NorthGoingZaks

Words by: Alice Ciciora.

It was a humid place, noisy with secrets.  No one was awake yet—no one save Olivia and a few grad students, coming home from a night at the lab, their faces and fingers shining like ghosts.  Thomas Hall seemed to groan at them, Olivia thought, as if the building were irritated by their comings and goings. Olivia took the elevator to the basement, and then three lefts and a sudden right.  She brought a girlfriend down there once, maybe two years ago.  Back then, the institute was old, but Olivia was new, and excited.  She’d been recruited in the usual way: first with flattery “—an excellent paper—sound ideas—highly original—” and then with promises “—could make it easy on you—new connections, people who know people—” and finally with threats “—the job market being what it is these days—must go above and beyond—”  Olivia had been new, and everything had felt so bright, so she’d brought her girlfriend along to feel the electric crackle of new things.  But, of course, the security guard had been waiting by the door, as he was now, and he’d asked for her ID, as he did now; Olivia had an ID, but her girlfriend did not, and they were so goddamn odd about the secrecy of it all. The security guard scanned her ID, then threw open the double doors.  Olivia recoiled at the smell of the room: sweat, printer paper, campus food, day-old clothing.  She made her way past the rows of tables.  Grad students, trembly with caffeine, hunched over their computers.  Most of them didn’t acknowledge her.  Dictionaries wallpapered everything.  Olivia’s advisor waved at her from behind an encyclopedia, shouting.  She couldn’t hear him over the noise of the room. “Good morning, Jim,” Olivia said as she approached. “Have you read the most recent reports on bae?” he asked.  “Put your name tag on.  We’ve got three new recruits coming in today.  They’ll want to know who everyone is.”  On his own name tag, Jim struggled for breath under a ketchup stain.  “I’ll introduce you later.  Have you read the reports?” Olivia pinned her name tag to her shirt, noticing she’d missed a button near her collar.  “I read the one you sent out last night,” she said, fumbling with the button.  “Was there another?” “This morning.  We’re tracking a seventy-two percent decline in usage.” “Seventy-eight,” someone called. “Seventy-eight,” said Jim. Olivia whistled.  “Shit.” “It’s unprecedented.”
 “When did we last do content analysis on—” “This morning.”  Jim fished a crumpled-up paper from the pocket of his cargo pants.  He handed it to her.  “Look at this.” Olivia glanced at the report.  It was divided into two sections: the first was a series of Tweets—getting swole for bae; ice cream with bae; dinner with bae—and the like (“Say what you will of bae, but she’s well fed,” Olivia thought), and the second was an analysis of the frequency in which the word “bae” was being used.  Indeed, as Jim had said, usage had declined by seventy-eight percent in the past week. “What’s our strategy?” asked Olivia. “We’re about to test drive a new word.”  Jim’s eyes shone, and Olivia shuddered.  He felt the power of this place too acutely for her tastes.  “Ted says we should be ready for launch in five or so.”  Jim glanced over Olivia’s head.  “Oh, good, Gene is here.” “Who’s Gene?” said Olivia. “One of our new grad students.  Let’s meet him.” Olivia had no desire to meet another member of Jim’s homogenous cast of grad student interns, but she had little choice.  She followed him, listening foggily as Jim made pleasantries.  Gene was from Yale.  He had a blank face and no idea what he was doing there. “But it’s a real honor,” he kept saying.  “A huge honor, Dr. Porter.” “Call me Jim.” “Really huge honor.” “I’ll let Olivia explain what we do here.” “The Center for the New Development of Language, or CNDL,” said Olivia, pronouncing it like candle, “started as as joke.” “Not really a joke,” said Jim, warningly. Olivia insisted.  “Kind of a joke.  Two guys, both of whom are still faculty here, wanted to see whether they could invent popular slang.  Not just a word, but something people would actually use, that would become part of our lexicon.  So they came up with a word, started using it in strategic places around the Internet, and boom, it took off.” “People started using the word?” asked Gene. “Thousands of them.” “In the U.S.?” “All over the world.” Gene’s eyes grew deep with that familiar hunger.  “What word was it?” “Fleek,” said Jim.  The word sounded misplaced on his tongue, like a picture book sitting in a stack of legal journals.  “Isn’t that marvelous?” “Oh, my god,” said Gene.
 “Yep,” said Olivia. “So, that’s what you do here?  At CNDL?”  Gene looked around the room, which had taken on a new identity to him, no doubt.  “You make up new words?” “We devise words and test them,” said Olivia. “What are you testing?”
 “How and why words spread.  There are a lot of rumors about us, that we play god, make up words for the hell of it.  But that’s not true.”


Words by: Graham Warnken.

The girl had a firetruck and a half-eaten apple; her mother had a purse and a schedule to keep.  That’s what she told me, when she came in: she had a schedule to keep and she couldn’t stay long, though (she assured me) she knew how important this was for Abigail.  Abigail, for her part, did not seem to think this was important.  The girl sat cross-legged in the chair next to her mother’s, blinking at me from across my desk.  She saw everything; that much was clear.  She was an Argus with five-year-old hands. “So,” I said, “what’s the problem?” “Abigail,” said her mother, “show Dr. P your drawings.” Abigail held up her apple.  It was browning. “No, no, honey, your drawings.” The apple fell from Abigail’s hands.  Pulp began to coagulate on my carpet. I cleared my throat.  “Mrs. ahh—” “Fender.” “I’m sorry?” “Fender, like a car.” “Mrs. Fender, can you tell me a little about Abigail’s drawings?” Mrs. Fender looked shocked, as though this were the first time she’d heard about the drawings.  Her gaze dropped to the books on my desk.  I rarely have to consult a book during my sessions, of course, but my clients’ eyes need something to do when they’ve finished scanning my diplomas.  Mrs. Fender’s cheeks and forehead took on the same shape I’d seen a hundred times, a shape that usually meant “after all I’ve done, after all I’ve spent…this?” “Here,” she said, “I brought a few for you to look at.”  Mrs. Fender pulled a folder out of her purse and passed it across the desk.  Beside her, Abigail was humming.  “I’ve looked it up—Googled it—there are forums for kids like this.  For their parents.” It took me a second, upon opening the folder, to figure out what kids like this meant.  The drawing seemed ordinary enough: a tree and some clouds and a house with a stick figure on the lawn.  The clouds were red.  The stick figure was labeled “Spencer,” and he was carrying a book.  But then I noticed—with a start—that the drawing was inverted, like I was holding it up to a mirror.  Spencer’s name and the title of the book were both written in mirror-text.  I pulled another page from the folder.  This one contained only words—just car, dog, boy, and cat repeated nine times each—except that the words were backwards. I put down the folder, trying not to look rattled.  “I’ve seen this before,” I said, which was entirely false.  “Many times.” “It’s common?” said Mrs. Fender. “A lot of kids do it.” “But Abigail isn’t ‘a lot of kids.’  Why is she doing it?” “I can’t exactly say.  Maybe this is just how Abigail perceives the world.  Have you ever seen her write the other way?” “The normal way?” “The way most people write.” Mrs. Fender’s hands curled around her purse.  “She can write that way.  She just doesn’t want to.” “Then the issue clearly isn’t cognitive.” “Is it just a phase?  Kids go through phases.”


“It could be a phase.” “What’s the other option?” “It could just be something that makes her happy.  Is she happy?” Mrs. Fender blinked.  “I’m sorry?” I addressed Abigail.  “Are you happy, Abigail?” She looked at me.  I watched a grin slither across her face.  “I’m happy,” she said. “So.”  I leaned back in my chair.  “What’s the problem?” # # # I arrived at work the next morning.  My office was dry, and the leather of my books felt oddly damp, as though they’d sucked the moisture from the room.  Coughing, I opened a window and set my coffee on my desk.  I froze, my knees locking.  My books—and my diplomas, I realized, and my posters, and my notes—all were written in mirror-text. My eyes went to the stain on my carpet, where Abigail had dropped her apple yesterday.  I half expected to see her sitting there with her firetruck.  She was not there, of course, but I felt gripped by the specter of her grin and her Argus eyes. Still numb, I called Mrs. Fender, made up something about a free second consultation.  But she had a schedule to keep, so she couldn’t come back until tomorrow.  I tossed aside my phone and shouted for the office manager. He poked his head into the room.  “Yes, Dr. P?” “Look at these.”  I pointed at the diplomas above my head. “Sir?” “The diplomas.  Look at them.” “Penn State.”  The guy’s face went blank, like someone had erased his features.  He was new.  The office hired him last week.  I hadn’t gotten his name down quite yet.  “It’s a good school, Dr. P.” “Yes, but look at the words.” He squinted, tilting his head. “They’re backwards,” I said.


