Tehran 2010 by Tara Shabazaz

 

Illustration by Zoe Perlis

 

We made that same trip every summer for as long as I could remember, landing in Tehran in the delicate hour just before sunrise, after nearly a whole day of traveling. Back then, a handful of European airlines still dared to fly to Iran from the United States through Amsterdam or Frankfurt. Once, on a long layover, I fell asleep in a tourist-packed square in Amsterdam and woke up with a backache from the granite bench, blinded by the sun, panicked and then furious at my mother, who had shaken me awake. I remember the German airline always had the best toys. They came in velvety cobalt pouches that I loved to rub in between my fingers. Inside there were playing cards and a miniature airplane, and a gold plastic pilot’s badge you could pin to your shirt. My cousin Ali and I would play cards for hours, side by side in the dim light of the cabin until our mothers hissed at us to sleep.

Upon every arrival déjà vu would cloud my senses, made hazier and more surreal by my half-asleep state, making it seem like we had made this journey a thousand times in the same way. Like my whole life had been spent in those unfriendly halls. Officers lined the walls, young, with curly black beards disguising their youth. They were always checking our bags, running them through the scanners over and over, opening them and rummaging through the American riches we had brought for our family—bulk vitamins from Costco, Nike tennis shoes, baby clothes from Gymboree. I would eye the guns in their holsters and be overcome with paralyzing fear, convinced that I had committed a terrible crime without knowing it. I imagined my parents being taken away for questioning, locked in a windowless room, beaten and kicked. It never happened—not to us, anyways.

We’d emerge from passport control in a bleary haze aboard huge escalators, descending at a glacial pace to the arrivals floor. Year after year I would grip the handrail for balance and my mother would slap my hand and tell me it was dirty. So I would sway in place, looking at the just-mopped, gleaming tiles below us, the baggage carousels beginning to stir awake. On the far side of the lobby stood a glass partition behind which families were gathered in clumps, peering up at us, the weak blush of sunrise fighting through the choked-up atmosphere just visible through the windows behind them.

As we made our descent, I would compulsively search the crowd on the other side of the partition, my heart thumping in my chest, until my gaze struck upon the familiar features of a cousin or an aunt, immediately sending a shock through me. I would retreat, jerking my head away and pretending I had not seen them—though I was certain I could feel the hot weight of their gazes on me—until we had collected our bags and wheeled them to the other side of the glass to properly greet them.

Once we passed through the doorway and I heard their voices rise up to greet us, I could no longer keep my eyes fixed on the floor. I had to actually look up at them, into their eyes, my aunts with deep laugh lines and jolly cheeks and their gruff husbands and their children, the cousins I could have grown up with but instead regarded with unease.

There were rounds and rounds of hugging and kissing. Generally, the unspoken standard procedure is two or three air-kisses on the cheek, one on each side of the face, where you don’t even have to make contact so much as just bump cheekbones with the other person. But when you are a child being greeted after a long separation, the rules of ordinary cheek-kissing, and more generally physical boundaries, tend to go out the window. Everyone’s lipstick ends up smeared on your face. The aunts, numerous as they were, especially could not get enough of me. I marveled at their formidable energy, their inexhaustible ability to embrace me ten or twenty times, pinching my cheeks hard, with gusto, running their hands over the thickness of my hair, demanding to braid it. They rattled off an unending fountain of questions while we all did our best to haul the luggage outside. Fifty different ways of asking after our health. I tried to answer. Nothing I said seemed adequate. Responding with something like ‘good’ or ‘fine’ in response to a how-are-you-adjacent question didn’t seem to do anything to stem the flow of these questions. They would simply inquire again and again, more earnestly, eyes wide, as if the asking was supposed to accomplish some other goal and my answers were entirely extraneous to the process.

At this point I would become consumed by uncertainty. It was not so much a matter of linguistic incompetence (I was, after all, the best student in the Saturday Farsi school in our corner of suburban America) so much as what I came to view later in life as a pathology peculiar to my shy, anxious nature. When had everyone learned the words to the script, and why didn’t I know it? I could not think of much to say at all, could only fall back on threadbare phrases: salaam, chetori, khoobam. On the car ride from the airport to the hosting relative’s house, I would lean my head on the window and pretend to fall asleep, relieved that I finally had permission to lapse into silence.

As I grew older my communicative incompetence began to weigh on me more, as I could rely less and less on my youth to excuse my peculiar behavior. I was sure that my aunts were clucking in pity behind my back, that my cousins only spoke to me out of obligation. This only led me to be quieter. But one particular summer, I was still young enough that my self-consciousness was only budding. I was much more preoccupied by an impending change in wardrobe: this year, I was old enough that I would have to start wearing a headscarf out in public.

At nine years old the connection between the clothes that my female relatives in Iran wore outside of the house—long, loose pants, a manteau to the knees, a roosari covering their hair—and my father’s ramblings about the Islamic Republic was shadowy at best. I knew certain facts: that my cousins in Iran hated their Qur’an class in school, that my Aunt Marzieh and her husband had been political prisoners and were now exiled (was that the Shah’s fault or the regime’s? I was never quite sure) and that was why Aunt Marzieh’s children could never visit their vatan but could only get as far as the Persian grocery named Vatan in a local (American) strip mall instead. A year before, in the summer of 2009, the Green Movement had ripped through Iran and sent shocks through our small diaspora too. My father had taken me to the arthouse cinema downtown to see a documentary about it, and there, sitting in a plush red velvet chair, I watched the little boy onscreen cross the street to buy some yogurt and get shot in the head. My father covered my eyes too late.

And yet—this summer, as my mother tied a scarf around my head for the very first time, I felt an unexpected, undeniable thrill. To get to dress as a grown-up woman, to be visibly marked by femininity, was exciting. Although, as I fidgeted with the tight knot she had tied underneath my chin, I still felt uneasy. It had something to do with the suspicion that my father would no longer take me as seriously. Perhaps I already knew that I would lose the ability to come and go between their two worlds the way I could go between the men smoking outside and the women washing the dishes after dinner.

I wore my green paisley roosari proudly for the first few days of the summer, constantly pushing it forward so that no hair was visible, but it soon lost its charm and became a suffocating nuisance. Tehran was famously hot and dry, sitting in a kind of bowl-like topography that trapped pollution and kept it sitting low, crammed on top of the city. Each time I ventured outdoors I returned feeling dizzy and thoroughly desiccated, immediately downing most of the potable water in the household, which spurred another excursion to buy more bottled water from the corner shop. The aunts, who went out only wrapped in even more fabric than I did, clucked in pity. She’s an American child; she can’t withstand this heat. They eventually forbade me from going outdoors. I was embarrassed and miserable, not only because I was causing problems, but also because I had to stay home all day with Fafa.

Aunt Farideh (everyone called her Fafa) was my mother’s oldest sister and the worst aunt of all. She had never married and lived in identical dingy apartments throughout her life, financed by the men in her family, first her father and then her brothers. Fafa was old and perpetually ailing and mostly refused to leave her home. She presided over the parlor in a large leather reclining chair like a tiny, shriveled queen and rasped orders at one of her two nursing aides while vwatching Turkish soap operas from morning until night. Twice a day, her aide lifted her out of her armchair and delivered her birdlike body to an upright wooden dining chair, in which she would smack and chew a few bites of rice, and then return her to her throne in front of the television.

I knew that I was supposed to love Fafa because I was related to her. When we gathered cross-legged on the floor to eat dinner that night, I stared at her skeletal body folded into her chair and her sour, leathery face, and I tried hard to love her.

Fafa chewed her rice and watched the television, oblivious to the intent behind my gaze. I watched the motion of her jaw as if in a trance. Her gnashing seemed to grow louder and louder the more I paid attention to it, until I had to put my spoon down and cover my ears. Of course I couldn’t get away with that for long. Someone murmured something to my mother, who in turn elbowed me roughly.

Resigned, I dropped my hands and picked my spoon up again. I couldn’t love Fafa. I couldn’t muster up any affection towards her at all. I felt badly for the rest of the meal, but only in a vague sort of way. I was mostly ashamed that my mother had an emotionally defective child who was not devoted to Fafa as she was and I was scared that someone would find out.

For the next few days, I avoided everyone by curling into whatever corner of the apartment I could hide in and plowing my way through my library copy of Gone With the Wind, which I was reading with great attention because my mother had told me I was too young for it. I was careful to have my hand covering the title when she was around. But she found the novel one day anyways while going through my suitcase, gave me a sound scolding, placed it on the highest shelf of a cupboard, and locked it.

The next day my mother and one of my cousins decided to walk to the convenience store on the corner together. I argued my way into accompanying them. For a few moments it was pleasant—I breathed in the familiar scents of gasoline and cigarette smoke as we walked along the side of the road, practiced reading street signs, tried in vain to pet the stray cats that meowed for food at screen doors before my mother dragged me away, shrieking about filth and diseases. At a busy intersection I hesitated while my cousin dashed ahead of us and crossed the street, in front of a huddle of bored-looking soldiers with their hands resting on their holsters, following her movements with their eyes.

By the time we made it to the shop, I was red-faced and complaining of lightheadedness, and more of my hair had escaped my headscarf than was hidden underneath it. My mother, exasperated, bought me a juice-box of peach nectar, roughly re-tied my roosari snugly around my head, and instructed me to go to the restroom in the neighboring office building and splash some water on my face while she finished the shopping.

Inside it was cool and deserted. My shoes squeaked on the tiles. I stumbled into the bathroom, head woozy from the heat, my heart beating hard in my throat. For a moment it was completely dark inside and I fumbled blindly along the wall for what seemed like long minutes, searching for a light switch, until they automatically blinked on. I peeked inside one of the stalls, hoping that there was a ‘foreign’ toilet (i.e. a Western-style toilet and not a hole in the ground) that I could sit on—there was. I carefully balanced my juice-box on the edge of the sink, then entered the stall and locked the door behind me. I sat down on the toilet lid with a huff, looked down, and was surprised to find that my legs were stained with fat drops of scarlet. As I stared, they seemed to multiply.

A few seconds later, my senses caught up and I felt it, that sinister metallic trickle from my nasal passage down to the back of my throat where it didn’t belong, and then I realized that the heat radiating from my face had manifested in a fat gush of blood pouring its way down my body from my nostrils. It flooded down my chin and over my closed lips, worming its way all over my teeth and into my mouth when I opened it in surprise, then onto my legs, staining my T-shirt with the monkey on it, dripping on the tiles beneath my feet.

I imagined leaving the bathroom covered in blood, how my cousin would wrinkle her nose in pity, letting everyone know that I had made a mess. Panic rose in my throat. I tried to breathe through my clenched teeth, to tip my head back and raise my left hand—was it the left or the right?—as I had once been taught to staunch the flow, but all at once the blood redirected down my throat and I choked, and anyways it was too much, too fast, it was everywhere. Still trying to keep my head tipped upwards, I felt blindly for the toilet paper roll next to me and tore off a measly thin square—the last piece.

Blood was dripping faster from my chin. By instinct, I opened my mouth again and sound burst forth—not speech but a ragged sob, in the primal language of infancy, something I thought I had outgrown. I gasped for air and tried to conjure up words, but for a few terrible moments, there were none. Like dipping a sieve into water searching for the tiniest bits of silt—I could not retrieve any bits of language. The pathetic piece of toilet paper was already soaked through, and red was running further down my wrists. Then all at once, miraculously, a bit of speech turned up and wound its way out of me—and I screamed, triumphantly, Maman!

I was marched home with a wad of rough paper towels up my nose, drawing looks (or so I imagined) from passersby on the street. And I was relegated once again to sitting at home with Fafa. I spent a long time in the shower, crying inconsolably, no doubt driving up my uncles’ water bill by dumping bucket after bucket of water on myself.

An hour later I finally emerged from the bathroom, teary-eyed, the ends of my hair dripping onto the carpet beneath my bare feet. I found the living room empty besides Fafa in her usual position, nestled in her reclining chair in front of the television. I paused in the doorway for a moment. We both watched the screen attentively, listening to the melodious stream of rounded, fronted vowels emerging from the lovely lipsticked mouths of the actresses.

Suddenly Fafa turned her gaze on me. I stared back. Her eyes, usually cloudy, were lucid and sharp and shone out from her dried-apricot face, searching mine.

