Tunnel Shears

By Jem Morgenstern

The walls were once slick with condensating excrements and the scent of feces was an inescapable force that lingered in the air at all times. Now, the sewer corridors are as dry as the desert above them. Putrid scents come and go as the winds blow through galleries of semi-petrified masses of ancient feculence - or the scents are carried from fresher excrement after the wind passes through corners of the sewers reserved for stews of waste and rotting dead of the present day.

These corridors, once solely the home to pests and shifting excretion of the old age, now house the people who could not bear the striking heat of the dual suns and the jagged sand winds. All who abandon the arduous journeys above for the security of the sewer passageways face the questionable hospitality of the indigenous craftspeople known as The Sewers.

The Sewers are the last remaining people of the Northwestern Landmass who have the skills needed to manufacture clothing. Because it is the only skill that offers them an advantage in the trading networks, they cruelly guard the secrets of their techniques. Without their secrets, the only product they could offer to the markets would be the petrified manure of the ancients. With only that to offer, they would find themselves starved and dying because so few ask for the petrified manure.

The Sewers reserve all garments they make to be sold in the world above them. Because of this, they all live their lives disrobed. The docile underground wind wraps its fingers around their bare bodies, refugees from the desert avert their gaze until they finally become accustomed to uncovered skin, nudity is only interrupted when they dress themselves in newly made clothing to ensure it will fit similar bodies in the dusty world above.

The Sewers’ utilize their nudism to distinguish themselves from the refugees whose bodies are veiled by clothing. Although those who are clothed are not treated poorly, they are excluded from greater sewer events. They are not invited to the occasional dinners afforded to The Sewers by their monopoly on skills of clothing production, but they are treated to the leftovers from these feasts.

The Sewers are kind enough to allow outsiders to participate in their industry, too. For a long period of time before they are truly considered part of the sewer community, the outsiders work as liaisons to the desert markets. They bring the clothing up and the traded goods down in exchange for gradual acceptance - plus, they are compensated for their labor with popular currencies and necessary comforts.

Eventually, some outsiders become Sewers and are offered the privilege of learning the skills hoarded by underground dwellers since the beginning of this age. There have been attempts by desert travelers to infiltrate the indigenous sewer communities by stripping their rags from their bodies and entering the tunnels while pretending to already be Sewers. The Sewers, having exceptional eyes for details, are able to distinguish a dust dweller’s skin from their own. With exposure to the desert, patches of skin are rugged with scars that do not occur in the sewers. If The Sewers discover intent to steal their secrets, the former potential thief is quickly tied and brought to an empty corridor that is strictly used for immolation. Afterwards, the body is transported to a waste corner where it is left to decay.

This brutality towards thieves is the only violence found in the sewers. There is no other place that provides the same asylum from barbarism. Above, even the air is savage. Below, the world is gentle enough for nakedness to be commonplace and for inhabitants to be so untroubled by their surroundings that they are able to socialize without irritation piercing through their interactions. Couriers, wealthy travelers, and even the Dust Raiders rest in the company of Sewers - to escape the suns, to rest without worry of Horrible Centipedes emerging from the sands, and to disrobe and refresh in gentle air.

my daily commute #1

by leiani

some lady's sobbing
in the car next to me
I don't ask her why
we just drive
block to block as red
fades to green
she's in a sphere
all her own
each car that passes
does not see the pain
blasted in uneven
holes across her chest
and those few who do
notice tears streaking shoulder
it off as secondhand
pain or pms -- anything
to keep them from worrying
God knows they've got enough on their plate
without the girl whose face hangs
in my rearview mirror
on my daily commute