Words by: Ian Silverii.

The night persisted, and Bo’s mind turned gray.  He paced his room, exhausted but sleepless, staring down at the twenty-four hour bank across town.  From this distance, most of the city was colorless, but the bank was lit up in yellows and greens, the colors of progress and wealth.  Bo had never been to that one; he’d only ever visited the bank two blocks from the schoolhouse where he worked.  But his mind was paling, distended with feelings he did not know, and he could not wait any longer.  Bo started downstairs. “Call Gann,” he said into his cell.  Bo heard static, and then Gann: “Hey, are you okay?” “I want to get this done.” “Your Syn Tax?  But you’re scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.”
 “I want it now.” “It’s three in the damn morning.” “I don’t care.”  Bo touched the wad of bills in his pocket to assure himself they were still there.  He was not sure what he would feel—not sure his mind had the clay to mold what he might feel—if the money were gone.  “It must be now.  Can you come?” Gann exhaled.  “I can come.”  His voice sounded like it had been in a car wreck.  “Give me twenty minutes to get there.  You’re going to the twenty-four hour bank across town?” “Yes.” “Okay.  Twenty minutes.” ### When Bo arrived, Gann was waiting by the gates of the twenty-four hour bank, smoking and stamping his feet.  Gann waved, tossed the cigarette aside, stepped on it.  A breeze picked up the smell of burning rubber from somewhere.  Bo hugged Gann, trying to hold his breath. “You brought your ID?” said Gann.  He was a lanky figure who’d always looked half-formed to Bo.  “Your cash?” “Both.” “Okay.  You know they won’t let me go in with you, right?” “I know.” “It’s security.  That’s all it is.  They can’t have people going into the bank if they don’t need to be there.” “Right.” “How are you feeling?”  Bo’s face darkened at the question—and Gann saw it, took a step back.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  That was insensitive.”
 Bo tried to mime the word—insensitive—to sketch the echo with his tongue before the sound of it left him.  But it was gone before he could touch it. “It’s fine,” he said. “It’s not fine.” “Okay, it’s not.” “I shouldn’t have said that.  I know it’s difficult.” “Do you remember?” asked Bo. “Of course I do.  Everyone remembers those days, even if they say they don’t.  I know I got lucky, too.”  Gann shrugged.  “I think about that every day.  Most people can’t afford to pay their third Syn Tax until they’re a lot older, let alone their fourth.”  Gann leaned in, looking past Bo.  Bo glanced over his shoulder.  A couple of kids in dark jackets were lobbing beer cans into a dumpster, and as Bo watched, a kid made a bankshot that had the others laughing.  “But—I’m not trying to scare you or anything; just to warn you—this is not a panacea, Bo.” “It’s not a—?” “A cure to everything, a universal corrective.  It might make some of your problems better—but it will make some of them worse.  You’ve got to be prepared for that.  I know what they say, and complexity of thought is a luxury for sure.  My God, though, I bet the Neanderthals were happy.”
 Bo nodded through his incomprehension.  “I’m going in now.” “Good luck.”  Gann grinned in the dark.  “Don’t forget to tip.” ## A pair of guards emerged from the dark as though carved from it.  They had unmemorable faces and guns strapped across their chests.  One of them watched Bo as the other reviewed his ID and papers.  Then they radioed a clerk, who led Bo inside the bank. Bo once had to describe the typical word bank for a cousin in Japan.  He’d painted an image of a stout building with infinite rooms, part hospital and part courthouse.  The bones of the place were legal—forms and tablets, long lines, filing cabinets, heavy furniture—but the skin was made of formaldehyde and surgical steel.  Like most other banks, the walls here were white, and the clerks and attendants wore white uniforms and badges.  Each room was supervised by an armed guard; each guard was supervised by multiple security cameras. As the clerk led Bo to a waiting room, he filled out a form on an tablet.  “This is your—” “Third.” “—third Syn Tax.  Alright.  And you have your therapist’s note?”
 Bo handed the clerk a paper. “Good, good.  Let me just pull up your legal record.” “I have a—” “Please wait for me to pull up your record, sir.”  The clerk’s glasses slipped off his nose.  He looked as though he never washed his hair, and slept as often.  “It says here you were accused of possession—” “When I was eight.” “But you were never formally charged.” “I’ve been trying to get it off my record for a long time.” “What happened to it?”
 “To what?” “The dictionary.” “It was taken—taken—” “By the government?”
 “Yes.” “So, confiscated?” Bo nodded. The clerk made a note.  “You understand that a formal charge would cause this bank to abrogate your right to any additional Tax?” “Yes.” “Okay, Bo.  The Tax for today will be eight hundred thousand dollars.  Are you going to pay with cash or credit?” “Cash.” “Cash.”  He mimicked Bo unthinkingly.  The clerk’s badge said Tarion.  Bo had noticed it early on: people with more than four letters in their name, who’d paid the Tax over four times, made words without thoughts.  Speaking was a reflex, an ornament Bo could not handle without breaking.  “Okay, I’ll take your cash now, and then I’ll just need your signature and thumbprint.” Bo handed over his money.  He signed the tablet awkwardly, then pressed his thumbprint on the screen.  A needle-prick of light flashed—taking a retinal scan, Bo guessed.  He blinked to clear the afterimages from his eyes. The clerk took the tablet from his hands and nodded at a doorway.  “You’re in waiting room B7.  Go have a seat.”
 “Thanks.” As Bo had anticipated, the waiting room was nearly empty.  He sat away from the other occupants: a man and woman, their hair and eyes wild from lack of sleep.  They lowered their voice when he entered. “But why didn’t you speak to my mother after the vacation?” said the woman.  “That’s what I don’t understand.” “Your mother was feeling—” “Feeling what?” The man made an open-handed gesture.  “I don’t know.  She was feeling something.  I could see it in her.  It made her sick.” “She hasn’t been sick in years.” “Not sick in the body.” “You’re not making any sense.”  The woman rubbed her temples.  “If you just would’ve talked to her, she would’ve lent us the money and we could have bought the house.” “But I don’t know whether I wanted the house.” “It’s a nice house.” “It’s an okay house.  But maybe I want something else.”
 “Like what?” Again, the man made an open-handed gesture.  “I don’t know.” A clerk put her head in the room, reading from a tablet.  “Bo?” Bo got to his feet, removing his jacket.  He was suddenly quite warm—his body, and a place somewhere else. “We were here first,” snapped the woman. Her partner agreed.  “We’ve been waiting for a long time.” “We’re still processing your forms,” said the clerk. “But we need this.”  The man pulled out a wad of bills.  He held them in his fist like a toddler with a chewed-up toy.  “We haven’t been able to fix anything in days.  We’re so tired and we just keep saying the same things, and the same things—” “It’s fine, Ve.”  The woman put her hand on the man’s arm. “Follow me, please, Bo,” said the clerk.  “I’m Janne.  I’ll be collecting your Tax today.” Bo and the clerk walked past a dozen other waiting rooms, most of which housed couples or siblings who’d come here in desperation.  His own parents had done that, before the divorce.  They were convinced that if only they had a few more words, another thought or feeling, they could gather it all up in empathy and twine and hold it aloft for the other to see.  It hadn’t worked. The clerk and Bo passed through a heavy door and into a small chamber, which contained a high-backed chair, several stools, a counter, and a sink.  Three clerks were preparing a syringe as he came in.  The chamber smelled of iodine.  Bo’s stomach lurched. Janne put her hand on his back.  “You’ll be fine.  Have a seat there.” Bo let his body fall into the high-backed chair.  It felt slippery and cold under him, and it was white but looked unclean.  He noticed straps at his ankles and wrists. “What are those?” he asked. “Oh, that’s right: it’s your third Tax.”  Janne shared a look with the other clerks.  “You might experience some cognitive discomfort after we inject the Morphime.  “We’ll have to strap you in just as a safety precaution.”  Her mouth stretched.  “Think of it as a seatbelt.” “The first and second Tax didn’t hurt,” said Bo, squirming as the clerks began to strap him to the chair. “This won’t hurt, either.” “But you said discomfort—” “Your mind won’t be used to the additional stimuli.  Remember, the Morphime will increase your vocabulary by thirty percent.” “That’s what makes it hurt?” “Have you ever gone running, Bo?  Or played a sport?  When you do it for the first time, your muscles are sore immediately after.  They’re just not accustomed to that kind of use.  It’s the same here.  Do you understand?” Bo flexed his wrists against the straps.  “Could there be a problem?” “What kind of problem?” “A problem that might happen.” “Any danger?”
 “Yes.  That.” “We rarely see any side effects.”  Janne gestured to another clerk, who handed her the syringe.  Though he promised himself he’d keep his eyes open, that he’d look these people in the face as they put this liquid in him and changed him, he couldn’t do it.  He shut his eyes, turned his face away.  “Hold still, please.”
 The needle pricked his skin.  Bo gritted his teeth as the cold of the Morphime flushed through his veins.  A moment passed in which nothing happened: Bo felt no different, no discomfort.  And then his brain stretched.