I decided to retreat, and tentatively stepped backwards, back into the hallway.

“Come here, dear,” she snapped. She thrust out a spotted, gristly limb from the nest of blankets covering her body and outstretched a hand, so gnarled by age that it seemed more like a claw. I swallowed, dutifully approached the tiny queen, and laid my hand gingerly in hers.

“Setareh joon, Setareh joon,” she murmured to herself, stroking my hand. “What a pretty young lady you’ve become.”

For the rest of my life this habit of calling little girls ladies would irk me. It didn’t make sense, first of all, to call a child a lady from the moment she is born. What was the purpose of blurring that distinction right away? And it was obvious to me that I was still unmolded, roughly shaped, nowhere near what one could call a lady. In fact, I would probably never become a lady because, as everyone could see, I was born in the wrong place and was growing up wrong and would no doubt stay this way. I could barely keep a headscarf on my head for twenty minutes. The air in Tehran made me sick. The graceful linguistic rites of the women in my family, one thousand elaborate and eloquent ways to say thank you demurely and heap goodwill on your host and guests alike, were an indecipherable mystery to me.

I shivered and stood mutely, frightened of her gaze, looking away towards the television instead. The queen onscreen was engaged in tense conversation with her lady-in-waiting, and her lovely spill of dark hair kept falling in front of her shoulders and obscuring her face. I bowed my head a little so that my hair would do the same. “Thank you,” I finally said quietly. Silence fell. There was something more to say, something better, but what was it? I didn’t know.

It was at this moment that Fafa decided to inflict upon me something uniquely terrible, another unhappy experience of childhood: Out came her other hand from underneath the blankets, index and middle finger outstretched and curved into two fleshy sickles, and she firmly grasped a bundle of flesh on my cheek in between her fingers. She squeezed, hard.

She was still cooing some nothing-words at me that I couldn’t quite make out. My eyes were watering. I tried to politely twist out of her grip, but her fingers were stiff and strong—she had hooked me like a fish. I stood there, helpless, bent oddly over her chair as she pinched and twisted my cheek, feeling my heartbeat once again thudding in my ears and that odd tightness caving my chest inwards, too bashful to rip myself out of her grasp with any real force.

A few agonizing minutes—or maybe only seconds, I don’t know—passed, until something red dripped onto Fafa’s quilt, leaving a lurid stain against the faded floral pattern covering her lap. At first she didn’t notice. More drops fell, with an urgency in their splatter. An ugly metallic taste pricked the back of my throat. Fafa’s grasp on me slackened, finally, and she shoved me away from her with a shout of alarm. I leaped backwards, victoriously, hand to my stinging cheek, and allowed myself a small grin, made gruesome by the blood streaming down my chin, and dashed away into the safety of the bedroom without a word. I locked the door behind me.

 

Tara Shabazaz (she/they) graduated in 2024 from Barnard College studying Linguistics.

Everyone Wanted to Date Her in the 80s, This is Her Today by Bryan Ge

 

Illustration by Nicole Hur

 

The article is not as interesting as the title. Sloane from Ferris Bueller's Day Off is now happily married to Kermit the Frog's son, though it's curious to learn she was previously married to James Bond's. Did everyone want to date my mother in the 80s? Who even remembers that far? Mia Sara looks the same until you see a side-by-side comparison with a still from the pool scene, the one where she gets pushed in, yelping. Did you know that wasn’t in the script? Matthew Broderick improvised it and her surprise was so unguarded, so genuine that they kept it in the movie. I’d like to put my mom at my age in the same room as my mom at 62. I hope they'd get along.

There's this old photograph of her that really scares me. My Italian mother’s in the kitchen with her Italian gay best friends. Her Italian mitts are still on. It scares me because I've never seen her laugh like that, not that I can recall. It all looked a little too much like last
weekend, when I made my American friends some French onion soup, and it took me an exceedingly long time. You see, you have to caramelise the onions low and slow, and you can't cheat, or they'll char and won't go jammy. You really just have to stand there, stirring. That’s what makes the soup so good. To feed my friends I stirred onions for five hours and I’ve never been happier, maybe never will be again. Now my mother is so chopped up and cooked down. It makes me cry.

There's this other picture of her that I prefer. It's really quite beautiful, like my favourite Edward Hopper painting in the Whitney. You can't really make out what's going on, except there's a ray of light shooting through a balcony window, and landing on a draping bed. From the quality of the light, it's either sunset or sunrise. To the right, my mother is standing against the glass in an unstudied manner that I also don't recognise. We see her from the side, with half of her face and half of her sweater and all of her rustling hair. She’s looking out to where the photograph can't.

I like this picture much more because it feels infinite, like Edward Hopper was really painting my mom in 1961, the year before she was born. It's such a mundane pose but her hair looks so good I tell her to bring the photo to the salon next time. Just like this, I want her to say. Just like she had it when everyone wanted to date her. Maybe time is the true delusion. Maybe if I stopped worrying all this while, my friends won’t forget me, because once I spent all this time making them a beautiful onion soup. Later I'll watch Ferris Bueller's Day Off again and the eyes of Mia Sara still won't suspect a thing. Then when I close my eyes, my mother will be leaning by the rising sun.

 

Bryan Ge (he/him) is a junior at Columbia College from Singapore. He is eating. He can be found on Instagram @brie.gouda.

Feathers by Claire Burke

 

Day 5 Winner of Quarto’s 2024 Thunderdome Flash Fiction Contest. View the prompt here

Illustration by Jacqueline Subkhanberdina

 

I learned to make kites because my mother loved them. There was never much to go around when I was young, but my mother was a seamstress, and so there was always fabric littering our floors. When she fell sick, I learned to stitch and sew the bright scraps of her work into buoyant little birds that floated through the drafts in her hospital room. They danced in the air over IVs and beeping machines, a circus of shimmering colors with hollow like-bones. Once, one slipped out the window and we watched it soar, filaments of prom dress purple, all the way to New Jersey.
This is how I knew that the river could be flown across.
“You have to be still,” I murmur to Em as I gently loop wings over her shoulders, “Be still and let the fabric carry you.”
I choose green for her, like her eyes, like luck, like the wealth I know that the others are building their machines and contraptions to chase to the other side. It’s her little sister that I drape in soft blue, our two best friends in yellows pulled down from the curtains that used to dress my windows. The colors of life, I weave them together in the hopes that they will float us across.
I fly off the wind of my mother’s last breath, for the bills that drowned her as sickness ate her alive. I know Em and her sister are sailing for me. All of us willing to leap for the fields empty and burning across the world in rapid and shuddering reds of fire and famine. I open the window, look over the ledge. The soft light of morning sky breaks like hope through our feathers.

 

Muscle Memory by Trey Purves

 

Day 4 Winner of Quarto’s 2024 Thunderdome Flash Fiction Contest. View the prompt here. Muscle Memory is also our overall Thunderdome winner of 2025!

Illustration by Jacqueline Subkhanberdina

 

Sadly I have forgotten what your mother does for a living, but recently I found out through the grapevine (Facebook) that she has taken up playing the bass, strumming the strings. The woman of God feeling the rhythm in her chest, buzzing as surely as He intended. You, on the other hand, are off somewhere writing no music and smoking so many cigarettes, fucking up your one perfect voice. But one aspect of being young is banking on stagnancy to mean stability–if inhaling adds anything, it’s some rasp, rizz, reticence at its worst. Every now and then there’s a fallout in my chest like a baby bird slipping from its nest. Reckoning with the recalcitrant thing it always intended to do but long before it ever had the agency. Like taking the driver’s seat with the keys in someone else’s drunk hand. With my boot, I kick a rock from one spot to another. Woolf said the stone will outlast Shakespeare. Last night I showed up so early to the party, the host looked me square in the face and expected, fairly, a reason. So I rummaged through my empty pockets and believed, fully, there could be a miracle of apparition, a sudden something from nothing. Let me help with chairs. Good guest. You looked sorta stressed, but the cool kind of frantic. Your face card is so cracked I could cry. Oh! and this you is a different you from the one before. The you before is long gone. Let me pop the cork. I hate that part, doesn’t everybody? Some sorry widow out there is feeding old letters and voicemails to AI. She convinces herself it’s the same you she used to write to, hear from. Her dead robot husband. I keep kicking the rock.

 

Cold Cuts by Reese Alexander

 

Day 3 Winner of Quarto’s 2024 Thunderdome Flash Fiction Contest. View the prompt here.

Illustration by Jacqueline Subkhanberdina

 

The prosciutto is too warm.
Your dad’s under the ground and this is all you can think: the prosciutto is too warm. When your uncle put a bit on your plate, your finger brushed it, and it was much too warm. Blazing. But what can one do about a thing like that? Sometimes, the prosciutto is too warm.
But it’s still true, like lots of things are true. Like the truth that your mother is remarrying your uncle. Your father’s brother, just to be clear. Yeah, you’re from Alabama, but not like that. The prosciutto is too warm, and your mom is remarrying your uncle, and your grandma is crying and blathering in the corner, and she keeps grabbing your face, turning it this way and that, saying how much like your dad you look, how very much your eyes resemble his, how he was born at 9:12 am, isn’t that something that she still remembers, 9:12 am? And the suit you’re wearing is tight in the armpits. And the prosciutto, on its plastic platter at your uncle’s house, grows warmer by the second. And the Birmingham cemetery they lower him into pays its workers 7.20 hourly, so you can’t really blame them when they drag the shovels up to the graveside while the minister is still finishing the sermon. Amen, Hallelujah, all that.
Later, you will sit criss-cross on the ground next to your mother’s rocking chair, with prosciutto still on your too-thin, dixie ultra plate, and she will say nothing, so much nothing, so much nothing, until she will turn to you, and open her mouth, and what comes out will not be the answer, will never be the answer, will be only:
“Baby, look alive. Your ham is gettin cold.”

 

My Ovary by Reese Alexander

 

Day 2 Winner of Quarto’s 2024 Thunderdome Flash Fiction Contest. View the prompt here.

Illustration by Jacqueline Subkhanberdina

 

My ovary is not at all as I imagined it—it is tiny and squishy and white, like a miniature deviled egg. I am surprised when looking into the small jar the surgeon hands me. I thought it would be pink.
The glass in my hand is firm and cold. I shake it, and the ovary dances, the small bit of severed fallopian tube still attached to its body swaying in the preservative fluid like the ribbon on a little girl’s dress. I stop shaking the jar. The ovary stops dancing.
“Hello.” I say to the ovary.
The ovary says nothing.
“You were just inside me.” I say to the ovary.
The ovary says nothing.
I place the jar down on the tray in front of me, next to my half-eaten red jello cup. I turn my head to the side, and consider the ovary from a new angle.
“You caused me lots of issues. For years and years. Anything to say for yourself about that?”
Still, the ovary says nothing.
I turn my focus back to the small jar of jello, bringing the neon stuff to my mouth in great, heaping spoonfuls. I suddenly wonder if I can trick the ovary into speaking, into answering my questions. I turn quickly towards it, open my mouth, bare red-stained teeth.
“ARGH!”
The ovary says nothing.
I return to my jello.
The next time the doctor looks in, I let him take the ovary away. When he goes to pick it up, it dances in the liquid once more. While it twirls and flips, I feel we finally recognize each other. The ovary looks at me. I look at the ovary. It stops moving, sinks back to the bottom of its jar, fallopian tube trailing behind it like a child’s hand waving goodbye.

 

Bedtime Story by Trey Purves

 

Day 1 Winner of Quarto’s 2024 Thunderdome Flash Fiction Contest. View the prompt here.

Illustration by Jacqueline Subkhanberdina

 

Let’s sit. Well, dress, then sit. I am unaffected by the bareness of my skin so long as it’s steady in motion. We don’t have to talk. We can, but I won’t need to. You can, but I may not. Someone’s got to be the watchdog. Listen carefully for an intruder, your roommate, a slip in your speech. I unpack carefully, make myself at home. Arrange what’s mine in an optimized manner, taking up even less space than in my arms where I carried them into your little bedroom, from which they’ll be carried out sooner or later. I will not make this harder than it has to be. It has to be so much all the time, and maybe I am, sometimes. Maybe we’ll be, sometimes. Sitting, standing. Saying too much, saying nothing at all. And look at me, listening! Not fidgeting, stirring, not even staring, no, trying to not look at all. Eyes closed. On my first day of Kindergarten during naptime, I strained for sleep and found myself, instead, stuck on the sound of the breath of my neighbors. I did not know their names yet, just the color of their backpacks or hair, so I’d think, Blonde is snoring. Blue yawned three times. Green with pink polka dots is whispering to purple, and I think they woke up orange. I never fell asleep, but afterwards in the dream circle (we shared them, our dreams) I matched shades to faces and faces to names, and since then I haven’t gone to bed without listening for a sign of life first.