Weekend Parking

It was this paralyzing fear. One I'd felt before, but never with the actual effect of paralyzing. I easily blamed it on lack of sleep, on the account of a dying mother, on a lack of desire--the usual excuses. But the shaking was new. Perhaps it was imagined? Some cruel joke played by a maimed, but otherwise healthy, mind? It's possible. (Is it possible to be both maimed and healthy? A conversation I'll have with myself later, I'm sure--but not in the way that would make you question my sanity, I hope).
But every outlook seemed bleak. If I went, I would subject myself to talking to people, if I stayed they would ask me why, I would question my sanity and hate myself for my incapacities and inconsistencies, imaginary or otherwise. Something so routine as taking the bus or finding available parking spots seemed more than a great burden - a legitimate, inexplicable fear. No amount of love for you and desire to see you could seemingly trigger movement in my motionless body in that moment of decision.
Somehow you convinced me to move. It was as simple as the comforting thought of a hairy hug from a secondhand sweater and the breezy feeling of wind on my open-kneed jeans: I didn't decide to go so much as I decided what to wear. As trivial as it may sound to anyone else, as trite as it actually may be, that was all it was and that was all it took.
But I didn't know what it really was--beyond anxiety (I so hate that word. That word holds claim over real people and real struggles, but I cannot begin to claim a destructive force I am nowhere near acquainted with, though we've exchanged pleasantries and have mutual friends), if you can call it that. And that scares me almost as much as the shake of my hands as a stranger took the cash I was offering willingly but without looking them in the eye because for a split second I unlearned how to leave the house and that felt like an edge I hadn't before neared, an edge that everyone could see in the angular, skeletal frame I try to cloak in oversized hoodies and sweaters. And I am left only with the thought: do I fear the shake or the possibility there might be a reason behind it?

A Poem About Cement and Me

By Jem Morgenstern

The cement
has more personality than I do
because its history is vocalized

It's strong and present
the water stains
the cracks
the gum

Mine is internal

It's swallowed and drowning
in my stomach
the intestines
the cracks
the crevices

I hoard my words
as if they're more valuable
inside of me
than outside
to be eaten by the people
who are hungry
for my words
and my presence

Shallow Beaches

Shallow Beaches 
-LB
Explain: why listening to you worry about the state of the world—you cover climate change, presidential elections, academic strains, starvation (beginning in the first person), and career goals in a matter of minutes—and watching your hope deflate and despair consume you in your particular ease, nonchalance, and embracing way makes me want to believe that it will all actually be okay.

Explain: why these things I never cared about suddenly make me tremor and all I want to do is know everything, learn everything, fix everything, or maybe just fix you dinner and listen to you talk and never stop listening and listen to you sing if you sing because I think that you sing and I don't care if you listen to Bieber—which is big for me because things like that have always mattered to me in the most gravely important way—or if your voice sounds like screeching but I'd probably prefer that over the slow nervous warmth in your voice that matches the blue in your eyes that makes me crumble and smile without meaning to in the most high school girlish way (and I don't admit that proudly).

Explain: why the structure of your mind—or maybe lack thereof—is a hug to my tired, dark heart, and why it's been ready to leap on any collection of words for once that aren't my own or that one person's whose name is no longer claimed, but yours, and why every time I read your thoughts spewed out on the page I want to write more of my own, I want to believe that I can.
Explain why: it's 3:00 a.m. and I'm still thinking about that dinner—can I make you a vegetarian lasagna? Are you opposed to vegetarians? Do you have a secret affinity for Elsa and that stupid-looking snowman? Is it frightening to you in an I-don't-understand-it-so-I'm-either-going-to-overinstate-my-"masculinity"-or-just-try-to-avoid-it-at-all-costs sort of way that some men wear dresses and like other men or some people are just people who don't identify as either / or, just want to be seen as people? All these things and more I should learn before I make you dinner, I suppose, but I guess I just assumed that all the answers must be the answers I wanted because my previous paragraphs can't seem to be explained in any other way. Well, that and your hair falls just perfect and your eyes glimmer the dreamiest shade of blue.