Words by: Alice Ciciora.

“With that many places in the world, there have to be some good ones.  It just stands to reason.”

This story was written by my partner Evan.  No one has ever made as positive an impact on my life as she has. She continues to overwhelm me with her warmth, her generosity, her creativity, and her brilliance. Her compassion spills into every story she writes, every meal she feeds others, and every glance she shoots my way. 

On Sunday, Dan Turner, the father of former Stanford University student Brock Turner, penned a letter defending his son, who was found guilty of raping an unconscious woman behind a dumpster. Turner addressed the statement to the judge presiding over Brock’s case, asking that he look kindly on his son with regards to sentencing — prison, he wrote, would be a “steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action out of his 20-plus years of life.”

Journalist Lauren Duca called it like she saw it: “RAPE CULTURE,” she wrote on Twitter, “Brock Turner’s dad is sad he only got ‘20 minutes of action’ & doesn’t even like eating steaks anymore.”

Now, @AlexandraOzeri, in what is to date her one and only tweet, joined the Twitter conversation to take a stab at the rape culture inherent to Turner’s letter, adding some necessary context. She tweeted a screenshot of her handiwork with the caption, “Here, I fixed his letter (changes in bold)…”

Hi! 

Tea, coffee, & books just about sums up my life as well. Thought you might appreciate this awesome new Tumblr (not mine, sadly) in which readers submit any 3 words, and the author writes one story a day using the submissions. The blog is Just Three Words.

Words by: Graham Warnken.

The room folded around around Thomas’s body, a damp blanket smelling of mold and ill health.  He cowered in the doorway.  Though the physician’s motioning hand and kind face waited for him in the dim, Thomas could not take another step forward.  He shook his head, holding his notebook in front of him like a shield. “I cannot,” he said, as the physician approached. “He asked for you.”  The physician placed a hand on Thomas’s shoulder.  Though the man intended it to be comforting, no doubt, it reminded Thomas of a time a copper took him in for public drunkenness.  “This is important to him.” “He didn’t ask for me: he put an ad in a paper.” “Many young poets answered it.  He chose you.” “I knew not what I would be getting myself into.” “You mean to say you wouldn’t not have come otherwise?” “No, I—” The physician leaned in, his eyes shining.  “He does not have much time.  Please.  It will only be a short meeting, I assure you.  He hasn’t the strength for anything more than that.” “I don’t know, sir.” “Keats is not one to ask for anything.  He has asked for you.” Thomas dropped his notebook, startling them both.  He stooped to pick it up, putting him level with the bottom of Keats’s bed.  Old bottles and glass jugs had made footprints in the dust.  Though the Italian newspapers betrayed little of what happened in this house, the poet was dying; that much was certain.  Thomas stood, nodded at the physician. “I will see him,” he said. “Good.  Come quickly.” The two sat at the head of the bed as a figure stirred beneath the quilt.  It was not quite a face and a body, that figure—rather, it was bits and sketches of a person who was, once.  Two round, deep eyes blinked at Thomas, and Keats’s hands—brittle, small—emerged from the quilt to rub at his face.  Thomas had seen paintings of John Keats in London newspapers; the man had looked like a poet, with a cherub’s face and the rosy countenance of a fellow who knew the pleasures of the city.  This figure, though—he was indistinguishable from the coarse, dying rags that adorned the London alleys.  John Keats was gone, and in his place lay a pale imposter. Keats sat up, waving away the physician’s help.  Thomas waited for him to speak, which the poet tried to do.  Instead, he coughed, his face growing crimson with the exertion.  When he was done, Keats wiped his mouth, and his hand came away streaked with brown.  The physician handed him a handkerchief. “You are Thomas?” said Keats, wiping his hands. “I am.”  Thomas pushed his chair closer to the poet, the better to hear him. “I read the poems you sent.” Thomas waited for Keats to elaborate.  He did not.  So Thomas pressed: “And what did you think, sir?” “They were short.”
 “Oh.”
 “You’ve written longer?” “I have.  Actually, I brought some work with me.”  Thomas flipped through his notebook.  “I just had a pieced published, you know.  In London.  Italy has not been as kind, but it is early yet.  The piece was—”  Thomas paused, feeling himself redden. “Go on, then,” said Keats. The word stuck in Thomas’s throat.  “An elegy.” To Thomas’s astonishment, the poet began to laugh.  “Quite so!” he said.  “How marvelous.  I do love a good elegy.  I’ve been trying to write my own for a decade now, much to the horror of my dearest friends, and the encouragement of my enemies.” You have enemies?” “Naturally I do.  Every man should have enemies.  A glass of wine tastes sweeter when drunk with the knowledge that it could’ve been poisoned.” “I suppose—” “You do not have to agree with me.” “I don’t think I do.”
 “Excellent!  I didn’t call you here to agree with me.”  Keats sat up straighter, motioning toward a bottle on the bedside table.  With a nod, the physician opened the stopper and poured oil over his hands.  He rubbed the foul stuff into Keats’s back.  The poet’s body grew limp, and Thomas feared for him.  “Listen here, Thomas.  I have written a sestina: my departing work.  But my flesh and soul are failing me, and I have not the faculties that were once mine.”  Keats nudged the physician, who rolled down the poet’s shirt and replaced the bottle’s stopper.  “In truth, I cannot even remember when I wrote it.” “What is the subject of the poem?” “The subject?” “What is the poem about?” “I don’t know.  Does anyone ever know?” “I know what all of my poems are about,” said Thomas, feeling ridiculous. “Then I pity you.”  Keats reached into the drawer of the bedside table, pulling out a pad of paper.  “I have the sestina here.  Would you do me the honor of reading it?” Thomas took it from the poet, but did not look at the page.  “Are you certain?” “Certain that I want you to read it?” “Why, yes.” “Would I have asked you here otherwise?”
 “I suppose not.” “Stop supposing, dear boy, and read the damn thing.” The physician handed Thomas a candle, which he placed on the table.  He leaned close to the paper so that the musty woodiness of it took him in an embrace.  Thomas read: My heart longs for a loveliness I cannot tame: A beechen creature with fairness bright. The night holds promises, of gloomy days And of passings I’d not time to see And the shape of beauty drawn in black: A plague on your houses, a pen in your hand.

Words by: Graham Warnken.