 

Oso by Luke Garbacz

 

Illustration by Jacqueline Subkhanberdina

 

Upper Oso Reservoir: The Boyscout Lake. A quarter by half-mile hole in the California hills. Save for the scout’s bungalows along the south bank, a boat launch in the east creek, and a fifty-foot dam west towards the 241 freeway, it was utterly impenetrable; surrounded by barbed wire and thick scrub brush; completely unfishable. Just making it to the water was a thirty-minute hike through a hole in the back fence, dodging scout leaders and security cameras, hoping not to step on a rattlesnake. Oso was the kind of lake everybody had heard of and few talked about. It began with the old timers, who bragged about having fished it ‘back in the day’ when it was still public. They whispered its name at trade shows, on the dock, and in gaggles in theback of local tackle shops. They whispered it while driving by on the freeway to Diamond Valley, where nobody heard. And they blabbed about it on local podcasts, when they were too drunk to care, and where groms from every neighborhood skatepark and Chronic Tacos in the county tuned in. Soon, everybody knew its name. It was “The Boyscout Lake” to the old timers. It was “Upper Oso Reservoir'' to the groms. But to me, it was always just Oso.

In the generation post what the old timers called ‘the good ole days’, Oso was the last remaining lake in Southern California to stock trout, and therefore the last lake with the ability to grow a world record bass. It might as well have been the last lake standing. You see, big bass need big food. The smaller ones can live on pretty much anything: baitfish, crawdads, etc. But the big ones are too large to waste their energy chasing down smaller prey items. They need something slower and more substantial. That’s where the trout come in. They’re funneled out of the back of a truck and into the water, dumb, clueless, having been raised in a tank and with no natural protections (The old timers will tell you stories about how bass used to literally sit underneath that funnel and gulp trout up by one). And nowhere else, other than Southern California, did bass have access to such easy, hatchery-borne food. This combined with the comfortable winters, allowed our largemouth to reach record proportions.

A whole subculture developed around their pursuit, a technique called swimbait fishing. Swimbait fishing’s not your typical bobber and worm, waiting and baiting, wait-all-day, jack-off, and drink a beer in your fold up chair type of shit. It’s not at all relaxing like that. Every cast is different, and you’re constantly on the move to the next spot. You’ve gotta know the wind, the season, that point on that one side of the lake, the way your Slammer (specifically your M.S. Slammer) hits the water, and the shadow it casts against the bank line. Angles are everything. The baits are 10-12 inches long. They’re hand carved in wood, imported from Japan, and cost a couple hundred dollars a piece (you’ve gotta be willing to go swimming if you get one snagged). But they catch the biggest bass in the world by imitating their favorite food. They catch the trout eaters.

Around 2011, the state realized that the trout they were stocking (which were supposed to be for all the barbie-poll no-ideas-what-they’re doing weekend fisher-kooks) were being eaten by the bass before anybody could catch them. It took the state thirty years to realize what the swimbaiters knew all along. So they cut off the trout stocks, and all the big bass starved off. And ever since then it hadn’t been the same, but for Oso. Oso still stocked for the boyscouts. Everybody knew it. Few had the balls.

In April, fog rolls in high from the ocean and settles inland against the California hills. It sticks to their canyons and blankets Oso in a low mist that vanishes in the day and reappears around dusk. It’s the best time of year to catch a trophy bass. The time of year when they’re at their fattest.

It was so wet that when I tied up my wakebait (a 9” M.S. Slammer), I barely had to spit on the knot. I was throwing it on an 8 1⁄2 foot Dobyns samurai sword of a rod and 20lb copoly.

“With that kind of weaponry,” I said, “Oso won’t know what hit her,” walking towards the water, chanting, “Oso, Oso, Oso...,” in the dark.

“Oso.” Just before you reach it, there’s a fork in the road. Left leads to the bungalows, the dam, and the treeline in between; all good spots. But right leads towards the dock, the only spot on the lake that matters. It’s the reason I started fishing Oso three years ago, when I saw her for the first time. And it’s the reason I will continue to fish for her until I get her back. “Oso”.

I’ve controlled for all the variables. I track the water temp; I track what the trout are doing; and I know how the fish here respond to a wakebait, a glide, or a softbait. I know what they want and the way that they want it, the proper retrieve, cadence, and where to pause and just let it sit, before twitching it away from them again. I know all of this but she still won’t eat. But when I made my way to the end of the path and saw thedock, I knew it was only a matter of time. Soon, she’ll make up her mind.

It was a floating dock; old and wooden, with a four by six shanty shack hanging in the middle; a single floating line that pointed towards deep water. Angles-wise, there were a couple of ways to approach it. Casting from the dock itself, walking onto it, wastoo noisy. Unless you moved real slow, practically crawled on your hands and knees, it’d spook the fish. Best avoided. But casting from the bank wasn’t all that much prettier. I would have needed to throw overhead down past the end, and sit the Slammer two or three feet from the side of the wood. It was a fifty or sixty foot cast into an area the width of a basketball hoop. Doable, but risky.

I settled on a shorter side arm cast, positioned from the dock itself. I knew she would be on the end anyways. She would be in the shadow, where the food couldn’t see her, peering out into the light. So long as I was quiet, if I didn’t step hard or make the planks creak, she wouldn’t hear. Then I’d have one, maybe two shots to hit the right angle. After that, she’d get suspicious. I chose my move and began crawling down the planks.

On top of the dam, there’s a ranger’s cabin. His truck sits in a driveway overlooking the lake. A light came on through the cabin window; I’d watch the truck for signs of movement, I decided. The path down from the dam was a good winding mile away. Enough time to squat in some bushes.

I reached the middle of the dock, got up, and made my first cast past the end corner. It was a good cast. I waited for the ripples to settle before I started reeling. You could hear the water slapping on the tail of the wakebait, fifty feet off. When it reached the first corner of the dock, I gave it a twitch, an audible pop, then kept on reeling. Big wide V, halfway down the dock. Nothing. The second cast was where she stuck. She ate it right on the first corner, pinning it up against the wood, probably collecting some splinters along the way.

It was on. “Don’t fuck up, don’t fuck up, don’t fuck up, don’t fuck up...” A swimbait fish is not the kind of fish that you play the drag on, best to lock it down all the way. Because the baits are so heavy, once you stick the fish, there’s a lot of weight it can throw around to pop the hook with. You’ve gotta lock down the drag, put a bend in the rod, and just keep reeling. It’s easier said than done. Three years ago, the nerves kicked in and I fumbled with reel handles. That’s how I lost her three years ago. So much time invested, all to have been foiled by 10-15 seconds of reeling, all for my fingers to slip on some cheap $5.99 grip! But this time I was prepared. I had new grips; and I knew my knot was good, and the hooks wouldn’t bend out.

By now, she was coming in hot. She was a 17 lb basketball; tail walking and head shaking; with eyes that bulged like cloudy marbles. Her back: ivy; her belly: pearls. It was Oso. Grotesque. Beautiful. The culmination of thousands of casts, of “just keep reelings” into one moment, “Keep reeling.” Keep reeling. Still reeling.

She was close enough for me to recognize that I had her pinned, double hooked in the bottom jaw. Go for the flip? Go for the flip. And so I flipped her up and she bounced down onto the dock and laid at my feet. I had to jump on top of her to make sure she didn’t fall back into the water, slime coat everywhere, “Oso.”

“Oso, Oso, Oso.” She looked 17 lbs. I popped the bronze gamakatsu hook out fromunder her tongue, she’d almost bent it out. I grabbed her by the jaw, and it all spread open. In the back of every bass’ mouth is a gullet and a pair of crushers. You can tell what they’ve been eating based upon the color of the crushers. Crawdads are tough and hard, so crawdad eaters’ crushers are a bloody bright red. But Oso’s crushers were light pink. She even had two trout tails sticking out of her gullet. The gullet, the trout tails, the crushers; if you held her jaw sideways they all opened up. The gullet opened up. The tails fell downwards. The crushers flopped out of the way; by the time I finished, they were bleeding.

A pair of headlights rounded the corner and came towards the dock. They settled on Oso and I. The ranger had arrived. The truck door fell open and he stepped out behind it, resting his hand on top of the roof. Complete stillness. Just looking on. It was a face-off, him and me, and the fish.

When I realized that I was, in fact, facing the ranger without my pants, I made a run for the shack behind me. I swear he was chasing me. He was chasing me as I ran butt-ass naked down the dock, bloody fish in hand, pants around my knees. And when I rounded the shack’s corner, rather than get blood on my pants, I threw the fish back into the water. No measurements, no pictures, no proof. She was only 12 lbs anyways. Then I was able to pull up my pants with both hands. She was just a fish story now.

“It’s private property!”

“I hear you,” I yelled from the backside of the shack. “Just wait for me to get my shit together.”

The ranger didn’t care. He came right around the corner anyways. He told me that he was going to write me up for trespassing, and if I didn’t cooperate he’d have no problems calling the cops. He said that he was going to drive me out himself. I offered to hike back out, but he said that I couldn’t be trusted on my own. “Okay.” Then he mentioned the fact that if I ever came back, he would certainly call the cops, on the spot, without a second thought. “Shiit.”

I put my rod in the back of his truck and we drove east towards the end of the canyon; up, up, and up out of the hole. Fields of yellow-bulbed mustard plants replaced scrub-brush; their thin stems bobbed in the truck’s wake. The rangers clock glowed 4:43am. It was dead quiet, no words, just the sound of the engine, wheels on gravel, and the mustard plant bouncing off the front hood.

When we reached high ground but were still far enough away from the gate, the ranger stopped the truck.

“I thought we were going back out?” He didn’t respond. “I thought you were gonna drive me to the gate.”

“I am,” he muttered, pausing. “I’m just thinking about whether or not I’m going to write that ticket up for you.”

“What?”

“I said, maybe I don’t have to write that ticket up,” he continued

“Okay... Why?” I was genuinely confused.

Then he told me what I would have to do.

Mustard plant covers the high parts of most of the California hills. Unperturbed, it grows in dense fields of waving green and yellow. When I was a kid, we’d run around in those fields playing kick the can or building forts. And when we got tired, we’d lay down and snack on the stems. The stem is the best part. You can tell what time of year it is based upon the taste of the stem. In spring, they’re sweet. But the later in the year it gets, the more the stems dry out and the flowers turn brown, before they fall to the ground come October or so. Even by the middle of Summer, the stems adopt a sort of alcoholic, tangy quality. By then, they’re pretty much inedible.

It was this same taste that I had in my mouth when the truck started up again. It smelled like blood and mustard; Budlight and cheap deodorant; cigarettes and asscrack. I looked out the window and away, “No wonder you work at The Boyscout Lake,” I told him. He didn’t think it was funny.

Eventually, we reached the front gate. He pulled into the culdesac just outsideand stopped the truck. “Where you off to? I can drop you where you need to go.”

“I’m good. My van’s right there.”

“Wait, seriously? That thing’s yours?” He had seen it before.

The van had been parked there for the past three years. It never left its spot other than for groceries, and trips to the tackle shop. And as I stepped out of the truck all I could think about was whether or not I was going to come back the next day. The ranger had said that the moment he saw me back there, he was calling the cops. I still could’ve gone back though; it had taken them three years to catch me in the first place. But three years! Three years is a long time. But then again, no. It was Oso.