Erase

By Jem Morgenstern

The wood burned. Fire tainted every color its wrathing arms could reach. Bright embers and dark ashes slowly fell onto the white floors, painting it black and spotted red. Blue wallpaper disintegrated: curling downwards, crumbling, fading to brown. Blinding yellow flames rose into the sky and bled into the blue horizon dyed orange by the rising sun. The blinding light would wave and the smoke would peer over the hills, but no eyes would look in its direction. None were near enough to witness the building’s excruciating mutation. Nobody would hear the aching wooden skeleton crack and fall apart. Nobody would smell the distinct, uniquely putrid scent of the burning evidence: the sulfurous stench of keratin, nauseating odor of heated bacteria, or fumes from unused chemicals.

No roads led here. Nobody ever wandered here. Discovery of what happened here was unlikely. If anyone did happen to find this ruin, every question they could have would forever be unanswered. The specifics of the crimes committed would never be uncovered. The identities of those involved would always be a mystery. Their stories would never be told, shared, reported. Nobody would hear about the cold nights they spent in that building - body shivering, teeth chattering, hands shaking - waiting. Waiting for the breathing to stop. Watching a body laboriously force itself to continue living until it lost the strength to keep itself running. Sometimes, it would take minutes. Sometimes, so much time would pass by that they felt their own bodies might give up before the one collapsed on the floor would finally croak out its final breath. They wanted it to last, so they could savor the intensity of seeing life inch itself out of a body with every shaking moan, every quiver of the body, every exhalation. So they wouldn’t have to clean up after themselves. So they wouldn’t have to begin the tedious process of finding another again so soon. They always wondered if anyone would notice these people were missing. They always did their best to choose lonely people. Quiet people who nobody noticed. Ones that were almost expected to disappear someday anyway.

It was when they noticed somebody had begun looking for one of their people that they fretfully decided to burn the building down. Tears rolled from their eyes, as they set their place of ritualistic pleasure ablaze. They watched the walls that housed so many memories of joy crumble to the ground. They burned their souvenirs along with it. Erased any proof of their dark avocation. Though they didn’t intend for the loss of their house of memories to put an end to their past-time. So they set out to find a place to begin again. One as hidden, as disposable, as perfect as this one. Where, even now, they continue to derive joy from watching their victims struggle to stay alive. Where, even now, there is no trail that leads to them - to their discovery, guilt, or conviction.

Brandon, OR/ID: Part VI

Wet and Yellowed Denim

By Jem Morgenstern

The music began and the audience’s quivers of anticipation settled. Their bodies gave into the hum of the cello, letting it fill their pores with the scent of vibrating spruce and maple. While Scott’s ears followed the melodies, his eyes wandered the aisles of the music hall: stopping to memorize every seated figure, taking advantage of the music’s sensory captivation, familiarizing himself with their bodies and the assumed identities he could yield from their appearance. There was a woman in her mid-forties, who wore a midnight blue cotton blouse with an imperial collar that was a close-enough match to the sapphire studs she wore in the holes in her ears. Her hair was slicked back into a neatly wound bun that sat just below the centerpoint of where a crown would sit. For all he knew, she wasn’t wearing any pants; he could only see the portion of her body above her shoulder blades. She either came alone or wasn’t close to the ones she came with. If she did come with others and they were the audience members sitting next to her, they weren’t emotionally close. If she did come with others and they were elsewhere in the pool of bodies, they were simply not within a personal proximity of physical distance. She and the bodies surrounding her - together - did not radiate a feeling of warmth, like most friends do when they are sharing an experience within a personal proximity. There was a man in his early thirties, who wore an outfit that (in Scott’s opinion) was too casual for this event. This judgement was, of course, only made from the pieces of the outfit that Scott could see, which was all from the shoulder blades and above. For all he knew, he could have been wearing very fancy pants. However, in this instance of reaching a conclusion without having been provided all necessary evidence to reach a definite determination, Scott was correct; the man in his early thirties was dressed in an outfit that was too casual for this event. The man in his early thirties was not wearing very fancy pants. This man’s attendance was mandated by the other man in his early thirties, who was sitting next to him. This other man wore an outfit that was entirely reasonable for this event. This led Scott to have a more favorable opinion of the other man than the one that the other man brought with him. Scott decided that, if he were to ever interact with the two men in their early thirties, he would appear amiable towards both, but his internal gratitude would very much be shifted towards the other one. There was a man wearing a denim button-up and ornate brass earrings. After first landing on a mostly negative opinion of this man’s choice of attire, Scott’s opinion shifted towards an applauding appraisal. Throughout the four hour performance, the denim-clad man continuously captured Scott’s attention. The scent of his personality was magnetic. Even halfway through, when everyone began squeezing their legs together and sweating due to straining their internal controls, which is a scene that would generally break his intense optical invasion, Scott’s eyes were locked onto the man in denim. While (nearly) everyone else shook in their seats, the man in denim remained steady and intent on the performance - his stillness in the shifting sea of bodies made it even more difficult for Scott to look away. He found the man after the performance.