The room folded around around Thomas’s body, a damp blanket smelling of mold and ill health.  He cowered in the doorway.  Though the physician’s motioning hand and kind face waited for him in the dim, Thomas could not take another step forward.  He shook his head, holding his notebook in front of him like a shield. “I cannot,” he said, as the physician approached. “He asked for you.”  The physician placed a hand on Thomas’s shoulder.  Though the man intended it to be comforting, no doubt, it reminded Thomas of a time a copper took him in for public drunkenness.  “This is important to him.” “He didn’t ask for me: he put an ad in a paper.” “Many young poets answered it.  He chose you.” “I knew not what I would be getting myself into.” “You mean to say you wouldn’t not have come otherwise?” “No, I—” The physician leaned in, his eyes shining.  “He does not have much time.  Please.  It will only be a short meeting, I assure you.  He hasn’t the strength for anything more than that.” “I don’t know, sir.” “Keats is not one to ask for anything.  He has asked for you.” Thomas dropped his notebook, startling them both.  He stooped to pick it up, putting him level with the bottom of Keats’s bed.  Old bottles and glass jugs had made footprints in the dust.  Though the Italian newspapers betrayed little of what happened in this house, the poet was dying; that much was certain.  Thomas stood, nodded at the physician. “I will see him,” he said. “Good.  Come quickly.” The two sat at the head of the bed as a figure stirred beneath the quilt.  It was not quite a face and a body, that figure—rather, it was bits and sketches of a person who was, once.  Two round, deep eyes blinked at Thomas, and Keats’s hands—brittle, small—emerged from the quilt to rub at his face.  Thomas had seen paintings of John Keats in London newspapers; the man had looked like a poet, with a cherub’s face and the rosy countenance of a fellow who knew the pleasures of the city.  This figure, though—he was indistinguishable from the coarse, dying rags that adorned the London alleys.  John Keats was gone, and in his place lay a pale imposter. Keats sat up, waving away the physician’s help.  Thomas waited for him to speak, which the poet tried to do.  Instead, he coughed, his face growing crimson with the exertion.  When he was done, Keats wiped his mouth, and his hand came away streaked with brown.  The physician handed him a handkerchief. “You are Thomas?” said Keats, wiping his hands. “I am.”  Thomas pushed his chair closer to the poet, the better to hear him. “I read the poems you sent.” Thomas waited for Keats to elaborate.  He did not.  So Thomas pressed: “And what did you think, sir?” “They were short.”
 “Oh.”
 “You’ve written longer?” “I have.  Actually, I brought some work with me.”  Thomas flipped through his notebook.  “I just had a pieced published, you know.  In London.  Italy has not been as kind, but it is early yet.  The piece was—”  Thomas paused, feeling himself redden. “Go on, then,” said Keats. The word stuck in Thomas’s throat.  “An elegy.” To Thomas’s astonishment, the poet began to laugh.  “Quite so!” he said.  “How marvelous.  I do love a good elegy.  I’ve been trying to write my own for a decade now, much to the horror of my dearest friends, and the encouragement of my enemies.” You have enemies?” “Naturally I do.  Every man should have enemies.  A glass of wine tastes sweeter when drunk with the knowledge that it could’ve been poisoned.” “I suppose—” “You do not have to agree with me.” “I don’t think I do.”
 “Excellent!  I didn’t call you here to agree with me.”  Keats sat up straighter, motioning toward a bottle on the bedside table.  With a nod, the physician opened the stopper and poured oil over his hands.  He rubbed the foul stuff into Keats’s back.  The poet’s body grew limp, and Thomas feared for him.  “Listen here, Thomas.  I have written a sestina: my departing work.  But my flesh and soul are failing me, and I have not the faculties that were once mine.”  Keats nudged the physician, who rolled down the poet’s shirt and replaced the bottle’s stopper.  “In truth, I cannot even remember when I wrote it.” “What is the subject of the poem?” “The subject?” “What is the poem about?” “I don’t know.  Does anyone ever know?” “I know what all of my poems are about,” said Thomas, feeling ridiculous. “Then I pity you.”  Keats reached into the drawer of the bedside table, pulling out a pad of paper.  “I have the sestina here.  Would you do me the honor of reading it?” Thomas took it from the poet, but did not look at the page.  “Are you certain?” “Certain that I want you to read it?” “Why, yes.” “Would I have asked you here otherwise?”
 “I suppose not.” “Stop supposing, dear boy, and read the damn thing.” The physician handed Thomas a candle, which he placed on the table.  He leaned close to the paper so that the musty woodiness of it took him in an embrace.  Thomas read: My heart longs for a loveliness I cannot tame: A beechen creature with fairness bright. The night holds promises, of gloomy days And of passings I’d not time to see And the shape of beauty drawn in black: A plague on your houses, a pen in your hand.

Words by: Alice Ciciora.