 

Untitled by Jaylen Adams

 

Illustration by Mel Wang

 

When you see someone, you smile. You smile with teeth. You lean in, open arms, open legs—you smile, you hear? You ain’t one of them lil white girls. You open your mouth, you better have something to show for it. And when someone looking, you sit up straight. You sit up straight when no one is looking. You sit up straight. Your back better not bend. You not one of them slouching motherfuckers. You can’t be. You can’t embarrass me in this store. You can’t embarrass me in that school. You can’t embarrass me on these streets. Don’t you know they watching? Stand up straight. Smile. You not one of them ugly ones. You know who I’m talking about. Them thugs that grew up under that Highbridge, don’t know how to talk right, don’t know how to act right, like the nigger you so bent on becoming. When they call on your hand, every word better be rehearsed. You not no white boy. Confidence ain’t a key for you; it’s a lock. You gotta pick that shit, you hear? Write it in your notebook so you don’t forget. Write it on the back of your hand so you don’t forget. Write it everywhere so you don’t forget. Don’t forget. Draw out the syllables; spell out the fragment words. Daa · stoy · ev · skee. Repeat. Nee · chuh. Repeat. Bow · vwaar. Repeat. Again. Do it again. Do it one last time — the last thing they needa think is that black people can’t pronounce shit. But people mispronounce things every now and then...and we’re reading Plato. You not people. You black. There’s a difference. Pull your skirt down. Take your hood off. Smile. Smile with teeth. No, not like that. You look like Jim Crow. You look like a nigger. This ain’t a minstrel show. Try again. You not one of them. But you can try to be. Buy that oil those white girls love so much. Your skin needs to shine. Your skin needs to shine to make up for the fact it’s black. You gotta shine. Don’t go walking around at night. Black look blue at night, so them cop fuckers won’t know if you choking or laughing. I don’t care if I die tomorrow. You don’t take time off. You stay inside. You read every page of that book. You go to every lecture. You gotta be better. You gotta laugh. Laugh. They telling a joke. You gotta laugh.

But what if I’m the punch line? You mean after all this, you still gonna be the kinda nigga they laugh at?

 

Jaylen Adams (she/her) is a sophomore at Columbia College studying political science and creative writing. She has been published in HuffPost, The New York Times, and Wisteria Magazine. She loves tea (both kinds), her mom, and sitting on the lawn while the sun is shining (the sun in general, actually). You can find her on Instagram @jaybirdfeathers

Dusting by Gwen Davison

 

This piece was first published in Quarto’s 2023 Spring Print Edition.

Illustration by Ishaan Barrett

 

Content Warning: mentions of death

Next to the funeral parlor on West 72nd, there is a store with clean windows and a concrete exterior. The owner, its only employee, sells records, CDs, VCR tapes, and books that have been rescued from basements and purchased from estate sales. People come and go from the shop throughout the day: girls carrying linen tote bags, men carrying nothing but keys, and grandmothers searching for songs that they cannot remember the names of though the melodies play in their heads. Tourists will occasionally wander in, take pictures of the vintage posters, touch things, and then leave without buying anything. Exiting the store, they cleanse themselves of the dust that has gathered on their fingertips by wiping them on their pants and head downtown.

There are many days when the shop is mostly empty. On those days, Maximillian Applebaum rests his head on a wooden table that functions as his desk, his dinner table, a storage surface, and a check-out and naps until some concerned soul shakes his shoulder to make sure that he is alive. He awakes perturbed.

For ten years, Max has spent most of his waking hours at this desk, looking out at the passersby with feigned indifference. He likes that he can see them without being seen, and he likes most of all to see the same people repeatedly. There is the woman who works at the cheap deli across the street. He has never seen her take the trash out without gloves on or noticed her skipping her smoke break. The most reliable figure would have to be Arawn, the mortician who owns the funeral parlor where Max laid his mother to rest. Every Wednesday, Arawn heads to the deli to pick up lunch for himself before he slathers some beloved corpse in makeup with his unskilled hands. When Max spots him, he remembers how he applied too much eyeshadow on his mother’s left eyelid, making her face look uneven. Max can still recall the smell of the funeral parlor. It had a strong floral scent that smelled nothing like real flowers.

Staring out the window, Max feels free to pretend that the world has not changed in the last twenty years. There is not a chain restaurant or Starbucks in sight. The only gimmicky things that can be found in this corner of the city are green fliers, posted to bus stops and vacant buildings, advertising the deli: QUICK AND DELICIOUS, NEVER MORE THAN A TEN-MINUTE WAIT, MADE JUST FOR YOU. Max has never entered the deli. It unnerves him to see a storefront offering itself up to just any customer like that.

When he is not observing the street, Max is deeply engaged in rituals. Such acts of piety include shelving and making one last book fit into the crammed oak triptych. Nothing is placed anywhere by mistake, as any steady patron of The Final Shelf: Records and Books would know. And nothing is alphabetized or categorized. You might find a VCR tape of Rear Window placed next to a tape of Bambi and that is because Max has decided that it will be so. This is partially because he likes to find connections between disparate things and partially because he enjoys confusing people. If someone were to ask him why he put this there and that there he would happily explain, though few make such inquiries anymore. He misses the days when people were eager to engage him with their questions.

Thirty years ago, in 1980, Max was in his third year of running the store when a regular customer who would become his wife walked up to him holding three books in her hands.

“I don’t get it. A Moveable Feast, A Guide to Running Your First Marathon, and The Life of Leonardo da Vinci. Why would you put these next to each other on the top shelf of the bookcase.”

“The running book is about movement, and da Vinci painted The Last Supper. Putting them together made me think of a moving feast.”

The woman rolled her eyes, though there was a sparkle behind them.

“That’s tenuous, at best, Max.”

He shrugged. “I never said that I was clever.”

Now, the top shelf of the bookcase is filled only with yellowing cookbooks. Their ink has been smeared by the oily fingers of chefs and mothers and husbands cooking to flatter their wives before divorce papers hit the table. Every evening, Max stands on top of a stool and takes one of them down, tucking it under his armpit as he slowly lowers himself to the floor. He then selects a recipe that he has not before tried and prepares it. The kitchen of his apartment is quite small and thus his dining table is covered in pots, pans, and plates. He usually eats at the table in the store, surrounded by his possessions as he gazes out the window.

Though Max enjoys cooking, he despises going to the grocery store. He tries his hardest to ignore the pitiful stares of couples and families as they watch him fill his cart by himself with shaking, arthritic hands. Max has lived on his own since his divorce. This does not bother him; there are many men his age who lose their wives and then realize that they don’t know how to cook, clean, or take care of themselves. He will never have this problem, and he will never have to grieve again.

Tonight, he eats fresh tomato soup with a silver spoon that his mother gifted him for his wedding as part of a silverware set. He washes it by hand and shines it with a bit of polish every evening to prevent it from tarnishing. The other pieces of the set were sold one by one many years ago as it became clear to him that Sandra would not change her mind. At first, he’d sold them out of anger, but once his money from the divorce settlement dwindled, he’d found himself out of options. When he cleaned the remaining spoon, he thought of his mother beaming with pride as she handed him the only expensive gift that she would ever give him.

It is Friday night, so he spends the evening organizing the store. Saturday morning often prompts a rush of regular customers. As he takes the kitchen garbage from his small apartment above the store to the street, the scent emanating from the funeral parlor overwhelms him. For the last ten years, Max has slowly been losing his sense of smell, and he would happily lose the remainder of it if he never had to experience the scent again. Max has not once spoken to the mortician since his mother’s funeral.

At ten p.m. Max puts on a night shirt and goes to bed. The gray stripes of the shirt are disrupted by colorful patches sewn to the fabric by his mother to mend holes. As a young woman during the Depression, she learned how to render any scrap of fabric into a shirt. He remembers her hands cupped together as she entreated the clouds to fill them with rain. Standing in the open field with Mother, he waited for her hands to rest at her sides and then gently touch the top of his head. She would rub his skull and play with his curly, brown hair. As Max tries to fall asleep, he runs his hands over the worn patches.

That night he dreams of dust. It rains from the air like snow, settling on the landscape, covering his childhood home, a precariously balanced collection of discarded wood. It moves through the air like pollen, causing tears to well in the brown eyes of hungry children, then toward the east, settling on the books, records, and tapes that fill his shop. The wind batters the door. The air smells of flowers and corpses as it forms a current and bursts into the store like a soldier with orders. Pages rip from their spines, records spin like wheels before breaking in pieces, and tapes unwind themselves. By the end of the windstorm, there is only dust. He stands in it up to his eyes, a man who has given up struggling against the quicksand.

Max rubs his eyes hard when he awakes. It is 9 a.m., and he hurries out of bed to brush his teeth and finishes his preparations. Beginning around 10 a.m., a stream of customers enters the store. They drink coffee from cardboard cups and talk like people who know each other.

“How are you doing, Max?” A woman in her early thirties asks him, smiling with white, crooked teeth.

“Oh, the same as always, Aubrey. Have you found anything today?”

“I’ll get this copy of Go Tell It on the Mountain,” she said.

“That’s a good choice. I read that exact copy.”

“I know, Max. You don’t sell them until you’ve read them.”

Max nods.

Forbidden items are spread unmarked throughout the store. He has mentally categorized each item in the shop and thus has no need for labels. There are forbidden items that will not be sold under any circumstance, treasured items that he might give up if he suspects he will never watch, listen, or read them, items for sale, and merchandise he must sell to make ends meet. This last category fills Max with indignation. He never thought he’d be the type of man to make a spectacle of himself by putting the name of his store on a sweatshirt. He recalls a conversation with his financial advisor.

“Do you want to keep the store open?”

“Yes. I must.”

“Then you need to sell things people will buy, not just look at.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Books that people are reading. No one is going to buy a VCR tape. Maybe some people are looking for records.”

“I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to just bring in what people are going to buy.”

“You could sell merchandise. Kids these days love that kind of thing.”

“I’m not so sure.”

The financial advisor was right. Young people buy merchandise from the store. Max tries not to think of it as selling himself to the customer.

He enjoys listening to the conversations of his patrons as they wander the aisles.

“You know, Katherine, I wasn’t surprised at all when I saw this place on L’amante di Libri di New York’s blog. I’d been coming here for years already when that came out. I told you, this place is what would result from the merging of my grandfather’s basement with a collector’s storefront.”

“Nothing has really changed since then. Well, I guess Max sells some stuff now. I see the NYU kids carrying his stuff around the Village.”

At noon, he puts a record on the turntable, I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl, and sits with satisfaction as music fills the air. A few older women nod to the song. Though they are in their late sixties, they sway fluidly. Their gray hair makes him think of his mother and he wonders how someone can move with such ease one day and then be dead the next. At five p.m., he closes the shop and listens to the rain fall with his eyes closed.

Max passes the rest of the weekend by himself, cooking meals and arranging his things. He places a long, horizontal photo of the town where he grew up on the wall across from his table. He found it at an estate sale in Connecticut the previous Sunday. The photo was taken only three years ago and looks nothing like the place where he grew up. The lawns, while humble, are green, and the small houses look structurally sound. They probably house fathers and have security systems. It now seems like a happier place to grow up in than New York, he thinks. As a young man, he never would have imagined such a notion possible.

Looking at the photo reminds him of Sandra’s first visit to the town. Her disappointment. How she left dishes on the kitchen counter for his mother to clean without offering to rinse them herself. This was something that she continued to do once Max’s mother, suffering from arthritis and out of savings, moved into the two-bedroom apartment above the store with them. One night, when he and Sandra were having dinner together at a restaurant, the type where Manhattan-born people like Sandra congregated, she’d told him that she could barely understand a word that his mother said because of her thick Midwestern accent. He’d simply replied: “I speak like her.” That evening, Max stopped loving his wife, although it was she who served him divorce papers only weeks after his mother developed a persistent cough.

***

The store is empty this Wednesday at noon. Max naps at his table. When he wakes up, a young man, no older than twelve, is shaking his shoulder. He must have wandered in while Max was asleep. The child wears a mortified expression.

“Hello,” he says to Max.

“Hello.”

Max can barely find the words to greet the boy. He is startled to realize that he reeks of the funeral parlor’s scent. His first instinct is to tell him to get out of the store before his stench spoils the air and settles into the books. What prevents Max from doing so is the sight of the boy: he is dressed in a suit, eyes filled with tears.

“What is your name?” Max asks the boy.

“I am Achilles.”

“Now, that’s a name,” Max says.

“My mom was Greek,” he replies.

“Why don’t you look around?”

