careful where you get drunk.”
“I… uh…” The merchant had very little clue of how to make sense of this situation. All he understood was the overwhelming sense of relief filling his body. He’d survived, thanks to this strange vigilante woman. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I’m very lucky you were here to deal with those ruffians. Thank you.” The woman cocked her head. Hayakawa kept speaking. “I can reward you, give you anything your heart desires. I’m very rich. I can offer you money, power, men,” she gave a short chuckle at that, “land, alcohol, whatever you would like! You cannot comprehend how thankful I am.”
The woman looked up, tapping her chin pensively. “Anything I want, hm?” Hayakawa nodded, vigorously. “Well, here’s what I want.” She knelt down in front of him. His eyes followed her hand as it picked up a knife that had been lying on the ground, in a pool of its former owner's blood. He watched as she gripped it, testing its weight in her hand. Hayakawa began to feel uneasy. “I want to see your eyes bulge as you realize that you won’t be able to escape. I want to hear your screams as I stab you. I want to feel your panicked breath as you hyperventilate. I want to smell the blood that leaks from your wounds, and taste its metallic tang.” She leaned in until her face was centimeters from his. Certainly she was joking. Ronin were odd folk, were they not? This was simply an elaborate joke. His breath began to quicken, and a grin spread across the woman’s face. She traced the point of the knife along his neck, and a brief cry left his throat.
“Those men, they were fools. Clowns, imbeciles, uncultured swine. I,” she indicated herself with the knife, “am an artist. A connoisseur. A master. And you, my friend, are my canvas.”
He couldn’t help it. He screamed, shrieked, loud and piercing, as the blades crept in.
The next day, the body of the traveling merchant known as Hayakawa Makoto was found, mutilated almost beyond recognition, in an alleyway located in a district known for its high crime rate. It was clear that he had been disgustingly drunk, and that he had taken an unfortunate wrong turn on his way back from the bar, subsequently becoming a victim of something that far too many people nowadays seemed to be encountering. But oddly, he was found surrounded by the corpses of numerous members of a well-known street gang, who each had been felled by a single slash of a katana. It was clear to see that he had not done that. No, it was the work of someone who had trained in the blade for decades. The most likely reasoning anyone could come up with was that Hayakawa had been killed by the gang, who had then encountered a samurai passing through the area. This samurai had dealt out justice, then headed out on his way. It was not an unreasonable prospect.
Within a few days, people had mostly forgotten the murder. It was nothing to be preoccupied about, and the only moral that could be drawn from it was simple, and already a well-known bit of common sense—don’t get drunk in the wrong place. The law enforcement shook their heads, but there was nothing they could do. In fact, they figured they should be happy a samurai was meting out justice against evildoers in the city. It certainly made their jobs easier. So they forgot about it, too. In time, nobody really remembered it, besides one or two paranoid individuals with far too much time on their hands.
Well, them and one other. But she was long gone by now.
Vernon, CT, 1970
by amalya labell
verbatim from interviews
It was a working class town.
When my mom was growing up, it was a mill town.
People lived there because they worked in the mill.
There were no higher education jobs.
People didn't have an acre of land because they were wealthy enough to buy an acre;
they had an acre of land because it was the middle of nowhere.
When I was growing up it was changing.
People started moving away to the city
for work.
I told my parents I wanted to go to college.
They were like,
"Well, why?"
My father's attitude when I told him I wanted to go to the city
and wear suits
and have a 40 hour job
was
"Why are you trying to be something you're not?
Isn't this enough?"
To me he was saying I wasn't good enough.
Like I wasn't worthy of it.
thumbtacks
by grace pariser
I think of that day one year on the Fourth of July
when my brother, accompanied by a firefighter,
paddled a canoe brimming with fireworks
into the center of the lake.
He sat on the yoke as they
soared stories of buildings high above his head.
He loved it.
I want to feel, so terribly, exactly like that.
Fireworks falling as hailstones,
or as thousands of thumbtacks leaving imprints the diameter of quarters
on the sweltering water.
The way baseball fields, bleached the color of the insides of lemons,
feel identical to the rough sides of sponges
when it hasn't rained in months.