Three days later, the man in denim can now be called Daniel. Daniel’s desk is cluttered, with an indiscernible but apparent organizational system. Its surface is stained by droplets of ink that were ignored for too long. Some of the spots could probably be cleaned away, if Daniel cared enough to do so, but he did not care enough to do so. They are tangled together on the bed, nesting their bodies together like two spoons. Scott has been waiting for Daniel, whose arms are tightly wound around his body, to wake up. He doesn’t want to move, because he doesn’t want to wake Daniel up before he’s ready. While he waits, he clings onto the intimacy of the moment and stares at the desk, which he now feels he has become more familiar with than his own. Scott, like most people in this city, rarely used his desk. He used it most often for leaning on, while staring out the window above it. On occasion, he would pull his journal from beneath his bed to write about the scenes outside and his recent obsessions. Those occasions were infrequent. While writing in that journal, he would most often sit at his kitchen table. He didn’t like to spend too much time in his bedroom, the room in which his desk is located, despite its welcoming warmth. He could never place the source, but there was something in his bedroom that he described to himself as maddening. He spends as little time in his bedroom as possible. Daniel, however, spends an obscene amount of time in his bedroom and, unlike most people in this city, used his desk almost daily.

Three more days later, Scott is sitting in his bedroom at his desk with his journal of obsessions open to a blank page.The subtle warmth of the beige walls, deep red blankets, Eastern Red Cedar desk, and African Rosewood bed frame endow the room with a welcoming glow. The complex floral carvings in the sideboard of the frame, the cleanliness, and the well-kept collection of friendly letters suggest gentility and a kind femininity. He presses the tip of a pen against the paper and writes about the window, the view from the window, the cravings the window instilled. Above the desk, a window offers a longing temptation to strip the exceedingly lavish decor from the exterior and interior walls of The Property. Above the bed, a mirror reflects the window’s view, embedding an obsession with The Family’s wealth. His journal reflects that obsession. He has compiled every notable detail he has been able to ensare from his view of the massive estate. The lanterns in The Property’s gardens were illuminated, as the the city’s face was turned away from the sun, highlighting the immensity of their gardens, acting as another burdening indication of The Family’s excessive prosperity. The dawn brought an immemorable sunset with dusty browns and fading blues. Crickets scraped their instrumental wings together. As traffic dissipated, its bellowing was replaced by the sound of wind in leaves. In the dim garden lights, Scott could see a figure. The Gardener was still working: trimming the rose bushes, plucking blades of grass the mower missed, inspecting every other detail of the sprawling yards to make sure everything was as perfect as The Family wanted it to be. This gardener, Scott realized, knew every immaculate crevice on The Property. The longing temptation to strip the wealth from The Family’s walls, floors, drawers, ceilings, pockets, knuckles, bushes, fridges, doors, and closets became something more. After this realization, Scott began to stitch together a plan.