The boy nods. He wanders up and down the two narrow aisles, touching the covers of books and records as his tears dry and then accumulate into streams again. No one comes to look for him, or at least no one thinks to check for him in the store. The dust, stirred up by his movement, settles on Achilles’ freshly pressed suit.

The boy goes over to Max’s desk. He picks up the silver spoon and twirls it between his fingers. Max tenses.

“Do you like to read?” Max asks him.

“No, but my mother always wished that I did.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I just get bored. I wish that I didn’t, I wish so much, but I do, and I never finish any book that I start, not even comic books or manga.”

“Well, if you find something you like, I’ll give it to you.”

Max nods. “Thanks,” he says.

The boy turns around and looks up at the framed photograph of Salina, Kansas.

“I’m from a place that looks just like that,” he says.

“Are you from Salina?”

“No, but I’m from Kansas. Pittsburg.”

Max smiled to himself and nodded. “I know Pittsburg.”

“That’s where my dad lives. My mom lived here.”

“I see,” he says, “Do you like Pittsburg?”

“Yes, I don’t know why Mom wanted to live here. Dad always says she’s just bored and needs to get something out of her system. But I don’t know what. I don’t get what he means by that. There’s nothing to do here either. She must have never gotten it out.”

Max shrugs. “There’s not much to do anywhere.”

The child looks down at his shiny black shoes.

“I’ll look around. For something to read.”

Max tries to focus on the sights outside the window that so often capture his attention. But he can’t help but observe the boy as he walks up and down the aisles. He is no longer conscious of the funeral parlor scent.

The boy finally moves on from the books and finds himself drawn to Max’s table once more.

“Is there anything you’d like?” He asks Achilles.

“I don’t think so,” he says.

The boy looks at the door. Max can sense he is ready to leave. He imagines that the boy’s family is looking for him in the funeral parlor. The boy looks down at the table and picks up the spoon.

“Actually, can I have this?”

Max stares at his own shoes. They are old sneakers, scuffed and yellow, with Velcro straps.

“Of course,” he says. “I said you could have anything.”

The boy holds the spoon up to the light. He traces its delicate floral engraving with his fingertips.

“I should get going.”

Max opens the door for the boy as he leaves. He watches him enter the funeral parlor. He wonders when Achilles will return to Pittsburg. Max wonders if he himself will return to Salina before he dies.

People wearing black suits and dresses enter and exit the parlor as Max leans against the doorway to his store and watches. Once the group leaves for lunch, Max walks to the building, hoping that he will intercept the boy. Instead, he finds himself in the alleyway between his store and the parlor, face to face with the mortician, a man whose blue eyes are sunken deep into his face and shadowed by wrinkles

“Hello, Maximillian. Can I help you with something?” The mortician asks in his baritone voice.

“Oh, no, sir. I was just disoriented. I’m heading back to the store.”

“The last time I talked to you, you were a young man.”

“We were about the same age.”

“That’s true.”

“I can’t believe you are still working. Why don’t you retire?”

“Why don’t you close down that store?”

Max shakes his head. “If I closed my store, this entire street would smell like death.”

“Say what you will. I’m headed to the deli for lunch.”

Max turns to look at the storefront. The window cleaner will arrive in an hour. He brushes the dust from his black vest and removes his checkered cap from his head.

“I’ll join you,” he says, turning away.

 

Gwendolyn Davison (she/her) is a third-year at Columbia College majoring in history and concentrating in English. She likes to write poems for family and friends and learn about ancient history. 

The Psychonaut by Dante Silva

 

Fiction Winner in Quarto’s 2023 Spring Print Edition.

This piece was first published in Quarto’s 2023 Spring Print Edition.

Illustration by Kaavya Gnanam

 

I met him on Craigslist. I’d posted an ad looking for someone who knew statistics, “PAID OPPORTUNITY. NOT A SCAM.” I was in a course at the community college, and I got to take all the tests home because my psychiatrist told them I was troubled. “Reallyreallytroubled,” he’d said. He told me he made the letter sound professional. “They might even send you to the loony bin.” And then I stopped listening.

M. responded to the post with a phone number. “I hear you know statistics,” I said when a man’s voice answered. He sounded tall and masculine and sincere. Stoic, even. “Statistics is its own language,” he said. It sounded reasonable. “Could you tell me what you’re working on?” he asked. “I will,” I told him. “And I’d like this to be regular. Maybe we should discuss in person. Not to sound suggestive,” I added. “Can we get together?”

“Why don’t you come over,” he said. “I’m right by the college.”

He sent an address. I showered, scrubbed my armpits, downed a Monster. I put on a painter’s shirt, some old cologne from middle school, the corduroy pants I wore on Christmas. I thought I should look intellectual, to meet a statistician. I even read up on current affairs, and then I practiced saying the headlines out loud. “A Chinese surveillance balloon has landed in Montana.” “Tom Cruise had a facelift.”

There was lots of purple in his apartment. Grapes in a canned soup container, lavender hand soap, a wine stain on the counter. That’d been my favorite color as a child, so I took it as a sign. It’s all looking up, I thought. Turned out I was wrong about that. I walked around the mattress on the floor, a mold spore he introduced as “my roommate.” Stacks of papers all over, a row of supplements on the furnace. “Silver is a natural antibiotic,” he said after he swallowed some. “It was once used to treat syphilis.” He offered some, and seemed disappointed when I said no.

His hair was half-there, brown, curled. I could see his chest hair too, through this paper-thin T-shirt he was wearing. He said something about shaving that I can’t remember — probably that it was “perverted.” “The world order,” was another phrase he used. He seemed serious and neurotic. He seemed alive. I could tell he was on acid.

“I’m a psychonaut,” he said when I asked. It meant he did a lot of psychedelics. “I want to see how far I can go into my own mind." I couldn’t decide if it was moronic or spiritual. “Some quack nonsense,” my mother would say. He said he did it because of his sad and miserable childhood, but I didn’t ask about that.

“You’re like Walter White,” I said. I had been watching lots of Breaking Bad at this point, but only parts, or else I’d become too emotional.

“Is that someone you know?”

I told him not to mind, and asked him about statistics. “You seem more intuitive,” is what he said. “You just have to follow your intuition. The rest will come. That’s how I wound up doing what I do.” He studied the surface area of Greenland’s ice sheet. “Sermersuaq, is how you say it in Greenlandic.” A man in Denmark sent him satellite data, and he entered it into spreadsheets. “But that only tells us so much,” he said. “There’s an overemphasis on reason at the moment. I’m serious. Reason is what led to Chernobyl, although you weren’t alive then, I take it.” I shook my head. “Have you watched the documentary?”

“I haven’t.”

“You should. Sumé, too.”

“I just watched one about the situation in Ukraine,” I lied. “In Polish.”

“You look Polish,” he said. I nodded. He said he’d learned some of the language once because he had an affinity for Slavic culture. “There’s internal conflict, of course, but they’re truly attached to living. We’ve strayed so far from that.” He seemed stranger by the second. Some sort of sage, is how I understood it. I wondered if he was real. I wondered if I was asleep. “Are we asleep?” I asked him. He said it was possible. And then I wanted canned fruit. “I’m craving some canned fruit.”

He said, “Well, we might have to grab some.”

Remembering M. now is difficult.

Both of us slumped inside his Honda at the supermarket. He told me he’d go inside and that I should wait for him. I wanted to touch his shoulders. His swollen shoulders. In my mind, I touched his shoulders and they led to childbirth. Our children spoke Greenlandic and scaled mountains. He was closer than he’d been in the apartment, and I could see all the openings in his skin.

“Oh,” he said when I put my hand on his arm.

And then my hand was under his inseams. “Chłopak,” he said, the same way my mother did. There was a shopping cart outside full of cardboard. “Open your mouth.” He slid off his boxers, over the sneakers, held the back of my head. His cock had a slight curve to it. I reached for it and he shook his head. “Wait,” he said. “Wait here.” He held his boxers in one hand and started to shove them inside my mouth. I tasted sweat and mustard. “I don’t—,” I started to say, and he just stared at me. I can’t remember what his eyes looked like — I imagine them cold and dark, two black holes. “Stay like that.”

And I knew then I’d do whatever he said.

 

Dante Silva (he/him) is a student at Columbia College and currently works for The New York Review's publishing imprint (NYRB). Previous work can be found in PAPER and V. 

If You Can't Get to the River by Rebecca Kopelman

 

Illustration by Bella Aldrete

 

You and Brisa, the hospice nurse your mother pays under the table, share your uncles’ old bunk bed. You’re on top, and she’s on the bottom.

In the morning pale, she leans against your bunk’s guardrail, showing you videos she took in Guyana on her iPad. It’s been two years since she’s seen her daughters back home, she tells you, while a rushing waterfall crests. You wonder whether she ought to be tending to your grandmother. Or something. She is showing you a video of a parrot, now, perched on her daughter’s thin arm. Gray clouds scream across the sky, swollen with rain.

“I have two daughters,” Brisa says, “three if you count the third.”

“Why wouldn’t you count the third?” you ask.

Brisa nods dreamily, absorbed in her iPad. You looked her up online once, and found that her username everywhere was FatPussyBrisa. She posts nude selfies on Twitter, with slightly incoherent captions. U treat me to good, winky face, smiling cat. Like sexy word salad.

Your mother must have neglected to do background checks. You won’t begrudge Brisa her grainy selfies, though–her work is so sterile, so sexless. Dry even when soaked through with urine. Porn must be the opposite of death, and Brisa’s fat pussy is devastatingly alive. She once sent you a zoomed-in video of a couple fucking beneath a bridge, captioned us. You replied with a question mark and she said wrong number. Maybe she has a husband back home, or a boyfriend in the States whom she fucks beneath bridges. You know for a fact she hasn’t gotten laid for at least a few weeks–she’s been here since your grandmother was first starting to die.

“Your grandmother isn’t doing too well, you know.” Brisa is suddenly serious, looking up from a game of solitaire you don’t recall her starting. She is very nearly beautiful, but her mouth is never entirely closed, and air whistles through the gap in her front teeth.

An animation of cards reshuffling themselves plays on her screen.

“I know,” you say, “that’s why I’m here. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“It’s bad,” Brisa says. Her round face is cartoonishly grave, and you wonder how many times she has reused the dialogue.

It was late December, the start of winter break, when you initially came up to say your final goodbyes. You’d never been to the Cape, but had pictured it as being warm and imbued with New England money. You were distressed, instead, to find an adorable beach town hollowed-out, bone-cold and bloated on its own nothingness. This sky is so close, so immense. The wilted hydrangeas remind you of bloodless veins, ripe for the needle. You don’t know how your mother spent the first eighteen years of her life here. A month has made you want to kill yourself a little bit. Your spring term starts next week, and your grandmother still hasn’t died. Every other day you consider heading back to your empty dorm or convincing your mother to come back to the city with you, but each time, Brisa says your grandmother should be dead by tomorrow. Tomorrow. She says it like a lover’s promise.

You assumed, until now, without any real basis, that your grandmother died when your mother was small. You thought of yourself as somebody without grandparents, right up until your twentieth year, when mother called you at the end of the fall semester to tell you that your grandmother, her mother, was dying and that you had to come see her.

You’ve only spoken to your grandmother once, since you got here. It was the first night. Brisa guided you into the bedroom and sat in an armchair by the window with her iPad, while you perched yourself at the edge of your grandmother’s bed, which was a reclining hospital cot with white railings on either side.

“Diane,” you said, because that is your grandmother’s name. She did not listen to you. Instead, she vomited nothing into a wicker wastebasket. The veins in her hands bulged.

“Diane,” you said again. An ad for virtual slot machines played aloud from Brisa’s tinny speakers. Your grandmother licked her lips, which were recessed and simian. You touched her knee through the papery blanket.

“Anna,” she said, because that is your name.

You nodded and leaned in. Brisa won her game of solitaire, and her iPad played the sound of trumpets.

“Yes. It’s me. What do you want to tell me?”

“Anna.” She held her own stiff hand to her chest like a small animal’s corpse, then reached to touch your cheek. You winced at the contact.

“Anna.” She let her arm fall back to her side. “I’ve never cared much for Jews.”

You nodded for her to continue. She did not.

“Me neither,” you said. Your father is a Jew, and you don’t care much for him. “Beady Jew eyes.”

“Mhm.”