I want back those bleeding sunsets stained calamine
I couldn’t wash my hands of.
Maybe what I’m trying to say is,
I want to ride my bike for miles without listening to music,
or drench my face in rosewater and not mind the taste.
the executioner
by dava sitkoff
Eat.
Sleep.
Kill.
It had been like that every day, for an amount of time that the Executioner did not know.
Eat.
Sleep.
Kill.
That was all there was. Day after day.
Eat.
Sleep.
Kill.
The Executioner did not think about it very often. He had no need to question his life. It was as it was and it progressed day by day.
Eat.
Sleep.
Kill.
The Executioner knew very little, but he was able to name and understand a few things. He knew the colors. Grey wall, grey floor. Yellow hair, black hair. He knew what hair was—he knew eyes, and mouths, and legs, and arms, and necks.
He knew that mouths did a lot of screaming. Loud, terrible screaming. The Executioner did not like the screaming. He understood some of what they said, mostly “please” and “no” and “I have a family” and “Karlan scum.”
The Executioner did not know what a Karlan was, but he had come to assume that he was one.
Sometimes he was spit at, sometimes screamed at. Sometimes the people were resigned, heads down and eyes crying. The Executioner also knew a lot about crying.
Eat.
Sleep.
Kill.
The days grew long. The Executioner was unsure if he enjoyed killing. He knew he enjoyed eating and sleeping, but something about killing felt different.
He liked the silence. With people came screaming, and killing stopped the screaming. He decided from that logic that he did enjoy killing.
Eat.
Sleep.
Kill.
The Executioner began to count. He did not know how he knew the numbers, he just assumed that they were. Killing was, eating was, and sleeping was as well. He had no more reason to wonder about counting than he did about sleeping or eating.
Eat.
Sleep.
Kill.
Count.
The Executioner wanted a way to remember how many days he had been counting for. One day, as he ate, the knife created a groove in the plate as he picked up a piece of food too harshly. The Executioner held the knife with him as he walked to the place where he slept.
There was a gray wall at his sleeping area, and the Executioner thought about his counting. There had been 8 days since he started counting, and so he made 8 grooves in the wall with the knife before setting it down on the floor and going to sleep.
Eat.
Sleep.
Kill.
Count.
After 9 more days and 9 more corresponding grooves, the Executioner started to notice patterns. The ones with dark skin never had yellow hair, and the ones with yellow hair never had dark skin. The Executioner thought this was interesting.
Eat.
Sleep.
Kill.
Count.
Notice.
After 5 more days of noticing, there were too many patterns for him to remember. When it was time to sleep that day, the Executioner held the knife for a moment longer than usual. He then began to write. He wrote all the patterns on one side of the wall, and then wrote down everything he noticed about the people he’d killed that day. He did not wonder how he knew how to write. Writing became, like how eat, sleep, kill, count, and notice just were.
Writing took time. More time than he'd ever spent not sleeping when he should have been, and the next day felt hazy and blurry. He was not as precise, and it took him two tries to kill one person with brown hair, light skin, and a large chest.
After counting, he wrote everything he’d noticed about the people he’d killed that day. Writing had become as natural as eat and sleep and kill and count and notice.
Eat.
Sleep.
Kill.
Count.
Notice.
Write.
The Executioner was beginning to notice more patterns. He noticed that the ones with large chests or softer faces were usually the ones who had lighter voices. He did not know what his face looked like, or if he had one. He could look down, though, and knew he did not have a large chest. From this he inferred that he would not have a light voice if he spoke.
He had never spoken.
That was the second noticing he had made about himself. He knew he was a Karlan, and that he had a small chest and therefore a low voice. He then realized that he was a person.
People usually had hair, but he did not. He put his hand up to his head and felt nothing. He looked down at his hands, and saw that he had medium skin. It was not very light, but he had seen skin much darker.
He wondered why he did not have hair. He wondered if he had ever killed another Karlan. He wondered if there was any way to tell. And then he took the knife, and wrote his wonderings.
Eat.
Sleep.
Kill.
Count.
Notice.
Write.
Wonder.
After 57 days in total since he had begun counting, he had counted and noticed and wrote and wondered so much that the wall was full, and there was no more space.