From his window, he watched The Gardener. He absorbed every detail that could possibly be significant. Scott familiarized himself completely with The Gardener’s work. The daisies were always kept at an even number - if one grew, one would have to be chopped; if one died unexpectedly, another one would have to be sacrificed. The Northeast lawn was mowed on Tuesdays, the Southwest on Wednesdays, the Southeast on Thursdays, and there was no grass in the Northwest portion of the gardens. The rose bushes were trimmed obsessively. Sandpaper was used to scratch off the smallest flaws. Their height was kept perfectly aligned with the bottom of the window above them. The Gardener would often spend dozens of minutes staring at the border between rose and window to ensure the alignment was perfect, Scott thought. That staring, however, revealed itself to be something else. Weeks into his spying, Scott bought binoculars. Spying with the use of only his eyes had been difficult. Because of his frugal tendencies, he attempted to make it work, but it had become enough of a hinderance that he decided the use of additional tools would be beneficial. While considering the purchasing of binoculars, he also had a thought questioning his need for all the wealth of The Property. Scott, as indicated by the use of the word ‘frugal’ not so long ago, doesn’t spend a lot of money. He makes enough money to meet all his needs. He makes enough money to build an admirable amount of savings. He doesn’t need more money. This sparked a self-discovery session in which Scott analyzed his cravings. Eventually, he settled on this rationalization: he feels as though he could never have enough money to feel confident he could make-do in an extreme crisis and he feels deeply unsettled by that fact, so acquiring a grotesque amount of money would allow him to feel comfortable about his chances of making it through an extreme crisis, therefore, he would never have to worry about anything reliant on his monetary resources again and he could be truly happy. He felt good about buying the binoculars. With those binoculars, while watching The Gardener stare at the rose bush alignment, he noticed a longing expression. This expression made it clear that The Gardener wasn’t staring at the rose bush alignment. He was longing for whatever it was he could see through the window. He was obsessively desperate. Scott knew this could be used to his own advantage. This could be his key to recruiting The Gardener.

Vague Introspection

By Jem Morgenstern

Footsteps sunk into the room from the apartment above and dialogue from a movie playing down the hall was muffled by the walls. Crickets played their repetitive music. Cars drove by intermittently, with traffic slowed from the daytime flow to the nighttime lull. A man was shouting down the street, interjecting his voice into the otherwise calm summer fade. The screaming city was getting as much rest as the people inside it would let it have.

Keeping my eyes closed took more effort than leaving them open. I couldn’t sleep, so I stared at the ceiling and listened to the dry breeze make passes through the small gap between the window and the sill. I had a lot of unresolved worries and questions; without closure, my day didn’t feel conclusive.

When there’s a show with episodes that usually end with resolved stories and one episode suddenly comes up with a “to be continued” notice at the end, there’s an urge to immediately move onto the next episode. At that moment, I felt like my day was the equivalent to an episode like that and I wanted to watch the next one right away to get the answers I needed, but I had to wait. All I could do was obsessively think over the moments that were stuck in my head and guess what the answers to my questions might be.

I got up from the bed and  redressed myself: a grey shirt, standard blue jeans, and a pair of black leather shoes. After putting on my shoes, I stayed on the floor for a minute more to look around and to set up a vague plan for the walk I would take myself on. I thought about going to that stone staircase at the end of the neighborhood a few blocks north, the steep road with a contemporarily geometric house surrounded by classic victorians, maybe to the top of the hill.

I made my way out the door, down the hall, down the stairs, and out the building. I turned West and started walking. The yelling man had stopped. The crickets were still playing their songs. The the streets were still being illuminated by the occasional car driving by. I walked down the street, no detours, no change of direction. I didn’t go to the staircase, to the steep road, or to the top of the hill. The path I was walking on felt pneumatic. Setting myself in motion expedited my train of thought, providing me with the right level of distraction to cut away the thought patterns that were hindering progress through my overgrown field of worries.