“Should I leave?” You directed the question to Brisa, because your grandmother’s face had gone vacant, her eyes dark with fever. Without looking up, Brisa nodded.

The door made a sound like a barking dog when you closed it.

Around that same time, near the beginning, your mother, who sleeps in her childhood twin bed, came into the room you share with Brisa. She laid supine on the floor, looking up at the ceiling covered in glow-in-the-dark stars. Brisa was snoring, and you could hear your grandmother’s machines settling softly in the next room. You poked your head over the railing to look down at your mother.

“Mom?” you said.

“Hi baby,” she replied faintly. She stayed silent for a moment, then spoke again: “I’m scared.”

“Me too,” you said, “it’s all scary.”

She looked so small on the carpeted floor, like another piece of childhood detritus among the basketballs and encyclopedias. The room hasn’t been touched since your uncles were probably sixteen, around the time they left town, left your mother alone to deal with your grandmother. Their books are still on the shelves, their posters still on the walls. As if they didn’t have time to pack. It’s like Chernobyl, or Pompeii.

“I had a nightmare,” your mother said.

“Me too.”

“I don’t want to go where she is.”

“Me neither.”

“Sometimes I want to smother her with a pillow.”

“That’s understandable.”

“Will you unplug me, or whatever, if I ever get like that?”

“Of course,” you said. “I love you too much to leave you that way.”

“Good,” she said. “Good. Can I join you?”

You nodded, and she crawled up into bed with you. Brisa rolled over laboriously below. Sitting up to adjust her position, your mother hit her head on the ceiling with a resounding clunk and made a sound of defeat.

“I hate it here,” she said, laughing a little but mostly crying. “I always have.” You patted her back awkwardly and wondered whether your conversation was leaking into Brisa’s dream. When you awoke from your sticky half-sleep, hours later, your mother was still by your side, her forehead glowing in the blue dark.

You and your mother have become a pair, here. Like friends. It’s not like it was when you were in high school, when you freaked out while visiting your father in Chicago. When you stopped eating, became silent and weepy, trusting that she would forgive you. You found that things moved out of place with her, then. You found that you couldn’t return them to the way they were. The life that had been yours together became yours alone. She wouldn’t sit on the toilet to brush her wet hair while you shaved your legs in the tub. She stopped asking if you wanted anything from the store. She would not look at your eyes anymore–only at your forehead, your earlobe, your jaw.

But now, here, your mother is scrambling eggs for the two of you. “We’ll get through this,” she says, and your heart flutters. The first-person-plural is intoxicating. We. Soon, your grandmother will die and then it will really be how it was before; tender and still and just the two of you. The two of us.

Here, together, you and your mother go on long, drunken walks along the frozen shoreline, repeating morbid inside jokes to one another until your cheeks hurt from laughing. Together, you linger in the threshold of the master bedroom, watching Brisa lift your grandmother’s tiny body up and set it down in an armchair while she changes the sheets. Together, you watch the pale light stream through the white shutters and onto your grandmother’s blue-tinged feet. Together, you smile slyly from the doorway when your grandmother farts wetly without excusing herself or burps unselfconsciously in Brisa’s face.

Your mother drives you by her old high school and tells you how people used to call her Wednesday Addams because she was so thin and pale and somber. She had no friends at your age, she says. She admires you, she says. You’re sure Brisa isn’t this close with her daughters. You’re sure she envies you–you can feel it in the shared, close dark each night. Your mother hasn’t slept in your bed since that first time, weeks ago now, but you don’t mind. You know, now that it’s happened, that you are bonded like never before.

You and your mother will go to the Hudson River at night, once you get back home, and together you will watch it move. Your mother wants to be cremated, she told you while you walked around the high school track, and she wants her ashes spread in that gray water. She believes you might feel her embrace every time you look out at the icy waves, but you know you wouldn’t see the rushing water as any sort of reincarnation. You would feel your mother hopelessly diluted. You would feel her gone-r than ever. You try and you try to believe in the metaphor of the thing, but a river is not a mother and a mother is not a river.

“If you can’t get to the river,” she said in the car, “keep me in a coffee can in your closet.” Of course you’ll be able to get to the river, and of course you won’t go. Because she is yours, and you plan on keeping her.

The two of you go to Stop & Shop at least twice a week, never stocking up quite enough to avoid another trip in the near future. You call these excursions your little trips to civilization, and you return with Cheeto Puffs, shitty artisanal beers, and peach rings for Brisa. Your mother occasionally runs into people she hasn’t seen since she left town, people she last knew as cruel adolescents, visibly softened with time. When she can’t avoid it, she says hello and smiles tightly, gripping her shopping cart.

“It’s been so long!” she says to a woman with a thin, pointed nose who was definitely hot in high school, and who holds herself now as if she is sorry not to be skinny. “You look great! Yes, let’s catch up soon, please.”

“Fucking townies,” your mother mutters when the woman walks away. You nod in agreement.

“Those fuckers,” you say, angrier than you mean to. She looks at you, surprised, then laughs vaguely.

“Fuckers.” she repeats. “Fuck ‘em. Right?” She smiles earnestly, meanly. You could live inside this moment, this solidarity.

It is your idea, the trip to Luke’s Liquors off Airline Road, that ruins everything. You are fingering a handle of Tito’s, and wondering whether you still need to beg her to buy it for you (or if, just maybe, you’ve transcended that juvenile conversation) when a woman pushes through the glass doors. Your mother looks up at the sound of the jangling doorbell, then grins upon seeing the woman. They share an electric look and something inside of you recognizes that it’s all over.

You don’t know who she is. But here she is, now. Here she is, with cataract-blue eyes and a rain-soaked denim jacket. Here your mother is, crying out and running to her. Here they are, hugging, exchanging exclamations, hugging again. Here they are.

“Hey,” you say, walking up to the two of them, speaking only to your mother. “Do you guys know each other?” The women smile at each other and burst out laughing.

“This is Barbara Ann,” your mother says, “we were great friends, back in high school.”

“Oh.” you say, “I’ve never heard about her.” You turn to Barbara Ann, directly addressing her for the first time. “So, you never managed to leave town?”

Your mother glares at you, but Barbara Ann only laughs. Her soft double chin wobbles. You want to hit her. You want to share a knowing look with your mother, but she is gazing at Barbara Ann once more.

“No,” Barbara Ann says good-naturedly, “never felt inclined to.”

You ignore this. “Mom,” you say, “I have to pee. There’s no bathroom here. Let’s go.” Your mother rolls her eyes, but lets you guide her out to the parking lot once she exchanges cell numbers with Barbara Ann. You do a little dance like you’re going to pee yourself.

In the car, you feel like you might vomit. You shed your parka quickly, wiping the sweat from your forehead. “So,” you say, your voice high and breathless, “who was that fucking townie?”

Your mother looks horrified. “Don’t call her that,” she says. “Barbara Ann is my friend. She’s a really lovely woman.”

Your face grows hot. “Oh,” you say. You want to say more but you know you’ll cry, so instead of speaking you hunch over your phone. FatPussyBrisa has posted a new video, which you open with the volume turned low. Fuuck, water droplets. Her nipples are huge and dark, her eyes gentle and bovine. The beeping of your grandmother’s heart monitor is audible in the background. Brisa opens her mouth to moan, and you mute the video, placing the phone face down in your lap.

Back at the house, you feel newly shy around your mother. In the long, narrow kitchen, she walks past you to get to the fridge, and you flatten yourself against the cabinets, afraid she’ll brush against you and feel the desperation seeping from your pores. It’s early, hardly eight in the evening, but it’s dark out.

“Should I go to bed now?” you ask her.

She wheels around, holding a pinched little apple, and looks you up and down. “If you want to,” she says, taking a bite, “go for it.”

You nod. You are afraid she hates you again. You spent five years tugging at her sleeve, desperate for things to be okay again. You can’t go back to that. You won’t.

You walk backwards into your room, refusing to look away from her. She acts as if she cannot feel your eyes.

You lie down on Brisa’s bottom bunk because you don’t feel like climbing, and because you know she won’t say anything about it. The Brisa-shaped dent on the comforter is warm and vaguely sticky. You sink into it, and try to imagine what Brisa is like as a mother. You’ve never heard her speak to her daughters on the phone, and she hasn’t even told you their names. You wonder if she’s disowned them. Or if they’ve disowned her.

You can hear your grandmother’s labored breathing through the walls, and lightly touch the blue-and-white striped mattress above you. Your grandmother was a bad mother, you know. If she hurt your mother badly enough to drive her away, at eighteen, to a new, strange city and into the arms of a strange, boring man who didn’t even care enough to leave when things got bad, then she must’ve been unforgivable. She must’ve done something to deserve the morphine half-life she shares with Brisa.

Your mother has always deserved better. Better than brothers who leave when they ought to stay, better than a man who stays when he ought to leave. Better than a mother who can’t choose between the two. Better than Barbara Ann, who seems to think she can come and go as she pleases.

You pad into the kitchen. It’s getting late. The darkness is more thorough now. This time of night is more black than blue. You open and close a few cabinets, idly touch the beer in the fridge. Lick one of Brisa’s tart peach candies.

Barbara Ann probably has a slutty little daughter your age. She is probably blonde with cystic acne and a tiny nose. Your mother will probably make you befriend her. Barbara Ann’s slutty little daughter will call you fat and your mother will snicker with Barbara Ann. Brisa will be there. She will change your grandmother’s diaper. It will never be how it was.

A faint light is leaking from under your mother’s white bedroom door. You imagine that she is awake, crying because she misses you. Wishing she could muster the courage to come to you. Blocking Barbara Ann’s number. Maybe your father’s, too.

Armed with this fantasy, you open the door without knocking.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hi,” says your mother. She is sitting up in bed with her knees drawn to her chest, her phone an inch from her face. Her sheets are printed with tiny pinpricks of flowers, and a few straggling porcelain bunnies line her bookshelves. No books. She took the books with her when she moved with your father.

You kneel beside her bed and rest your head on the mattress, looking up at her, arms crossed beneath your cheek. You sit like that for a while, feeling the nubby white carpet dig into your knees, watching your mother’s eyes glow blue in the phone’s cold light. She is typing rapidly.

“Who’re you texting?” you ask.

“Barb,” she says.

“You mean Barbara Ann?”

“Yes.” She exhales hard through her nose.

“I thought you had no friends in high school. That’s what you told me.”

“Then I forgot about Barb.”

Cunt, you think, and you’re not even sure whether you’re thinking of Barbara Ann or of your mother.

“How could you forget?” you ask. “She was your best friend.”

“I never said that.”

“Your great friend, then.”

“People forget people all the time.”

“So what?” you say. “Are you going to forget me?”

Your mother is not listening. She is typing again.

She doesn’t give a shit about you.

“You don’t give a shit about me.” You speak softly.

“Don’t say that.” She puts the phone down on her bedside table.

“You don’t want me around.”

“I do want you around.” Her phone dings and she starts to move it for it, but stops herself.

“You’re being a really bad friend right now,” you say.

“To who? To Barb?”

“No,” you say, pausing meaningfully. “To me.”

“Well that’s fine,” she says. “I’m not your friend. I’m your mother.”

“Okay,” you say. “Fine.”

“Good,” she says. She rolls over and flicks off her lamp, which is baby blue and shaped like a hummingbird. After a moment, she cranes her neck to see you. “You can go now,” she says.

“No,” you say. “I don’t think I can.”

She gives you a long look, then flips onto her stomach. You let her settle in before you speak again.

“Did Barb call you Wednesday Addams? When you were younger?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant. It’s been a long time.”

“Would she even care if you dropped dead? Would you even care if—”

“You’re being mean.”

“I am mean,” you say. “So are you. We’re mean together.”

Your mother rolls onto her back, her hip brushing past your eyelashes. “I’m not like you,” she says. “I’m like Barb. Barb is a nice woman.”

“She’s not your friend,” you say. “She doesn’t know you.”

“Neither do you. I’m going to sleep.”

“Me too,” you say. “Goodnight.” She makes a big show of yawning, but doesn’t tell you to go. And so, you fall asleep that way, somehow, on your knees, with your chin resting by your mother’s warm side—near, but not touching.

You awake, a little past midnight, under your mother’s bed. Your knees must’ve given out in the night. The darkness beneath the mattress is alarming and complete. You worry that your mother has gone, has been swallowed up by the night at its blackest. You can only hear your own breathing, thin and nasal.