There was another wall, though, directly across from him. He began to write again.
On the 63rd day, he realized that when he ate and when he bathed, it was not the same thing. He understood that he had a shower, a sink, many products, and scissors. He knew how to use most of the products, but he did not know what the scissors were for until the 67th day.
Eat.
Sleep.
Kill.
Count.
Notice.
Write.
Wonder.
Bathe.
On the 67th day, he was killing a person with a small chest, dark skin, dark curly hair, and dark eyes. He swung his axe and the person cracked. This had been a quiet person, no cries for “family” or “help” or “filthy Karlan”.
As he swung, his vision was blocked by wispy tendrils of what looked like hair. It was his hair, connected to his head.
The Executioner had brown, straight hair. This did not surprise him. Usually the ones with medium skin had brown or black hair. But it was not always straight, and so that did surprise him. He somehow knew to cut his hair with the scissors that day during bathing.
On the 74th day, he began to wonder why he did what he did. He knew what would happen if he did not sleep, as it had happened the day he started writing. He knew it was bad, and made everything hazy and blurry.
The Executioner decided to try not eating for one day. It did make everything hazy, but in a different way. It also made him feel pain in his chest, which at one point got so intense that it made him cry out. It was the first time he had ever spoken, and his voice was low like he had wondered. It was a similar cry to the ones people made when it took two swings to be killed.
On the 89th day, the Executioner was cutting his hair when the scissors slipped and fell fast onto his left foot. This was pain again, like when he didn’t eat. He decided that pain was bad.
On the 90th day, he was wondering a lot about the scissors. He noticed that they looked like a smaller axe. He wondered if the people felt pain when they were killed.
For the next three days, he tested out the words. “Do you feel pain when you are killed?” The words sounded foreign to his tongue, but he eventually became comfortable.
On the 95th day, he asked someone with yellow hair, a big chest, and only one eye.
She looked up at him, and then said “Wait, Vano? Flaming Ghal, Vano- it’s been… you’re... aren’t… aren’t executioners supposed to be mute?” She seemed to be having trouble speaking.
“What is a Karlan?”
The person’s one eye moved and looked at his eyes. “What? We’re…” she stopped speaking for a moment. “You’re a Karlan.”
“I know.” he said. “What does it mean to be a Karlan?”
“Well,” said the yellow haired person. “Karlans conquer planets and kill entire races of people.” She sounded like she was in pain.
“What is a planet? What is a conquer? What is a race?” said the Executioner.
“Oh, right.” said the yellow haired person. She did not sound like she was in pain anymore. With her one eye, she looked behind her, and then at him. “Your memory wipe would have been a stage two.”
The Executioner did not know what a memory was, nor a wipe, nor a Vano, nor a Ghal. But he did not ask.
“Listen, Vano. I can get you out of here.”
He did not understand. Where was here? Where was out? It was all so much that his head began to hurt, and he gripped his hair with frustration. All the questions and all the thoughts were too loud. And he knew that killing made loud things become quiet.
The Executioner did not want to kill her, because it would mean she felt pain and pain was bad. Something was different this time, and his hands shook so badly that the axe almost fell out of his hand and onto the ground. But killing was what he did every day, and so he did.
Even though he was the one killing her, it was him who felt a sort of pain. It was different from the pain he felt when he’d gone a day without eating, or when he’d dropped the scissors. It didn’t hurt in the same way that those had, and yet it still felt like pain.
On the 100th day, his wondering was very loud again, and it made him unhappy. He wondered about planets, about Karlans, about the person with one eye, about what a memory was, about killing.
He wanted silence. And he knew that silence came after he killed someone.
This time, it was his own thoughts that were too loud and causing him pain, rather than someone screaming for their family. He had killed the yellow haired person when his thoughts were too loud, but it didn’t help. He had not slept that whole night, and it felt even more blurry than the first time he didn’t sleep.
He wanted silence. And the only way he knew how to get silence was killing. But he was making the noise. Would it be possible, he wondered, to kill himself?
He decided it was worth a try.
So, on the 100th day, he picked up the axe and placed it upon his neck like he did to the people.
He swung.
And, like the others, the Executioner cracked and fell.