The worshippers at the feet of the temple were waiting.  Androkles would have given anything to know what they were waiting for.  An hour previously, the high priest at the Temple of Zeus had asked whether Dartaos, god of fire, had instructed Androkles and Lykos in the manner of his worship.  Androkles was beginning to regret his dismissive “obviously, obviously,” which he’d delivered with a regal wave and smirk. “We will begin,” said Androkles, and the sentence came alive and slinked out of him without his approval, “with a sacrifice.” The worshippers murmured.  Androkles choose to take that as a good sign. Clearing his throat, Lykos leaned over.  “What are we sacrificing?” he whispered. “Oh.”  Androkles raised his arms above his head.  “We will sacrifice…”  He thought.  “A vulture!” After a tense, hushed conversation, the lower priests of the temple set out to find a vulture.  It proved more difficult than Androkles had anticipated.  The woods to the north were barren this time of year, and the fields to the east were beset by Persians.  Someone suggested replacing the vulture with a pheasant.  “Do you think the gods will notice?” asked a priest.  “They will now that you’ve said something,” said Androkles.  He and Lykos and the worshippers were thus forced to wait for the vulture in silence—a dull kind of silence that stretched and whined like a gangly adolescent.  As the worshippers began to murmur (a different sort of murmuring than before), Androkles wiped his face with the hem of his robes.  The morning had long passed into afternoon, and the sun had no mercy for this would-be prophet. “Why a vulture?” Lykos asked, after a time. Androkles was distracted by a girl in the crowd, pondering the temple’s policies about fraternizing with congregants.  “What’s that?” he said. “Why did you choose a vulture?” “I’ll have to kill it, won’t I?” “I don’t understand.” “If I have to kill it,” said Androkles, “I didn’t want to pick an animal I liked.  Can you imagine?  Looking down into the eyes of a fawn or an ewe and striking it dead?” “My father was a butcher.” “It’s not even the same thing.  Anyway, I opted for my second least favorite animal.” “What’s your first least favorite animal?” Androkles nodded at the worshippers.  “You’re looking at them.” The young priests returned, carrying between them a struggling creature.  It was the general size and shape of a bird: spectacularly bald and struggling.  They pinned the thing to an altar and handed Androkles a knife.  He raised the blade so that it caught the sun, almost blinding himself; “For Zeus the hegemon, Hera the consort, and Dartaos the fire god!” Androkles moaned, rubbing the back of his head.  Strangely, the bird was gone, as were the worshippers.  In their place stood Lykos and a throng of priests, who watched him with a parental combination of worry and contempt.  He sat up, taking note of his surroundings.  Androkles was lying on a cot in a chamber, similar to the one where he’d told the priest his story. “What happened?” he said. “You fainted,” said Lykos. “Did I?” “The blood.” “Oh gods”—and it returned to Androkles in an instant: a memory of quick, steaming red.  He gagged a little.  “A divine trance, no doubt.” “What’s that?” said one of the priests. “As my blade struck the bird, I felt myself slip into a divine trance.”  Androkles sat back, feeling another divine trance coming on at the thought of blood.  “It must have appeared as though I fainted.” “Oh, of course,” said Lykos.  He addressed the priests.  “It was to be expected, I’m sure.” “While in that state, I received a message from the gods.” The priests leaned in: “And what did they say?  What have you learned?” Androkles shook his head.  “I cannot yet say.  The time is not right.  I need a moment alone, with my companion, to ponder these mysterious words.” To Androkles’s surprise, the priests bought it.  They closed their tablets and left him alone with Lykos. “Pardon the question,” said the latter, “but how long are you going to keep up this ruse?” “Until they bring us to their fortune.” “What fortune?” “The priests’ fortune, remember?  The money they use for all this marble and finery, to say nothing of the sacrificial calves.”  Androkles shuddered.
 “But what makes you so sure the priests have a fortune?” said Lykos. “Did you not hear what I told you?” Lykos sighed.  “We should’ve remained on the steps.” “Have you no faith in me at all?” “We are cursed by Zeus.  Look here.”  Lykos pulled a piece of wood from his robes, the size and shape of a postcard.  “Just moments ago, I attempted to write a prayer at the request of the priests, but my hand refused to form the letters.” “That’s because you’re illiterate, you dolt.  Now, call the priests back into the room.” Grumbling, Lykos did as he was told.  The priests stood over Androkles with their pens above their tablets. “After much thought and discussion,” said Androkles, “I have come to understand what the gods wish of me.  To commemorate the birth of Bartaos—” “Dartaos,” mumbled Lykos. “—to Zeus and Hera, we must build the largest fire ever witnessed on this earth.” The priests said, “It shall be done.” “We will need to acquire kindling,” said Androkles. “Of course.”  The high priest of the Temple of Zeus made a note.  “It will be done.  We will prepare our coffers for this holy event.” “I shall want to inspect these coffers.” The high priest tucked his pen behind his ear.  “That can be arranged.  But you have had a trying day.  Please, let us take you to your quarters so you can rest.  There will be plenty of time for your inspection tomorrow.” Androkles could not deny his exhaustion.  He followed the priests, stooping into a room with a low ceiling, a cot, and a wooden trunk.  The room had been painted in vivid murals, each depicting scenes from histories Androkles had never learned.  When the priests left him, Androkles traced the stuccoed blues and oranges with his finger, whispering stories that meant nothing to him.  He turned to the servant storing his meager possessions in the trunk. “You there,” said Androkles.  “What are these stories?” The servant blinked.  “You don’t know them, prophet?” “Of course I know them.  But I want to be sure that my servants have the appropriate knowledge of history and religion.” “That one shows the birth of Athena.”  The servant indicated a painting of Zeus, his body and face so perfect they were nearly ugly.  Out of his head sprung his daughter, clad in armor and bearing a pike.  “And that one shows the Titanomachy: the gods defeating the Titans.”  In the next painting, Zeus and his siblings—Androkles recognized a young Poseidon, hugging his trident to his chest, and Hera and Hades, standing somewhat apart from the others—contemplated their fallen parents.  Zeus was not quite so perfect in this image.  He had no beard, and his robes were streaked with filth.  His face betrayed none of the nonchalance that was his hallmark in later years.  The king of the gods looked tired, a man eager for home after a long day. “What are these?” Androkles pointed at a stubby figure with wings. “Oh, we call that the pinkouínos, prophet.  It is a bird our explorers discovered in the north.” “It’s damned ugly.  Can it fly?”
 “I think not.” “What good is a bird that can’t fly?” “All things have their place, prophet.” Bowing, the servant took his leave of Androkles. The would-be prophet passed an uneasy night under the watch of Zeus and the Titans.  When he rose, it was not yet dawn.  Androkles dressed in his gold-trimmed robes, then met Lykos in the hall.  The man’s face was ashen. “What is it?” Androkles asked him. Lykos rubbed at his eyes.  “Couldn’t sleep.” “Neither could I.” “Can we move to a better place, Androkles?  After we’re wealthy?” “Somewhere warmer?” “I like that.  How do you get along with the Persians?” The now-familiar throng of priests joined the two, cutting the conversation short.  Bowing, the priests greeted their prophets. “I trust you were comfortable through the night?” said the high priest. “Quite comfortable,” said Androkles.  “Shall we proceed to the coffers?” The priests exchanged unreadable glances.  “I don’t believe the coffers are quite ready for your inspection,” one said. “I don’t care.  I wish to see them anyway.” “As you wish, prophet.” Androkles, Lykos, and the priests walked into the bowels of the temple.  A funeral procession was passing overhead: the wails of mourners and the slurred patter of feet echoed through the temple halls.  Androkles’s skin felt too tight.  This was how people started believing in ghosts, he realized.  They heard an echo and bottled it in a story. The priests stepped aside so Androkles could walk into the treasury.  It was guarded by a pair of clerks, who barely looked up from their tablets as Androkles went in.  The treasury itself was a simple room, largely unadorned, with a massive chest propped up in the back.  Shivering, Androkles threw it open. “What in the name of the gods,” he whispered. “What is the matter, prophet?” called a priest. Androkles reeled, on the verge of a second divine trance.  “It’s empty.” He clutched at the wall.  “Damned thing’s empty.” Lykos poked his head into the room.  “It’s what?” “Empty.”  Androkles staggered into the hall.  “Look there.  The chest is empty.”
 “As we tried to tell you,” said the high priest, “our coffers are not quite ready for inspection—” “But where do you get all the money for this?”  Androkles waved at the walls, the marble floor, the engraved ceiling, the columns.  “And for the calves?” “Donations, of course.”  The priest tapped his pen against his hand, clearly nervous.  “Our younger members go around the city each morning to collect coins.  We spend most of it on repairs, keeping the statue cleaned and dressed, the calves, that sort of thing.  The rest of it goes to food and clothes, as we need it.”
 Androkles knelt, his head bowed.  The part of him that had been touched by the murals, that had wanted to know the story of Zeus and the Titans—that piece of him ached to believe this was divine retribution for his greed.  But he knew it was not so.  The world was the world, and that’s all that it was.  Lykos helped Androkles to his feet. “With your permission,” said Androkles, “I wish to take up my broom again.” The high priest shook his head.  “You want to resume your serving duties?  But why?” “I liked the view of the temple better from the outside.”

Words by: Amanda Lezra.

The calf thumped down the skeleton-white steps to the temple, the same path as yesterday and the day before and the day before that—but not the same calf, of course, because they slaughtered it when it reached the bottom.  Androkles picked up his broom and stepped aside to allow the procession to pass, motioning for Lykos to do the same.  The priests’ eyes cast judgment on him from beneath their hoods.  Their hands rested on the head and backside of the calf, as though they were keeping it safe, and the poor creature smelled dank and well-fed. When the procession passed, Androkles said, “It’s not that I haven’t sinned, obviously.” “Obviously,” said Lykos.  Bits of straw, which had fallen from the hooves of the calf, now littered the marble steps.  Lykos began to sweep them up. “I sin a great deal,” Androkles went on. “A very great deal.” “Every day, in fact.” “It’s the way of things.”
 “But I wish—”  And here Androkles punctuated his wish with a sword-like sweep of his broom.  “—they would not look at me as though they know I’ve sinned.”  Leaning on his broom, Androkles regarded the calf and priests disappearing into the bowels of the temple.  “How many calfs do they go through in a year, do you think?”

