Fiction

She had been talking about Scotland. You were pretty sure she’d never lived there, but she talked like she had. She didn’t seem to notice that you weren’t speaking much. Her passion gave way to a pause, then a wordless silence, and now you’re alone with your grandmother and the sounds of her house.

She squints, searching for words, like a dazed child actor. You don’t like seeing her so lost, so you stare at the grandfather clock in the corner. When you were a few years younger, six or seven, you loved watching the pendulum swing. Now it looks like it’s shaking its head.

Your grandmother shakes her head. Her hair is like Santa’s, you think. Or, Santa’s eyelashes: coarse, white, and thin. They could be friends, her and Santa. He doesn’t get out that much, and she could talk about living in the North Pole.

You don’t want to get old. At your brother’s birthday, you decided that you would rather not have any more birthdays, even if it meant giving up cake. Even your mom’s cake.

These weekly dinners were your mom’s idea. You remembered your grandmother’s house, sugar cookies, and card-playing cousins, and thought it sounded nice. Memories are funny that way. You tap your foot and gaze out the window. Your grandmother hasn’t mentioned the sundress she gave you, which you wore on purpose. You ask to go outside.

She takes you down the brick path, around the garage, into the greenhouse. She shows you her favorites, the zinnias. You pick a petal and roll it between your fingers. It’s squishy and soft.

She plucks one herself and smiles at you. You’d forgotten her smile. You smile back, and giggle, and take more, and she takes more, and you’re both rolling the petals, laughing, you’re tugging off handfuls at once, smearing zinnias on your arms. She is too. She’s smiling, and crying. She leaves the ground.

She rises steadily, like whatever’s lifting her knows exactly what it’s doing. You don’t touch her. She looks happy, drifting toward the glass roof. There are birds in the sky, beautiful and colorful like the zinnias. Your hands find the latch to the ceiling window. You open it, wide open, and out she floats, her eyes dreamy, her body easy, the clouds between her ears now the clouds between the mountains, wispy, white, and beautiful, like Santa’s eyelashes.

 

 

Noah Cohen-Greenberg studied literature at the University of Oxford and Williams College, where he was a Roche Fellow, a Wilmers Fellow, and a two-time winner of the Dunbar Student Writing Award. He grew up on a hay farm in upstate New York and is looking forward to the fame and fortune that typically accompany a career in the literary arts.

“You know, this rain makes everything so gloomy,” Lillian says, one hand picking at a fresh scab on her thigh, the other gripping a railing under her. She’s perched on the edge of a balcony overlooking a lake, and my hands sweat as I watch her legs dangle over the empty air below.

“Don’t do that,” Jin responds. He’s in the bathroom, but his baritone voice still echoes out from the hotel room behind us loud and clear.

“Do what? Can you even see me? What are you even doing right now?”

“Getting ready,” Jin says. “And yes, I can see you. Get down from that railing right now.”

“Ugh. Party pooper.” She hops down from the railing and her legs land soft onto the balcony. My hands unclench a bit when her nimble feet finally tilt back inside, each leg crossing over the other in a careless braiding motion.

“Is it raining out there?” Jin asks. “Will I have to bring your umbrella?”

“I just said it was raining, dummy. Can you bring the one with the ducks?”

A toilet flushes in response. They’re out of my sight now, so I unfold my legs and get up from the balcony floor to head into the room. The slight slickness of rain brushing on my legs like a memory doesn’t bother me, but not being able to see them does.

I trace my light fingers along the ridges in the walls as I walk in to ground myself: they’re painted beige, matching the carpet and curtains, all coated in a layer of cheap perfume strong enough for me to smell. The room itself is sparsely furnished, with only a large painting of a trout hanging over the two twin-sized beds and a few retro lamps scattered around on the low tables.

Jin finally responds, poking his head out from the bathroom to look at Lillian, who is hanging off the edge of the bed. “You know, I really don’t know if the pink ducks are appropriate for a funeral.”

“I don’t care. I want the ducks.”

Jin pauses, then sighs. “We’re taking the black ones. No way in hell am I letting you show up to Mom’s funeral holding a pink umbrella with ducks on it.”

Lillian groans, then plasters her fingers over her face, still hanging upside down from the bed. “I don’t think Mom would care, though, would she? I mean, she bought me that umbrella.”

“It’s not about Mom. It’s about everyone else; they’d think we were being disrespectful. Y’know, funeral rules and shit.” Jin steps out to adjust his tie in the mirror.

“What are funeral rules and shit?”
“Don’t say shit. It’s about respecting the dead. Can you get changed? Dad’s coming to pick us up in an hour.”

“Where is Dad, anyways?”

“Business meeting in Los Angeles, or something. Mom would be pissed to see this shithole we’re staying in, especially when he’s got a whole mansion with Jen down in Irvine.”