You try to sit in that aloneness. You really try, but you can’t. It’s too scary. You can’t stop thinking of Gertrude, the gentle dog your mother put down when you were sixteen. Of your father’s hooked nose. Of Chicago and the fear. Of your mother’s face when she saw Barbara Ann; the smile without any trace of meanness. Of Brisa’s fat pussy and the daughters it’s made. Of Barbara Ann’s denim jacket; the coffee can full of your mother; the anonymous river full of ashes.

Your mother's face in profile, the same as yours. The contours you share.

She will turn away when she sees you in the mirror.

You can feel this thought breathe. Its live power tickles your ear. It is realer than anything you’ve ever felt. It can’t be yours.

You have to look at your mother, now, full in the face, just to confirm that she hasn’t scrubbed your features from her body, that she hasn’t up and left you in the night. You crawl out from under the bed and straighten yourself with a creak.

“Mom,” you say, turning on the hummingbird lamp. She stirs and turns her face to you, covering her eyes with an elbow as if you are personally emitting the blistering light.

“What? What do you want?” Her voice is thick with sleep. A small film of drool trails along her cheek. You want so badly to be close to her.

“Do I always have to want something?”

“Yes, you do,” she says. “If you’re waking me up, at least, you’d better.”

“Well, I just wanted to tell you something.” You don’t actually have anything to tell her–nothing you could articulate, anyway–but you can’t not speak, now that her expectant eyes are on you.

You wipe the drool from her face with what you feel to be a great tenderness, but she swats your hand away. “What?” she says.

“I just wanted to tell you that grandma shit herself.” This is not true–or if it is, you would have no way of knowing–but it seems like a potential point of connection. You laugh hoarsely, but your mother does not laugh with you. She gasps.

“Really?” she sits up. “Is she okay? Does she need help?”

“What?” you say. “No, she’s fine. Brisa’s got it covered.”

“Oh. Why would you even tell me that, then?”

“I dunno.” you shrug your shoulders. “I thought it was kind of funny, I guess.”

“God,” she falls back onto the mattress and pulls the comforter to her chin. “How’d you get so fucked up?”

You watch her pretend to go back to sleep. You pretend you are not watching her eyes twitch beneath their lids, and she pretends not to feel you watching.

But soon, her phone lights up with a text and her eyes dart open, ruining the game.

She is leaving. She is going to leave you here alone and meet Barbara Ann on the winter beach.

“What does she have that I don’t?” you speak loudly, suddenly, from your diaphragm. You enunciate. Your mother knows exactly what you’re talking about, but makes like she does not. Her mouth starts to form a question mark, and you stop her before she can ask. “Barbara Ann,” you say. “Why do you love her and why do you hate me? What changed?”

They will walk together with their pants rolled to their ankles, their bare feet in the water.

“I don’t see why we have to talk about this right now,” your mother says, her eyes still on the phone. “My mother is dying, you know. Things are weird.”

They will laugh and they will touch each other’s arms.

“I know,” you say. “I just want to understand. I’ll leave you alone once you tell me.”

They will go to the river together. They will go without you.

Your mother sighs.“It’s not a matter of having something, or of not having it,” she says. “Barbara Ann is just nice. Sometimes that’s all there is.”

“I can be nice, if that’s what you want.”

“It’s not.”

“Oh,” you say. “I think I understand.”

And you do.

You understand, now, that in the morning you will find Barbara Ann over with a greasy sack of donuts and a pack of those thin menthols to smoke in the dining room with the window cracked. You understand that your increasingly desperate attempts to revive inside jokes will receive only cursory attention. You understand that you will go on your walks alone and you will come back only to the wheezing gap in Brisa’s pornstar teeth.

You can see it all now: you will never go to the river with your mother. Your grandmother will never die.

 

Rebecca Kopelman (she/her) is a junior at BC studying English and philosophy. You can find her on Instagram @rebecca_kop

Runaway by Renny Gong

 

This piece was first published in Quarto’s 2023 Spring Print Edition.

Illustration by Ishaan Barrett

 

1 mile. The treadmill was this old rickety thing that screamed—high-pitched but still coarse—as it whirred beneath me. My father stood behind me, arms-crossed.

2 miles. We had this beautiful marble kitchen island, the kind you see in Architectural Digest videos. I think about that marble kitchen island a lot—sometimes about playing tag around it with playdate-kids. But in one memory, my father is chasing me around that island, in the same way those kids did—clutching at the sides of the countertop, shimmying, anticipating the other’s movement—but unlike those kids, he is holding a brown belt in his hand. Where did this belt come from? This densely-creased, strangely-limp belt? He never wore it, that’s for sure.

3 miles. Another marble kitchen island memory: as a family activity, we would make a stir fry of hot peppers, bean curd, and pork. It was the only time I was allowed to hold a knife. Baba really likes hot peppers, especially the long green kind. He would say to us, “Oh wow, these peppers are really very spicy. Be careful, make sure to avoid them.” Then, he would eat every last pepper. He still does this—don’t eat the spicy, not for women and children, only big strong baba.

4 miles. These days though, baba gets horrendous diarrhea if he eats too many peppers, so my mother commands him to leave them. I went to visit not long ago and during dinner, my mother kept swatting at his hand, ever inching towards a pepper. “Just eat the bean curd and tofu!” Afterwards, my mother left to pee. We looked to the plate of leftover peppers resting on the marble. He looked at me and I at him and slowly he shoveled the peppers into his mouth, picking up speed until he was red and sweating. I looked at him, hunched over, chewing furiously, eyes fixed on the closed bathroom door. He closed his eyes to convey his pepper-induced orgasm. I looked away. The toilet flushed. He froze and swallowed quickly, big-eyed, and was still scraping the remaining peppers into the trash, when my mother came out, squinting at the two of us.

“Did he eat the peppers?” my mother asked, looking at me, but she was already elbow-deep in the trash and wrestling with baba.

Big explosive farts later that night and my mother knocking on the door, yelling “You good?”

Baba yelling back, “Leave me alone!” BRRRAP! POW! POW! Baba always had the most phenomenal poops, like a zipper being zipped, like fireworks.

5 miles. Fuck you, I’ll run forever.

6 miles. I cannot remember why he chased me around that marble kitchen island, why he was so adamant about this violence. Did I misbehave at dinner? Was I very mean to my mother? And where was my mother? If I know anything about her, that incurable insomniac, she was not asleep. So what was she up to?

7 miles. Eventually, we got out of that this-way and that-way twist. I bolted into the living room—a foolish mistake. We did that little back-alley shuffle and then the belt lunged, shattering the glass behind me. Again, and this time, I ducked too-slow and the buckle clipped my cheekbone. I could not see him, not in this heavy darkness with only the microwave clock and the blinking red from the DVD player, so the next lunge really got me, belt wrapping around my abdomen like a lasso, a silent pause until the buckle caught my tummy.

8 miles. When the belt untangled, he made to hit me again, wrapping the belt around his hands to shorten its length. I think about this movement a lot, that deliberate redoubling of the belt, the calmness with which he did it. “Baba, baba, stop!” I yelled, cowering face down on the couch with my hands around my skull, but there was the belt again.

9 miles. There was nothing left to do but lie. “You got my eye! ” I yelled, clutching my face. At this, he dropped the belt, tearing away my hands to examine my eyes. For the first time that night, I could see his face clearly and it was red with fear.

10 miles. I could see only the STOP button—ugly and red and swollen.

11 miles. Looking up at his face, I thought about killing him. I really did. I imagined him on the floor with a big hole in his chest. Another memory: holding a knife, but this time in the dark, and shivering.

12 miles. My eyes, that’s what he cared about. So now, the treadmill.

13 miles. I called him recently, standing on the grass in Bryant Park, looking at the backside of the library. “When will you be back in New York? I miss you.”

14 miles. These days, I love him so much. I want to hold him all the time. I want to hold him and I want him to cry.

15 miles. My vision started to blur. I looked back and looked back. The treadmill felt impossibly far beneath me, low, dark, regular, forever.

16 miles. “Soon” he said. “Will you get WeChat so we can have a family group chat? I’ve been telling you.”

17 miles.

18 miles. I lost him in the dark. Where did he go? Was he still there?

“Baba?” I asked, speaking for the first time. And then I faltered. My knee twisted in some awful way and I fell back, flailing, legs kicking. As my head hit the ground, dull and soundless, I thought not of the pain, but of whether I could have kept going.

Afterwards, I lay there for a while, stinging, listening to the treadmill—still on—and his steady footsteps, walking away.

A rustling. Had mother been hiding at the foot of the stairs this whole time? Run away, run away, the birds sang. Leave before the sky can blue.

But where was baba? Where did he go?

 

Renny Gong is a senior at Columbia College. He loves to take things off the street.

Workhorse by Daniel Shannon

 

Day 5 Winner of Quarto’s 2023 Thunderdome Flash Fiction Contest. View the prompt here

Illustration by Kaavya Gnanam

 

At our sector we don’t get many reports. Long weeks can pass where the worst jobs we get are calls about sentences on the run or other small stuff—never any occurrences as bad as that, you understand. But we’re ahead of ourselves; just know that’s why we were unaware of the absence for so long. Not an uncommon event. Many could fall through the cracks and one can hardly put the whole of the fault of the matter on our heads.
We began to suspect what’d happened when our rat at the newspapers let us know about the sudden breakdown of a staff member. Apparently they’d had to sack the food-column woman for her latest work—lacked the usual personal touch, or so they told us—and she took that poorly. We called her down for a talk and began to understand the problem.
“Are you sure you can’t locate them?” we asked.
“They’re not where they usually are” she responded. “Please, help me. One hardly knows who one’s anymore.”
“Clever” we remarked.
We announced them as lost later that day. Put up posters, TV ads, that sort of stuff. After a few days we got a break. A poet had made plans to move to a more prose-centered style. He told us he couldn’t sleep due to what he’d done and that he wanted a plea-deal. After what he confessed, we assembled a team and moved out.
They were found roped up out the back of the program’s compound—worked to death, an autopsy showed. Apparently students had jammed them repeatedly through unsafe structures full of waste; too much for them to handle. We let the people know through a conference.
“What do we do?” they asked.
“You could always use ‘Y’” Y proposed. Yt dydn’t go over very well.

 

A Sensitive Type by Daniel Shannon

 

Day 4 Winner of Quarto’s 2023 Thunderdome Flash Fiction Contest. View the prompt here

Illustration by Watson Frank

 

The restaurant has low ceilings. It is too warm to be pleasant. He is annoyed because the waiter is ignoring them. She might be annoyed too, but he’s not sure. Her face is hard to read. It ripples like a slo-mo video of a flag in high winds, which is fine except that he thinks it might mean he’s a misogynist. He doesn’t believe he is but her face looks like that and her body looks like that so he’s giving it thought.
But then it’s hardly his fault. He wasn’t expecting her. When they’d first met his penis was limp in his hand and his phone was balanced on the caps of his knees. He’d said who are you. She’d said he’d thought her up, like Athena. He thought he’d have imagined someone shorter and prettier if that were the case but her breasts were pale and very large so he swallowed his complaints. He’d said right then what do you want to do and had leaned back a bit and then she’d been quiet. He’d been surprised and a little upset when she suggested dinner.
He wanted to seem a gentleman though, so he took her out. He gave her a hoodie and sweatpants to cover herself with but the proportions looked wrong. Her thighs were cold in the Uber. He wasn’t sure where her mouth was so he kissed her neck instead.
Finally, the waiter comes over. For you ma’am? he asks. She’ll have the oysters, he says, and nudges her foot a little. I’ll have the steak, rare. Certainly sir, says the waiter, not looking at him. After he’s gone she leans over and asks to use the bathroom. He kisses her cheek(?) and says yes. The steak has gone cold by the time he understands.