“Well, if it’s one a day—” “But it’s more than one a day on holy days.  And sometimes their calf doesn’t bleed just right, so they have to take in another one.” “Oh, right.” “Maybe eight hundred a year. “Maybe.” “What do you think?” Lykos stopped to consider that.  Straw and grass clung to his curls, and his legs were streaked with moss.  He looked as though he’d grown from the earth. “That’s a lot of profit for the cattle farmers,” said Lykos. “I’m sure not,” snapped Androkles.  “Think about what the priests are paying us.  Do you think they’re paying the farmers any better?” “But if they don’t, where will the priests get their calves?” “The farmers don’t have a choice but to sell to the priests, do they?  Is Cryptos the cattle farmer going to tell his wife and his bloody neighbors he refused to sell to a priest of Zeus?  Of course not.  The bastards know that, so they can charge whatever they wish.  There’s a great deal of money in religion, Lykos.” Lykos seemed to find this line of discussion incredibly alarming.  He leaned close to his companion, his eyes growing enormous.  “But don’t you,” he whispered, “believe in Zeus?” “Naturally I do.” “Oh, thank the gods.” “What kind of an idiot do you take me for?”  Androkles whacked Lykos with his broom.  “Of course I don’t believe in Zeus.  Zeus is a scam.” “Is he?”  Lykos drew himself up to his full height.  He was barely taller than a small child.  “Then how do you explain love?” “Humors.”  Androkles tapped his head.  “All up here.” “Creation?”
 “An accident.” “Women?” “A happy accident.” “Lightning?” “Solar bleeding.” Lykos made a noise, like “harumph,” the kind of noise Androkles heard his mother make when his sister announced her intentions to become a Vestal Virgin. “You don’t think Zeus is a scam at all.”  Androkles sat on a marble step, gathering his robes under him to keep from burning his legs and backside.  “Do you?” “Not the slightest bit.” “You actually believe all that nonsense about lightning and showers of gold, and the whole bit, don’t you?” “I do, and I’m not ashamed of it.” Androkles laughed.  “Come with me.  I’ve got a plan to change all that.” And so Androkles climbed the nine hundred and forty-three steps down the mountain and into the belly of the temple, hearing Lykos huffing and cursing behind him.  Though the interior of the Temple of Zeus—the ever-burning pyres, the altar, the statue of the god—was not open to dirty-eared servants like Androkles and Lykos, the rest of the place was at their disposal.  They wove through the labyrinth of white and gold, stopping at a clerk’s desk. “Excuse me,” said Androkles. With obvious reluctance, the clerk looked up from his tablet.  Young men who aspired to become priests at the Temple of Zeus started by clerking and scribing at the tables.  As such, the clerks and scribes were a charming combination of ill-tempered and entitled. “What do you want?” said the clerk. “Where do I go to report a miracle?” The clerk scoffed, returning to his tablet. Androkles propped his elbows on the desk.  “Is there a department I can go to?  An official I can see?  A miracle processing center, perhaps?” “Go on.”  The clerk shooed Androkles and Lykos with his tablet.  “Get out of here.” “Galenos?”  A priest approached the clerk, his face wrinkled into a disapproving frown.  Androkles had long believed that priests weren’t capable of any other expression.  He had not yet seen anything to prove otherwise.  “What is going on here?” “Nothing, master,” said the clerk, reddening. The priest addressed Androkles.  “Did I hear you say you witnessed a miracle?” “I did.” “Are you certain?”


“Quite certain.  I even have a witness.” Androkles hooked a thumb at Lykos, who was chewing on his broomstick. The priest appeared doubtful.  “I see.  Follow me, please.” He led them down hallways that trembled with echoed chants, that smelled of peat and old blood.  At the priest’s command, Androkles and Lykos entered a dark chamber.  It was unadorned, save a pair of oil lamps and three wooden chairs.  A crack split the floor down the middle, a gray infection in the white marble.  Androkles got the impression they were underground.  The three of them sat. “Now,” said the priest, taking up a tablet and pen, “tell me about this miracle.” Androkles tried to sit up straight.  “The sacrificial procession had just passed us by.”  His posture felt unnatural.  “We were sweeping up the steps, as is our job.  Suddenly, a piece of straw that had fallen from the hooves of the sacrificial calf caught on fire.  There was no lighting, no heat, nothing that could have caused it.  And yet the fire burned brightly. “We tried to stamp it out, sensing the danger to the temple, but the flame was resilient.  Then a voice spoke to us, loud and full: ‘I am the fire god Dartaos.  My mother is Hera, goddess of cattle and consort to Zeus.  You have witnessed my birth on the steps of the temple to my father.  Go forth and speak of what you have seen, for you are my prophets, and I am your lord.’” Androkles sat back as though he were exhausted—the way oracles did after they finished delivering a prophecy.  He struggled not to snicker, or to acknowledge Lykos’s awed glances.  They hadn’t the time to rehearse the story beforehand, so Lykos was hearing it for the first time.  It was a stellar ploy, Androkles knew: a brilliant feat of trickery.  If he’d heard the tale from a schoolmaster as a boy, he wouldn’t have been able to tell it apart from any other.  It had everything: an unassuming prophet, a likely lineage, a sacred hill, and (of course) a miracle.  The only slight complication was that the priest might not believe Zeus had sex with his own wife. The priest’s face had turned to marble.  “If what you say is true, then this is indeed a miracle.  I must ask you: Was the voice male or female?” “I beg your pardon?” “The voice you heard, of the god—” “Oh, yes, Bartaos.” “Dartaos,” coughed Lykos. “Yes, yes.”  Androkles’s skin felt too warm.  “It was a male voice.” “How interesting,” said the priest.  “And you both heard it?” “We did,” said Androkles.
 Lykos nodded. “And you’re certain of the god’s lineage?” the priest asked them. “We only know what the god said.”  Androkles held up his palms.  “Hera and Zeus.” The priest made a note.  “And you have no prior experiences like this one?” “None at all.” “Who are the patron gods of your families?” Androkles’s neck prickled.  He knew his family had a patron god—almost every family did—but he had not worshipped at his father’s shrine in years, and he could not recall the god’s name.  For that matter, he could not recall the name of any minor gods.  His stomach and chest grew cold at the priest’s impatience.  If the trick were discovered, Androkles and Lykos would be punished for their transgression.  They would lose their jobs at the temple,  their livelihoods, possibly their heads—and, even worse, their money. “Hebe,” Androkles and Lykos blurted at once. “Hebe?”  The priest nearly dropped his tablet.  “Goddess of youth, daughter of Zeus and Hera?” “Yes,” they said. “Both of you?” Androkles looked at his companion purposefully.  His companion was not looking at him, so the purpose was somewhat lost on dear Lykos. “All my life,” said Androkles. “Me too,” said Lykos. “Then it must be true.” Androkles hadn’t the slightest idea how the priest had arrived at that conclusion, but he wasn’t about to fight it.  He bowed his head. “Master,” he said, drawing on the deepest well of emotion he could find, which wasn’t difficult, because he deeply, deeply wanted the fortune of a priest, “I am but a humble servant, a man who sweeps the temple steps—” “Not any longer.”  The priest rose from his seats.  “Hail, Androkles, prophet of Bartaos.” “Dartaos,” said Lykos.

Words by happyerathome.