I smile at this and shake my head, though they can’t see me. I’m sitting cross-legged by their luggage now, gazing at the contents of their suitcases; Jin’s is black and practical, and has nothing in it other than a pair of cargo shorts, a shirt, and some toiletries. Meanwhile, Lillian’s is hot pink and stuffed to the brim: it holds some bright frilly dresses she got for Christmas, a black dress clearly stuffed in there by Jin as an afterthought, toys, and of course, her beloved duck umbrella. Balanced precariously on top of this mess is a grocery bag full of unhealthy snacks, mostly pink and princess themed, likely a bribe in exchange for wearing the black dress.

I stroke the fabric lining Jin’s suitcase. Its roughness is a comfort on my cold skin: the room is slipping away from me a bit, but the feelin g of fabric keeps me rooted in reality.

“Lillian, please get changed into your dress. The black one. We really need to go soon.” Jin’s voice brings me back to the room as I focus my vision on the two of them, Lillian now lying spread-eagled on the sheets and ignoring Jin.

“No.” Her voice is muffled against a pillow that she’s thrust over her head in protest.

“Come on.”

“No. Don’t wanna.”
“Please. We can’t be late for this.” Jin pulls the pillow off her head and attempts to lift her from the bed, but she won’t budge as she grips her hands onto the sheets.

“Stop that! I don’t think Mom will– would care about us being late, anyways. Or about the duck umbrella, or what dress I wear. She’s not like that.” Her small voice cracks a bit at the edges, but her arms cross in defiance as she clambers to sit upright on the bed. I try my best to interject, but the air traps the sound in my straining mouth as I struggle; it’s a futile battle that I refuse to learn from.

“I told you, it’s not about Mom, it’s about the others. Dumb, yes, but–”

“Fine. Whatever. I’ll change now, sorry.” Lillian doesn’t say anything more, but I can see tears begin to pool in her eyes as her voice grows frail. I want to get up and walk over to her, but my weakened legs refuse me. Instead, Jin plants his arms around her in a firm hug.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

They embrace, and I watch Lillian’s shoulders shake for a bit as she exhales with sharp breaths, refusing to cry. Jin places a hand on her head before pulling away and whispering something I can’t make out. She nods and gets up from the bed.

As Lillian brushes by me to grab her dress from her suitcase, I reach out to touch her arm. My hands stretch out to hers, icy, immaterial fingertips dangling only inches from sunburnt skin, before being forced to stop by an invisible barrier. I can only watch as she heads to the bathroom to change; my hands still stiff on the suitcase, my legs still folded on the floor.

 

 

Andrea Li (she/her) is a high school junior from California. Her work has been published in Cathartic Youth Literary Magazine and is forthcoming in Eunoia Review.

 

 

 

this sent struct is odd

“Today’s the day my boy, I can just feel it. By this time tomorrow we’ll be sipping piña coladas in Nassau, watching the world go by from our bungalow,” Papa declares. “That tuition you’ve been talking about will be pocket money.” He slaps the tattered newspaper cutout that decorates the kitchen fridge: a family beams at the camera as they float in turquoise water. “The Bahamas: Welcome to Paradise” shimmers in golden letters. Papa sees it as inspiration. I see it as encouragement to lose the little we have.

He shucks his coveralls and puts on his best clothes, the striped blue button down and khaki pants he only uses for church and the casino. Maybe if this was the first time, seeing the way each foot pops off the ground and his smile would be a nice change, but I can’t help but see the man underneath. Deep down, he knows the truth.

Clothes worth a million dollars couldn’t distract me from noticing the thick bulge of cash protruding from his pocket. “If I had a penny for every time you’ve said this, maybe we could actually buy that bungalow,” I tease. He slides on his leather shoes, ignoring the jab. “Papa we can’t keep playing games like this, I know you’ve seen the landlord’s notes. We need the money.” His grin evaporates for a second, but the loud honk of a waiting car bails him out.

“Looks like Miguel’s here, we’ll talk about this when I get back. I promise.”

…

Heavy, torrential rain hit the roof like bullets. They smacked the asphalt; maybe God lost some money tonight, too. The alarm clock’s red lines twisted themselves into single digits: 1:37 am.

He came back around two, later than normal. He didn’t enter the building. He sat on the concrete steps. His shoulders sank with every raindrop.

I closed my eyes and saw a proud man, someone who beats the sun to work and intentionally loses the race on the way home. But I opened them and found a man broken by crooked lines of cherries.

 

 

 

MacCoy Weil is an eighteen-year-old student who lives in London, England and enjoys writing flash fiction in his free time.

Edna only sees the dumpling boys on Mondays at the corner of Fifty-Ninth and Harlan. They’re an odd bunch: all pudgy faces and meaty hands, skin thick and sticky like half-baked soda bread. The littlest one’s trying to grow a mustache, trying to scrunch his face together and sprout up a few more inches so he’s not a head shorter than the rest of ‘em. Edna sees him on Mondays too, chewing his lip beneath the sky’s angry hiss.