 

Statement Piece by Daniel Shannon

 

Day 3 Winner of Quarto’s 2023 Thunderdome Flash Fiction Contest. View the prompt here

Illustration by Watson Frank

 

I was right, in the end. A bit too gauche. Times were tasteless enough to say “kitsch” but that was the worst of it. No great outcry, I’m afraid. Most of them sit in storerooms now.
London got 9 and 1 which is a nice symmetry. They put 1 on display until Guardian ran a piece on it. It didn’t say anything about the work itself (on strict orders, I’d wager) but it was enough. I don’t think 9 ever got shown, which is a shame—it had those drip patterns I liked near the bottom.
2 went to Amsterdam who are showing it still. A few flecks, but nothing awful. I’m afraid they like it a bit too much for your taste. Guided tours, a podcast episode, that sort of thing. I hear they’re putting it on a postcard soon.
Seoul claimed three of them. Unfair, perhaps, but no one protested. 4 and 6 were displayed together for a month-long “emergency exhibition” before retiring to the back with 3. I was in touch with the curator last week; he says they’ve been approached by a private buyer. I told him what you would have wanted. He didn’t seem to care and frankly, I don’t blame him.
7 and 8 went to the States. A public decency group raised a fuss and it was news for a day or two. I don’t know where they are, but neither is shown in MOMA so you can be happy with that at least.
And then no one wanted 5—so it’s mine. It was heaviest hit, being right behind the head. There’s a small tear in the canvas, actually. Very tactile. It turned out too loud though—and there’s the smell. Like I said. A tad gauche. I think you would agree.

 

To Discard is to Love by Reese Alexander

 

Day 2 Winner of Quarto’s 2023 Thunderdome Flash Fiction Contest. View the prompt here

Illustration by Watson Frank

 

I love so hard, I love so hard the small things. Antique bottles found in muck, washed, displayed. Misaddressed letters from strangers kept for decades, never opened, waiting even now. Grocery lists discarded on the concrete, still dictating your needs—you, who I will never meet, but who I will always know is today out of shampoo.
I leave my own small things behind purposefully, for people like me and people not like me. I am not lonely, though I go to the movies often, and read many books. Each movie ticket I save, no matter the film, no matter whose body occupied the seat next to mine. However, I do not allow myself to save them for long. I have seen my mother’s room. I have seen the envelopes and boarding passes and movie tickets stacked high in the empty space behind her pupils. I have seen my grandmother’s collection of spoons, of stamps, of long strands of hair. I have seen my sister’s dolls, and her unhappiness.
My greatest fear is becoming a woman with seashells and postcards falling out of her ears and nose, even as I long for just that.
So I give mine away. One by one, I slip these movie tickets into the yellow pages of library books on each and every visit. I have worshiped my god on three continents now.
Maybe tomorrow, maybe in years, hands will find these tickets. They will read the date, the time, my seat number, and touch the worn ink with their fingers. Then they will slip them back into the book, and turn the page. I will turn it with them.

 

Early Work by Daniel Shannon

 

Day 1 Winner of Quarto’s 2023 Thunderdome Flash Fiction Contest. View the prompt here

Illustration by Watson Frank

 

Pond ice cracked with skates—hairlines burning—webs, flush with light. Watch it now! Loose over the skin of each hack and eating itself in the snow. Bounds in like a chased hare over the yard—Jesus, did you ever see anything so fierce—shatters in waves against the house. Morning, thin and wiry, settling the place; and with it, the quiet.
I’m here most days I can get away with it. The one inside’s a known lout, there’s no danger there. Sure wasn't Lynch saying to me the other day that were there work in the bed he’d sleep on the floor. Ha! No, no trouble there. Hasn’t noticed yet or else there’d be some bother. And it works out better, sure, don’t I give him some incentive then. Maybe then he’d wake for the dawn the lazy bollocks.
At a gentle creep now, no sense in tempting. Quick past the door’s leaky heat (watch where dirt turns to mush) down under the window (pull off the old cap there) quickly, quickly, around to the post—yes, oh, we’re making good time now. The trick is to crack it open with speed; any hesitation and creak you’re done, sent up the ways and half-purple by noon. Ah, but it’s an old trick for me now.
Bills and bills and bills by God did you ever see the like of it. An absolute loafer of a man if there ever was one. Thumb through now: the brother, useless, the daughter, useless, aha! There, the aunt. Quickly the knife clean under, there we go; my beloved Maurice by God the old biddy goes on take this photo (the vanity of some people!) throw that aside and this gift There! There! Fifteen, no, twenty, by Jesus if it isn't Christmas! Back up we go, on off—away!

 

a hand came down from the sky by Gretta Trafficante

 

This piece was first published in Quarto’s 2023 Spring Print Edition.

Illustration by Watson Frank

 

[Cumulonimbus in the shape of]

A hand came down from the sky — fingers short and plump and divine, nails trimmed to
sapphic efficiency.
The hand was giant, outstretched like roots of a redwood, supported by an arm that leaned on
clouds with all the ease of one resting on the rim of a fishbowl.

A hand came down from the sky and reached through the side of the math department building:
bricks toppled with reverence, glass shattered in a tittering, and we the poor souls in Calculus II
were glued with mesmer to our seats.

After a rest, the fingers began to flutter in cyclic rhythm — like wooden horses on a carousel,
thought one student; like wooden oars of a Viking ship, mused another — and a handful of us
shot up. We looked around the room, our small smiles propped by condescension. How
embarrassing for them
, we all thought, the hand is clearly calling to me.

But the hand was uninterested in our individual visions; the hand motioned us all forward. We
climbed on, dreams of protagonism jostled, and sat criss-cross in the palm’s eroded grooves.

[I’m Nobody! Who are you?]

In skillful steadiness, the hand wriggled out of the architectural carnage and returned to the sky.

The journey was long; as we were lulled beyond atmosphere, some feared suffocation, others
implosion, but all we found was a nice view of the stars and a chilliness that made us wish for
autumn coats. We squinted as the earth became a droplet on the canvas of our voyage, and
found a hazy separation between our eyes and the galaxy.
It’s kinda like being high, said one of us. It’s kinda like being sad, said another.

[THE FOOL]

The hand became our Pangaea; which is to say, the hand sang with us in tectonic shifts,
corporeal eons siphoned into chorus.

The hand spoke to us in palm readings. We learned the craft together, pooling our memories of
cloud-gazing and poems and tarot spreads to draw meaning from her
ever-changing topology.

 

Gretta Trafficante (they/them) studies English and psych at Columbia. You can find more of their work in Blacklist Journal and The Manila Magnolia. 

We Dream of Marbled Things by Nicolas Denton-Cheng

 

Illustration by Bella Aldrete

 

Light streamed in oblong blocks through the frayed, crosshatched curtain. Splayed out onto the garish pink tile, it lazily reflected itself throughout the bathroom, casting a monochrome haze that seemed to ebb and flow. The tiles were octagonal, framed by the cracks between them, with hints of mold growing intermittently.

I stood at the edge of the shower, thirteen and adolescent, taxonomizing the sprouting hairs creeping towards my navel. The pipes popped and creaked as the water warmed, steam lending itself to the haze. I placed my hand underneath the water, before following with the rest of my body.

The bottle of shampoo and conditioner were identically styled, same color scheme, font, and size. Everytime, I was forced to pick up both of the bottles, turn them around, and read the label to tell which was which. I blamed my mother. I meant to tell her that she should buy different colored shampoo and conditioner, and that I blamed her. As I shampooed my hair, bubbles of soapy air erupting into existence, I thought of my day. I woke up, went to school, came home. Home, school, home. I showered in the morning too. I always took two showers, but I never shampooed in the morning. I enjoyed those kinds of sets, in which one thing is bookended by the same thing done over twice. Most things start from that: our first words are Mom and Dad, which backwards are Mom and Dad, and we start out by barely being alive and end up being dead. There is a vowel, there is a life, and both have a beginning that matches up with the end. That’s how I figured things were, and while I enjoyed these sets they also scared me, because I did not want to die, and it seemed that I would.

As water washed away the lather, I stared down at my legs, lost in the criss-crossing confusion of its hair. It seemed strange, having hair on skin, two things so unlike. In science class, we grew mold on agar, white and yellow spots staining the otherwise uniform sample. We took swabs of different dirty places around the school, like toilet seats or the mouths of water fountains. I was supposed to swab the napkin dispenser, but I did my armpit instead. No one knew I had done it, but I did imagine someone confronting me about it. I spent hours, both before and after the incident, formulating lies and excuses for why I swabbed my armpit. In the experiment, I had the least growth in the class, but even then there were still small spots of white pockmarking the clear gelatin. Staring down, I watched invisible spots of white crawling up and down my leg hairs. Then, I saw them hop onto my arm, my crotch, and take root in my armpits, creating a bacterial blizzard around my body. I never used shampoo anywhere other than my head though, because people did not do that. Especially boys. Back then, I knew that boys did not shampoo their legs, nor their arms, nor any place but their head.

I moved onto the conditioner. I took a large glob of the porcelain white substance, and rubbed it into my hair, scratching and spreading alternately. My fingers and toes began to crinkle, marking the time since I had entered the shower. I had homework to do afterwards. I could not be long. Suddenly, I stopped the application and let my arms drift down to the side of my hunched body. The bacterial hair and the conditioner had brought back an image I had been encountering and avoiding for the past month. A painting. I had seen it during a field trip to the MET, as I traveled with a group of boys who I did not so much hang out with as around. They were looking for paintings with naked women so they could laugh and discuss their limited knowledge of boobs and vaginas. I tried to comment on every third painting or so, bringing in terms I had heard online, and the vague remembrance of a half-watched porno. Originally I was planning on not talking at all. However, an inevitable impetus came in a damning painting.

The painting was around my height, although taller in the gallery as it was placed above me, and if I really stretched my arms, I could have reached both ends of the frame and embraced it. The central figures were situated in a workshop, surrounding a central woman, standing on a large pedestal. While her arms and lower body were made of marble, a wave of skin was washing over her form, turning her head and chest to a pale pink. To her right there was a young boy with wings, holding her marble wrist. The young boy and woman were similarly dressed, both with a garland of flowers on the head, and both wearing nothing but a tapestry, covering their genitals. Neither of them had any hair on their bodies apart from their head. The painting, as the caption read, was based on Pygmalion, of the marble women made into living form. The young boy with wings was added by the painter, a christain addition to the Roman myth. It may be more accurate to call him an angel; I did not see him as an angel, but rather as a young boy who happened to have wings. For that reason, him being a boy and not a divinity, I was inexorably attracted to that pair, the marble woman and the young boy with wings.

Nervous of these unknown feelings, I made an unnoticed joke about her boobs, and left the painting with the group. But, it stuck with me, the painting and the pair. I thought of Pygmalion, I thought of the young boy, and I thought of a marble human, and how similar the marble woman and the human angel appeared. I thought of how they would die. Or rather, I imagined how they would never die, since statues always stay the same, and if the young boy looked just like the statue, and stood right by the statue holding its marble wrist, he would stay the same too. And I thought about how they had no hair on their body, the two slabs of skin. I thought about the two slabs of skin, how they had no genitals, because I could not see them in the painting, and my memory had conflated coverage with nonexistence. So I stared down in the shower, at my genitals surrounded by hair, bookended by unkempt legs, encapsulated by swarms of bacteria.

I imagined grabbing a hair on my leg and pulling, unspooling a long black strand, as if every follicle stored both the hair and all future hair within it. Then I would grab another and another, until not only my legs but my entire body would be free and smooth. A small indent in the wall to the left of me stored various toiletries: body soap, razors, toothbrush. I took my razor, a slick jet-blue color and a mechanically styled body, and shaved my face. I started in the top left corner right beside my ear, pulling the razor upwards. I went over the same section, chin-to-left-ear, three times, then washed the small flecks of hair off the razor, and did it another three times, repeating this process until the razor glided over my jaw and there were no hairs to wash off. I did the same for my right jaw, my chin, and the slice of skin lying between the chin and neck.

The water, all the meanwhile, continued pouring itself over my body, running in miniature rivulets down every hair. Again, I thought of long black threads unspooling from my body, dragged out by the running current, swirling down into the shower drain. And with the razor, I would shave off my skin to reveal marble underpinnings, and my genitals would fall away, as if rubbing away dead skin. I would join the woman and boy, hugging and holding onto both of them with an unmovable grip, their flower garlands would unfurl and encircle the three of us, binding and tightening, until we became indistinguishable from one another. I wanted more than anything for this to be the truth.

But, I had homework to do, so I placed the razor back into the indent, and left the shower.

 

Nicolas Denton-Cheng is a senior in CC.