More than anything, Darcy was transfixed by his wrists.  She knew he wasn’t an old man, not by any stretch of the imagination, but his wrists belonged to a smaller, brittler person.  Darcy walked by the guy on the way to work, and his hands and wrists poked out from beneath his filthy blanket like a practical joke, like skeleton gloves from a costume shop.  Darcy always waved. “Hey, lady!”  The guy would wave back, his hand-bones wiggling.  He had a gawky sort of smile, a secret one.  He looked like he had a thousand jokes in him that he was too polite to share.  “Off to the job?” “Yeah,” Darcy would say. That was the extent of their interaction. ## Jacob waved back at the lady, the one who always spoke to him on her way to work.  He wanted to follow the woman, like he always wanted to follow the woman.  That would frighten her, though, and she would begin to walk past without seeing him. Something gnawed at Jacob—not hunger, which didn’t gnaw anymore, but instead sat below his sternum and laughed softly.  Whenever they exchanged words, he watched a story tell itself behind her eyes.  She wanted to talk to him, to know him better, and yet she didn’t; he was a guy on the street, an invisible man who slept beneath the stairs of a restaurant.  There was no telling what he might do.  Jacob wanted to reach out to her and murmur, “I don’t want anything.  This is all I want.” ## The man was stirring beneath his blanket, looking up at Darcy with his full-faced smile.  “Hey, lady!” he said.  “Off to the job?” “Yeah,” said Darcy, and instead of walking on, she felt herself say: “Would you like to come over for dinner tonight?” The two regarded each other, stunned by the maelstrom that had opened up between them.  Darcy stepped back.  The man pulled his blanket around his shoulders.  Behind them, a pair with briefcases swore at Darcy for standing in the middle of the sidewalk.  She hardly noticed.  This change felt like some quiet upheaval only Darcy and this man could see: a tiny hole in the world. Darcy suddenly—inexplicably—felt guilty.  “I’m sorry, I guess I’ve never actually introduced myself.  I’m Darcy.  I live two blocks that way.”  Darcy pointed.  The man’s eyes followed her finger.  “With my husband and daughter.  I’m an accountant.  My husband stays at home—and he cooks.  He’s making pasta with puttanesca tonight.  Do you like pasta?” For a moment, the man didn’t say anything.  Darcy feared she’d misjudged him, that perhaps he wasn’t as present as she’d thought.  But then: “I’m Jacob,” he said.  “What time tonight?” ## Though she’d invited him, Darcy was surprised when Jacob rang the doorbell.  He’d polished his tarnished belt buckle and combed his hair so that it stood up in greasy fits. “Hello,” said Darcy. “Hey, lady,” said Jacob. Ushering Jacob inside, Darcy introduced her husband.  “This is Ben.” “Good to meet you, Ben.”  Jacob held out his hand, which Ben reluctantly shook. Ben coughed.  “And you, Jacob.  Sorry, I’m just getting over a cold.” “Oh.”  Jacob glanced at Darcy.  “Is this a bad time?  Should I come back?’ The ensuing chorus of “of course not” and “stay, please” was soon punctured by Darcy’s daughter, who called from upstairs: “Is the homeless man here?” “Christ,” murmured Darcy.  “I’m so sorry, Jacob.”  She raised her voice: “Paige, come down and say hello like an adult!”
 Paige accomplished the former, but not the latter.  “Hi,” she said into her turtleneck. He rolled up his sleeves up to expose his bony wrists.  “Hello,” he said.  “It’s good to meet you.” ## Dinner was a quiet affair.  Jacob didn’t mind that so much.  Talk was wonderful, something he relished, but the ornaments of conversation taxed him: the polite murmurs, thoughtful pauses, “oh, dear, how awful,” and subject changes. But halfway through the dinner, he sensed that the others weren’t quite as comfortable with the silence as he was.  Ben was a successful businessman, Darcy had told him, and Ben looked like the sort of man who drafted a lot of angry letters; he seemed to spend his first plateful of puttanesca drafting one to his wife.  And Paige hadn’t pulled her face from her turtleneck since Jacob arrived.  To Jacob’s dismay, Darcy’s eyes kept moving back and forth between her husband and daughter, silently apologizing to them both. Jacob cleared his throat.  “What kind of business, Ben?” “Sorry?” said Ben. “What kind of business are you in?” “Oh.  Sales.”


“What do you sell?” “Software, mostly.” “Ah, software.” Jacob lifted his cup to take a sip of water, only to find it was empty.  He searched the table for a pitcher.  There was none. “You should show Jacob our juniper after dinner, Ben,” said Darcy. Ben was wiping his nose.  “What’d you say?” “Our juniper, in the backyard.” “It’s not even fully grown yet.”


“So?” “I have to cut off the dead branches.  I was supposed to do that tonight.” “But it’s beautiful.” No one seemed prepared to confirm or deny the beauty of the juniper.  Without asking permission to leave the table, Jacob got up and wandered over to a window.  A young juniper tree was pressed against the cheek of the glass, its berries rising and falling with the wind’s breath.  Darcy joined him.  She traced the outline of a juniper needle with her fingertips. “They are beautiful,” said Jacob. “Aren’t they?” “Look at the different shapes.  Some are pointed, some are blunt…like snowflakes.” Darcy’s face lit.  “I never looked at them that way.” “See?”  Jacob put his hand against the glass.  “They’re so soft.” The two lapsed into a gentle quiet. “We should do this again sometime,” said Jacob. Darcy smiled, but did not look at Jacob.  “We will.” ## Though Darcy continued to speak to him, she never invited Jacob back to her home.  He waited.  Every time she passed and waved, he expected it—he knew the world would stop again, just long enough for her to ask him.  A month passed, and then three. “Hey, lady!”  He waved.  “Off to the job?” “Yeah,” said Darcy. “Can you spare a minute?” Darcy looked up and down the street, as though Jacob had said something obscene. “Please?” he said. “Sure.”  Darcy walked over.  “What is it?” “How are you?” “Jacob, what is it?”
 He inhaled, smelling vinegar and rain on the wind.  “You said you’d invite me back.” “I know,” Darcy said stiffly. Jacob’s throat tightened.  “Wouldn’t you like to have dinner again?” “I would like to—” “But?”
 “Ben has been so busy, and Paige—” “They didn’t like me.” “Jacob, it isn’t—” “What did I do wrong?  Can you at least tell me that?”


Words by: Darryl Harris.

The little table at the end of the hall, which I’d owned for years, caught on fire yesterday.  It was trimmed in gold and shaped like a half moon with three legs.  When I bought it, I placed it up against a wall so that the round part jutted out like a weak chin.  I insisted it looked Baroque; my husband insisted it looked stupid.  It sat there anyway, enduring all manners of sticky injustices at the hands of our twins—until yesterday, of course, when it combusted. The word “combusted” has specific connotations of which I am very aware.  I do not use it unthinkingly.  At half past nine last night, I was carrying a load of laundry down the hall and into my bedroom.  The table was in its usual placid spot.  Two minutes later—no more than three—I returned to the hallway sans laundry, only to find that the hallway was sans table. My heavy-jowled furniture had, in a word, erupted.  Shouting, I retrieved the laundry and used it to smother the flames.  Roused by the music of smoke and screams, my husband joined the battle with a bottle of spa water.  The fire was no match for essence of asparagus, and our battle was soon won. “What do you think happened?”  Sean knelt to examine the wall behind the table, which had been reduced to charred wood with bad highlights.  “Look at this.  It’s so weird, isn’t it?”  It was, as my husband said, so weird: the flame hadn’t touched the wall behind the table.  The wall remained white and clean.  “Did you spill something?” “Spill what?” I asked.  “Kerosene?” “I have no idea.” “Maybe an electrical fire?” “No outlet.” “A wire?” “Nothing.” “The twins—” “Lit a match?” “Maybe.” “We don’t even own matches.” Sean stood, cracked his back.  “Maybe I’ll look into getting a fire extinguisher.”
 “Do you expect it to happen again?” I asked. “We didn’t expect it to happen this time.  That’s the problem.” That was the problem.  In lieu of a fire extinguisher, though, Sean returned from a shopping jaunt with another table.  Unlike its predecessor, this table was decidedly not Baroque.  It was slim and colorless, with four heeled legs arching up toward a fat lip. “What is that?” I said. My husband placed it at the end of the hall.  I’d vacuumed up this table’s ancestor only hours before.  I felt like a widow who’d married too quickly. “Don’t you like it?” said Sean. “Not especially.” “It’s plastic.” “Did you ask me whether I wanted a plastic table?”
 Sean went slightly cross-eyed, as he always did when he was about to argue.  “If I’d left it up to you, you would’ve waited months before you bought another table.  Somebody had to do something.” “I wasn’t asking you to leave anything up to me.  It just would’ve been nice if you’d consulted me about the table that was going into our house.” “What’s wrong with this table?” “This is our house, isn’t it?” Sean responded by placing a vase atop the new table.  He hadn’t consulted me about that, either. The rest of the day passed uneventfully; no one ever remembers a Tuesday.  But when I got into bed, I noticed an odd silhouette in the hall: long, thin tongues lashing at each other like the tentacles of some manic beast.  The reek of burning plastic filled everything.  “Shit,” said my husband, leaping out of bed.  I joined him, already armed with laundry and spa water. “I can’t figure it out.”  Sean was bent over the table, sifting through the smoking ruins.  “It’s so odd.  There’s nothing here that could possibly cause a fire.”  As before, the wall behind the table was unmarred by the experience. “Someone must be playing a prank on us,” I said. “Who?  Do we have any enemies?  That woman from journalism school?” “Bette?  I haven’t seen Bette in years.” “All the more reason to be suspicious of her.” “Don’t get another table.”  I poked Sean’s chest.  “Not without consulting me first.” Feeling only slightly guilty, I took advantage of Sean’s compliance.  The next morning, I purchased another plastic table, wide-faced and tall.  My thinking was, of course, that it looked so different from the others, which must have reduced its chances of suffering the same fate.  That was what I told myself.  On my way out the door,  I made the mistake of asking a sales associate whether the table was fireproof.  She made a face that suggested the question hadn’t been covered in courtesy training. “You went after me,” said Sean, “because I didn’t ask you about the plastic table, and now you’ve gone out and bought another one on your own?” “This one’s plastic, too.” “That’s not the point, don’t you see?” “Look,” I said.  “Here’s what we’re going to do.  We’re going to take turns watching the table to see what happens to it.  Since I bought this table, I’ll take the first watch.” “You can’t do that.” “Why not?” “You have work tomorrow.” “That doesn’t matter.  It’s only fair.” “You’ll be miserable.” “I’ll be fine.” But Sean went cross-eyed, insisting on taking the first watch.  I let him.  Even so, I stayed awake for a few hours later than usual, waiting for my lungs to fill with the damp oiliness of my latest purchase.  It never happened.  I fell asleep, pleased that the curse had been broken. My triumph was short-lived.  A fire alarm and crying twins kicked me from my bed.  I ran into the hall to find Sean tousled and fighting.  He had grown proficient at battling fires, so the ordeal lasted minutes. “What happened?” I said, a twin in one arm and a bottle of spa water in the other.  “Did you fall asleep?” “I didn’t.”