Today they’re throwing rocks at Ms. Turner’s windows and playing hop-scotch in the rain. She’s a ghost, they say—Ms. Turner is. She’s only halfway-there, stuck in her own sort of hell. But Edna’s been there long enough to know that Ms. Turner’s flesh hasn’t draped into curtains yet, it’s only shriveled. She’s been there long enough to remember when there was glass stuck to the sidewalk, when Ms. Turner’s husband took an old porcelain lamp and hurled it out the front-door. The boys don’t know this, of course—they’re stuck in another hell. One that sends boys off to wars before they’re old enough to realize the world isn’t all small rocks and big rocks and do you think if I tossed this rock right here it’d fit through the windowsill?

 Edna’s pa used to tell her that there were two ways to die. Scared or still. Her pa always smelled like warm cabbage. He was always still. Edna thinks there are more than two ways to die now. The dumpling boys will die terrified, Ms. Turner will go ready. Edna will go when time thinks it’s best, but now that warm cabbage makes her choke she thinks it will be sooner. She could never go for long without missing someone.

There are two coins in Edna’s palm but neither are worth anything. Not here. If she was with her pa they’d buy stale gum and chew on the wads until they tasted like hard clay. The dumpling boys spit their gum out in the sewers. Edna’s positive they don’t get all the flavor out.

Even though the air is cold and musty the boys are still playing, still throwing those rocks ‘cause their parents never taught ‘em any better. Edna swears she can see red trickling through the street, red like fat strawberries: clotted red, deep red. The boys are laughing and skipping and running down to the dead-end but none of ‘em see the red, none of ‘em smell the smoke that Edna does, none of ‘em think that there are more than two ways to die. They call the smallest one, the trying-to-grow-a-mustache one The Kitten and punch him in the side every time they see a stray wandering. Edna doesn’t know much about The Kitten, just that he’s nothing like his ma. She used to live next door to Edna, flesh wrinkled and creased like Ms. Turner’s. Edna thought that she seemed like the kind of lady who’d warm up milk and set out a loaf of sourdough for her son, the kind of lady who’d scrub the cool rain from The Kitten’s hair, who’d watch him sleep and pluck out her gray hairs, smooth her skin. Edna knows she’s the kind of lady who prays to some distant father and son and holy spirit and sits by the fire, the kind of lady who prays again and again and hopes that the red doesn’t take her son.

Each of ‘em are different—the boys. They remind Edna of home. Of her pa and of the countryside, of how she used to take boiled potatoes and stick them to the table-top so that they crusted there like glue. Of how she locked her bedroom door with a string and a nail even when her pa told her not to. Of how the stars used to be millions of miles away instead of right up close. The boys are jogging away now, but Edna’s still watching, still remembering. Ms. Turner’s peering out the front door, sweeping up shards and thanking the lord that it wasn’t her husband breaking glass. They’re running and running and running, so fast that Edna’s sure they’re just a blur of red, sure that the world couldn’t possibly take ‘em away. But the world’s taken plenty more than it deserved before, and Edna’s taken plenty from it.

The rain is thin and watery like soup and Edna steps outside. She can barely see ‘em now, they’re too far down Fifty-Ninth, stepping in puddles and tossing rocks. The streetlights are flickering above Edna, glowing above the boys. Even though it’s day they’re shining like a thousand silver moons. They’re coming back alive.

 

Addie Rahmlow (she/her) is a teen writer, editor, and student from the Midwest. She enjoys screenwriting, photography and has an obsession with iced tea. Her work can be found in Interstellar Literary Review and Ice Lolly Review, among others, and has been recognized by the National Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. She hopes you’re having a wonderful day!

A whirling of white that revels in immediacy. A streaking of fur—a flashing of teeth.

Then, a stillness: the coyote pauses, tail plumed against manicured lawn. A premature carcass slackens against its jaw.

That ending was a rabbit, once: perched on punctured grass, nosing at a wayward clump of dandelion. It tore down bloom after bloom, yellow suns splintered in its teeth. But one stalk was too stiff: it gnawed and gnawed, cloud of white protruding from its lip. Its last moments strained against its own vector.

This is a trajectory: the rabbit, pulling and pulling on its stalk, but never pulling enough.

But if neither force concedes, inevitably, there is a snap. Tension severed by bared teeth, but not from within: the coyote a foreign convulsion, exchanging one breath for another. The dandelion pierced through, seeds scattered from its mouth.

Now, there is no pulling. They exit in a flurry, haphazard clumps dotting blades of grass. A spray of dandelion seeds settle on its imprint, each tuft blooming red.

 

 

 

 

Janice Lin is a student from the San Francisco Bay Area. Her work is forthcoming or published in Polyphony Lit, the National Poetry Quarterly, and Beaver Magazine, among others. In their free time, they enjoy worldbuilding, theorizing about TV shows, and trying new boba shops with their friends.