There were definitive answers to some of the questions I had, but I was left with plenty more that I would have to wait for the continuation of the story to answer for itself. I set them aside, kept walking, and put my focus back on the night. I felt the freshly chilled air brush against my dry skin and fill my lungs. I took pleasure in the muffled city sounds. I was enamored by the cityscape that changes so completely from sunshine to moonlight and I was thankful that it offered me the meditative milieu I needed to ease my aggressively active thoughts.

Polarizing

By Jem Morgenstern

Jason was on his bed with his arms and legs stretched to each corner. His mind was blank, he was running out of savings, he was feeling poor. His search for a job wasn’t leading him anywhere. This was due to his dwindling will to survive and his professional ineptitude. His lack of willingness and lack of respectability had always hindered his success, and he was beginning to consider putting his best foot forward in resolving those issues.

Then, the phone rang. It rang again. He thought about ignoring it, but decided it was best to see who it was before letting it go to voicemail. He pulled it from his pocket and took a look at the caller ID. It was Michael.

Michael’s calls never take less than an hour, so he went back to thinking about ignoring the call. It rang. It rang again. It rang again. It wouldn’t be long before the opportunity to make his decision would expire. He decided to answer.

“Hey, Michael.”

“Took you awhile to pick up, what are you up to?”

“Nothing much. I was just getting out of the shower. You called at just the right time.”

That was a lie, but it was believable enough.

“Cute. Well, I’m glad you’re finally picking yourself up. I can help you find a job, you know.”

“It’s fine, Michael, I can handle that on my own.”

That was a lie, and it wasn’t as believable as his last one.

“It’s been a bit.”

“I know it has. I’m still collecting myself. I’ll get around to it.”

They both knew that this topic wouldn’t bring them anywhere interesting, but neither of them were sure how to change the topic, although michael was eager to find an opportunity to swing the conversation over to the story that gave him reason to call. There was a pause.

“Well, okay. I’m always willing to help you out though, just so you know.”

“Thanks, Michael,” he realized ending his sentence here would give their conversation another stiff pause, “what’ve you been doing?”

This was the opportunity Michael needed to tell his story.

“Well, I’m just todd in my flowery, thinking about the bona cartes from the night before funting my omi-palone corybungus, slapping my eek, giving me a good zhoosh. He was dolly rough trade. I met him down over at Charlie's, where I'd downed a bit of schlump and I was getting desperate for charver or to at least plate a good chicken. Looking about the bungery, there were a few too many bijou twinks for my taste, so I was about to give up on my cottaging, but I glanced around another time and I saw him, this gorgeous hoofer with a real nice basket. Real butch though, so I got a bit worried he might be naff, which wound up to have some partial truth. I think he must’ve caught me ogling ‘cause he walked over to me as I was lost in his thews and asked me if I’m so. I let him know and then we got talking. As we settled into it, he put his famble on my lally, which always gets me stirring. Onward. He told me he’s bibi and that he’s had more experiences with palone, but the last one he was with was a vogueress and the stench put him back on omies for a time. Turned out she was a palone-omi anyway. They got on so well at first because they could cackle on about being bibi. Then, after he bumped her out ‘cause he was sick of her vogue stench stucking on his clobber, she did some more thinking on it and found she really liked the willets and clevie more than cartes in her clevie. After talking over her awhile, he told me about a barney he’d gotten in over at a bung closer to his lattie ‘cause the omi there caught onto rumours he might be blue. For some time, he stopped cruising because he was too afraid to. He’d heard about Charlie’s from a dilly boy he picked up maybe about say dooey days after the barney and so here he was. I put my yews back on his basket while we were cackling on. He was real pleased with that. He moved his stimps wider, flexed his thews, rubbed the bump on his strides. I was getting tender for some trade. He knew it too, so he invited me over to the cottage for a better view. All dally, he was. He got me a glass of vera lynn on the way and nudged me on with his luppers right on my dish. Right as we got in, we were yanking on each others’ kaffies. Finally got to see what I’d been ogling under the clobber all night. Fortuni. Frankly, maybe the single most gorgeous lucoddy that will ever grace my own. Bone as big as I like it. We went straight to it. Well, bent, I guess..."