Words by: Rebekah Briner.

Lukas kept the book tucked against his body, a second layer of skin between his shirt and his flesh.  He carried it as he’d carried a duckling that had been born sick on his uncle’s farm, warming the small thing until it fell limp in his coat.  His parents stayed clear of him, watching their son with unfamiliar eyes. In truth, Lukas carried the book because he did not know what else to do with it.  After Konstantin and the knygnešiai left his home, Lukas scoured his bedroom for a hiding place.  “Why did they give it to him?” he heard his father whispering in the great room.  “Why a child?  And what sort of masochistic insanity has overtaken us, that we have allowed this in our home?”  “Because,” said his mother, “no one suspects a child—and when there is something they do not want you to know, children are the most creative at hiding it.”  But Lukas did not feel particularly creative.  None of his usual hiding spots seemed good enough: the loose floorboards were too obvious; the slot behind his shelves was too tenuous; all the pockets and holes and hollows (so ingenious just a day ago) now trembled with potential discovery.  And so Lukas slept with Auksa Altorius pressed against his cheek. ### When he awoke, Lukas tucked the book into his shirt with panicked, bleary hands.  The house smelled of dying embers; perhaps the Russians had already discovered him and had set the house aflame.  Lukas threw open the door of his parents’ bedroom, finding it empty.  Clutching at his chest—the book—his heart—he ran into the great room.  His mother sat by a cook fire, humming a tune from the last war. She turned to smile at him, nodding at a plate by her feet.  “You should eat something.” Lukas approached the plate cautiously.  “Potato pancakes.” “There are more when you finish.” The boy sat cross-legged to eat with his hands.  “Where’s Father?” “Worry about your food first.” “Is he safe?” Lukas asked around a mouthful. “He’s in town.” “So early?” His mother’s smile was painted-stiff.  “The Russians have summoned everyone into the square.” Lukas’s hands froze on the plate.  “But they cannot summon everyone.” “Can’t they?  They have a list of every person who lives in Baisogala: how many in each family, how long they have lived here.”  Lukas’s mother stabbed at the fire.  “The Russians are fond of their lists.” ### Lukas and his mother joined the townspeople in the square.  The sky was stained white by unshed sleet, the ground bruised gray and black.  It felt as though someone had started to paint the world but had grown bored with the project halfway through.  Lukas walked behind his mother, his boots slipping on packed snow.  He had stuffed himself into two coats to hide the awkward shape of the book at his chest. A man of rank in the Russian Army, coiffed and polished, motioned for Lukas and his mother to stand with the others.  They nodded.  As the two joined Lukas’s father in the crowd, an older Russian—his medals glinting self-consciously on his chest—began to speak. “Each of you will receive a book of instructions,” he said, “to help you grow accustomed to your new life.  It will teach you to speak our language, to dress as we do, to sing as we do.”  Lukas recalled the song his mother had hummed over the fire that morning, and his bones went cold.  A pair of Russian soldiers started handing out copies of the book.  “You are to study it until it is second nature to you.” Lukas took his copy in numb hands.  He opened it, releasing the smell of ink and warm paper.  The text swarmed across the pages in uneven fits.  Lukas knew men and women in town who printed books for money.  They took pride in their trade: they arranged each paragraph and each page like watercolors in a gallery, telling the story just so. ### The Russians tightened their hold on Baisogala.  They watched the schoolyard where Lukas played with his friends, seeing everything through the eyes of their muskets.  In lieu of morning prayers, Lukas’s schoolteacher led the students through songs: heavy-handed tales of patriotism told in verse.  The songs filled Lukas’s body until he felt malnourished with their empty weight.  As he sang, the soldiers watched. ### Evening fell, and Lukas was leaving the schoolhouse.  A Russian soldier stopped him at the door, gesturing at the boy’s chest. Lukas put up his hands.  “I can’t understand you.” The soldier switched to Lithuanian.  “What do you have there?” Lukas’s heart turned to brick.  “Where?” he said, but as the soldier went for his gun, Lukas said “fine, fine” and slid Auksa Altorius out the bottom of his shirt. Shouting, the Russian snatched the book from Lukas’s hands.  Three of his fellows joined him, backing Lukas against a wall with their muskets. “Where did you get that?” said a man with crossed eyes, his Lithuanian slightly better than the first. “I don’t know, I don’t know.  I swear it.”  Lukas’s throat was tightening.  He prayed he would not cry in front of these creatures.  “A man gave it to me in town.  He told me to keep it safe.” “What did he look like?” “He had a mustache.  He said he was one of the knygnešiai.” “Did he tell you his name?” “Konstantin.”  The syllables leapt from Lukas’s mouth before he could stop them.  It was probably not the man’s real name anyway, he thought, but he felt like a coward nonetheless. “Did he tell you to do anything else?”
 Lukas shook his head.  “Just to hide it.  This was the only book he gave me.” “Are you certain?” “Yes, I swear it.” The first soldier nodded, jerking his rifle toward the door.  “Go on.” Lukas kept his hands in the air, certain they would shoot him the second his back was turned.  He’d seen it before.  The Russians would capture a spy and then tell him to run.  When the body was found with a bullet to the head, it would look like an escape attempt. “Go on,” the soldier insisted. “Are you sure?” “You were a fool once; you can’t be a fool a second time.  Do you understand?” “I do.” “Then go.” ### True to their promise, Konstantin and the knygnešiai returned in seven days’ time.  They sat around the same table as before, drinking tea from chipped mugs. “Be quick,” said Lukas’s father.  “I don’t want you here any longer than necessary.” Konstantin nodded at Lukas.  “Where is it?” The boy went to his room, returning with the Russians’ book of instructions.  He placed it on the table between his Bible and his father’s almanac. “Lukas,” said his mother, “what is this?” With a shy grin, Lukas handed the book to Konstantin.  “Open it.” The knygnešys did as he was told, his face shattering into a smile.  “Brilliant.”  He placed the open book on the table for all to see.  Lukas’s parents leaned in, as did the other  smugglers. “I cut the paper from the spine,” said Lukas, “and replaced the front.  The cover of Auksa Altorius is in the Russians’ hands, but I didn’t think the cover was so important.” Konstantin placed a hand on Lukas’s shoulder.  “Thank you.” “We should begin our own list.”  The boy gave Konstantin a sheet of blotting paper and a stub of charcoal.  “Don’t you agree?” Without speaking, Konstantin took up the charcoal and wrote Auksa Altorius atop the page: once in Russian, and once in Lithuanian.