Michael laughed with pleasure for a solid second over his own joke before he continued.

"...I was giving him some good hada, but it wasn’t long before he flipped me and bent me down for uros. We overlooked the cumdrum, but we got the candy cane wet enough to bugger easily enough. He was such a man. I never felt more like a bucket boy in my life. Though I really did enjoy it, I couldn’t help but be a little disappointed I hadn’t had more of a chance to brush my teeth. I talked myself up as an artiste and I was excited to draw the curtains and defend my claim a bit. Whatever. The browning was excellent, he gave me his number, and he wants to stick me with his butcher knife again. In the meantime, it gave me plenty to imagine while I beat off. I’m hoping to suck some cream off his cob the next time. Loved feeling it in my cheeks, but there’s not much better than letting it pop right in the oven.”

“I barely know what any of that fucking means, Michael.”

Scared

By Extra Small

Things I’m scared of:

Being in a band.

Not because of performing,

I’d be scared of having to organize events

because I have a hard time

getting my friends together

for brunch.

Talking to strangers.

Things I’m sorry about:

Not playing enough piano.

Not buying you

More gifts.

Investing too much

emotion.

Not investing enough

emotion.

Not saying sorry.

Things I pray about:

Things I’m scared about.

Things I’m sorry about.

You

The Mother's Den

By Jem Morgenstern

Grass grew up from the cracks in the floor and it was the first time I had seen so much green. I’d never been on that floor before. Access is restricted to gardeners and communication directors, so growing up in a family of analytical health specialists and sanitation inspectors never granted me the opportunity to look inside. Usually, the deeper down you go in the tunnels of Saint Wilgefortis, the more frowsy everything looks, so I was expecting the lowest level to be the shittiest concrete tunnel possible. It wasn’t. The hallway from the elevator to the doors to the gardens already had me dumb with wonderment. Vines crept up the walls and onto the ceiling. It was bright. It smelled like the few floors we have above ground. It was immediately inviting.

Linda stepped out of the elevator and said her goodbyes before the doors could slide shut, turned away, and headed down the hallway to the gardens. Her suitcase’s small wheels struggled their way over the bumpy overgrown floor. She chose to wear a dress today - a yellow one with floral patterns - she looked like a daffodil and fit right in. I could tell she was happy to be there, but it was difficult for me to empathize with her happiness because I was beginning to realize that it could be the last time I would see her and the smile that got me to pry open my mouth and share the contents of my jar of thoughts with her. I forgot to prepare myself to say goodbye. The reality of the separation didn’t set in until that moment. I never knew if she felt what I felt about her, but I always hoped - and still do hope - that she knew I loved her.

The machinery yanked the elevator back into action. Besides the guide, I was the last one in. I should have been the first one out, but I stayed on so that I could spend a few more moments with the women I grew up with and learned to love despite the distaste I had for so many of them. It was a long ride. The guide was visibly frustrated, which I always assumed was because she would have been on her way home by then, if I hadn’t decided to take up more of her time. When we reached my floor, I attempted a friendly goodbye and thanks, but her acknowledgement seemed hesitant.

Being on the above-ground levels of our shelter is much different than being below. There are windows; not many, of course, for safety, but there are windows. Everything is a lot cleaner. Because the work we do in the labs requires absolute sterility, it’s kept spotless. Even the uterine tank that was abandoned due to a previous contamination incident is cleaned as often as possible. This disparity in quality of life does leave me feeling guilty, but I always justify my comforts by excusing it with the importance of my work. Without our expertise and work in the labs, our child production would end. In turn, our society’s longevity would be cut short and there would be nobody to open the doors when that time finally comes. That longevity is also threatened, if we’re unable to reach a compromise with the women from the lower floors. They have roles that are essential to the continuation and guarantee of safety for everyone in Saint Wilgefortis. If they don’t do their jobs, we will be incapacitated. It’s because of this, and not because of my long-over relationship with her, that I say we need to give Linda what she wants. She controls the gardens. If she feels the need to, she could shut down our supplies. The same goes for all the other leaders in resource management, who are all on her side this time. If we’re going to claim that we’re not greedy, we should show that we’re not.

Quiet Boy

By Extra Small

There is a very quiet boy in my class. He is cute.

He doesn’t talk a lot, so I don’t know if he’s smart.

But I don’t want to judge him.

He doesn’t laugh at the same things other people do

When we are watching a documentary in class he actually watches it.

He waits for people to exit the door when he’s prolly been wanting to leave the class for a long time.

He’s always plugged into something.

I hope it’s not anything too heavy or American rock-typey stuff.

I feel guilty for hoping that.

I wonder if he likes Lord of the Rings or if he judges people who like Lord of the Rings.

There are only two kinds of people when it comes to that, right?

I don’t think he thinks about himself too much.

He is probably an altruistic angel.

In fact, he is probably morally superior to everyone around him.

Quiet but not shy.
He’s perfect

for now.

Linoleum Casket, Suburban Funeral

By Jem Morgenstern

It felt like her chest was folding itself into a fist, like it was collapsing onto itself and coiling into a ball. Her body followed - folding down and coiling into a ball on the floor. Her cheek brushed against the cold linoleum and she could feel how filthy it really was. She never spent time looking down, but it became clear that the convenience store employees didn’t do much maintenance. She thought about that awhile. About the dirty floor pressing against her face and how much she hated it.

Then she thought about dying. She was so sure that these were her last moments. She wished she could die somewhere else. She wanted to die of something else. To her, this was embarrassing. Her body fucked up and killed itself. If she had any say in how she got to die, it wouldn’t be something that was her fault. Maybe she would get hit by a car. Maybe she’d get shot in a mugging gone wrong. No matter what it was, she wouldn’t want it to happen anywhere near that filthy floor. It wouldn’t have been anywhere in that shitty little suburb. Ideally, she thought, she would have lived a full life, married rich, and died peacefully in her sleep on a bed worth more than her current liquidated networth. She wouldn’t be grating her cheek against dirty linoleum. Her eyes wouldn’t be fixated on mold underneath shelves of Doritos. She wouldn’t be able to feel her body choking the life out of itself.

One of the employees from the counter walked over to her. He was wearing a black polo that was given to him by the company. Black, but you could still see the stains that he might not have tried to wash out in the first place. His hair was greasy - brown, but maybe it was blond. He smelled like stale tobacco and unwashed hands. She was glad she couldn’t smell his breath.

She didn’t know how many seconds she had left, curled up on the floor, surprised she could still think so clearly, and terrified that the bacterially cultured young man would somehow make everything worse. He didn’t know what to do. Every instinct he had told him to ignore the woman on the floor, but he he knew that wouldn’t go over well. Nobody else in the store knew what to do either. He asked her a question.

“Ma’am, do you need any help?”

The words came out the exact same way they did when he said them to customers who looked like they couldn’t find what they needed between the six rows of shelving in the store. As if it were a normal situation that could be quickly resolved. He stood there waiting for an answer from the woman dying on the floor. She had to collect as much bodily capability as she could to give him a response that might be indicative of the severity of her issue. A grunt was pushed out of her mouth that loosely resembled a plea for help.

“I’m g’in’ to get a manager.”

He still didn’t have any instinct for what he should do in the situation, but his quickened pace suggested he might be beginning to understand how serious it was. It was taking longer for him to get back than she thought it should. Her vision was losing focus. She felt nauseated. Any doubt she had about dying today was gone. It was certain. She knew she would die.