hadn’t thought of dying for 93 days
but the counter’s back at 0
while waiting at the stoplight
“how easy it would be
to accelerate into the half-frozen river”
I both wanted it and did not want it,
the idea like kettle corn at the fair,
so crunchy and sweet, excessive,
so soon stale
She woke before dawn to secure the sign into her yard. “EVERYTHING MUST GO!” it said in large, block letters she had traced from a stencil. “EVERYTHING” was waiting under blanketed tables in the garage, which she trundled out into the driveway as the neighbors’ lights clicked on for the day. She sipped from a thermos of coffee, breathing heavily with the strain of lifting and the uneasiness of letting go.
When folks arrived she greeted them with a smile, saying, “PRICES NEGOTIABLE!” with the same enthusiasm as the sign, as if stenciled. She watched the knickknacks dwindle down throughout the day, tallying each purchase in a ledger. In her heart was another ledger, taking toll in a different way.
Read More »
Note: This is a WIP. I haven’t shared WIPs in years, but I am hoping that doing so inspires me to keep going and see the thing through to the end. The best comp I can give for this piece (and hope to achieve at the conclusion) is Perks of Being a Wallflower set in a small Iowa town. Please let me know if you have any parts you like, or things you want to see in future sections!
I hand Nick the nearly-spent joint, watching his thin lips puff at the damp butt; I imagine the molecules of our saliva mixing in the paper fibers, against my better judgment.
“Careful, Trent! Squirrel!” shouts Veronica from the back seat.
I swerve just in time to dodge the skittering creature, the neon contents of our Big Gulps – blue raspberry, lime, tropical punch – sloshing from side to side in the cupholders of my ancient Mercury.
“Jesus,” Nick coughs, hacking out a cloud of smoke that quickly vanishes out the window, into the golden-hour light. “I swear they’ve got a death wish. Remember how Mr. Larrabee would say the wildlife around here have scrambled brains because of the chemical runoff from the factories out east? God, I miss that guy.”
“Dude, didn’t he get, like, sent upriver for sexting Jenifer O’Hair? He’s a fucking creep,” says Veronica.
“There’s beauty in the breakdown,” I reply, pointing to the cassette-to-aux converter plugged into the dashboard tinnily playing “Let Go” through the car speakers.
Read More »
I used to believe in
spring creatures that flew
The butterflies and larks
that carried me to you.
But in the autumn of life
I lost that desire
Of wing against wing,
melodies upon highwire.
Because you had left me,
now just marrow and cinder
On streetlamp I wept,
eyes swollen, and tender.
Though now, in winter,
souls are huddled, collective
I dream once again, of
your memories, perspectives.
“Spread wide your form,
leap forth if you dare”
Your words just the same,
reassuring and fair.
Why was I filled with
such immeasurable sorrow?
Wasting what time remained,
a life unfit to borrow?
So I jump from on high,
putting trust in your words
And, summer-kissed once again,
soar alongside the birds.
the first time I saw you, you were far away,
a block or two—I knew it was you
through the spring snow haze
through the pink tint of the city-smog day
by the uncertainty in your walk,
that first date electric shock
I am naked in front of a mirror, examining myself again. Mid-20s, average build, ungainly to someone in the spotlight but perfectly acceptable for a chef; mine is a body worn by the average everywhere. A softness to the edges, flat yet firm ass. That’s my body, a space I scrutinize way too often, a bad habit I would love to break.
There is classical music playing from the portable speaker on the dresser. I can taste the heartbeat of the timpani and swell of the violins on my spine. I towel off, my inspection complete, and begin to choose clothes for the party. Before a decision is made, Parker makes his entrance, carrying a sack with new hand towels from the store. He follows me as I dip into the walk-in closet, but I pivot at the last second and turn to the dresser instead, throwing on a pair of underwear before considering the outfit further. By the time I’ve thrown on the tightest pants I own, the blackest shirt, and a windbreaker, Parker is already off showering, getting ready for his own evening, apart.
Read More »
The old life rearranges itself around you like a table setting. Small suitcase upon childhood bed. The inhalation of familiar smells—wood stove, pine cleaner, remnants of bacon grease. Mother tending to the house, the steely corners of her starched dress. Father a phantom, a bearded shadow floating in and out of the barn, a clanging noise in the basement, wrench against furnace pipe. You find it unsettling, how easy it is to slip into the routine as if you never left.
You spend the first few days floating in a familiar, lukewarm sea, drifting from one side of the farm to the other, examining the place like a historical landmark: here’s the hayloft where you broke your leg; there’s the milk pail you were regularly forced to drink from as a child, its contents steaming in the cold barn. You’re sleeping badly, uncomfortable atop the ancient bed, the springs digging into your spine, the house rasping like a diseased lung in the night.
Read More »
The best of friends are glued together on the sofa, wrapped in a mélange of blankets, the blasting AC sprouting goosebumps on their exposed wrists as they pass a joint back and forth, the cold air decreasing their body temperatures, combatting the friction of the undercover exploration.
Ice spins around slowly in plastic cups of pinot grigio, box-poured. Around them, wasted partygoers are shuffling off to bedrooms, to nooks, to crannies, doors locked and clicked and fastened with bangles around the knobs to keep a separation between fact and refrigeration.
Muffled moans, the parting sighs of lips opening, tongues swirling together, the pitch of a pendulum somewhere in the apartment, swinging back and forth—slower and slower—as the two nestle somehow closer, the yellow haze overtaking them, fervent departure from friendship into something more. They melt together, lost to the desires boiling inside them.
Read More »
Silurian conduit
Braiding the soil
Sightless, unseen
It would not know “light”
But wonders—
What of this strange fracture
This slight warmth
What is beyond it?
An “un-earthing” occurs
Or “ex-earthing” or “in-airing”
The nomenclature of inversion
In that moment, the worm learns that
“Lost” is a loneliness
It must learn these
Truths quicker than us
Its timeline torn, uncertain
It realizes:
“Lost” is cold stone
Primer gray
Writhing tides of endless ocean
Crests of laundry lint,
Gurgling drain
“Lost” is growing tired
Of coiling
Meaning from
Negation
“Lost” is slowness.
Stationariness.
Is dryness,
Is being
Buried in air
School children littered the asphalt, weaving through a
slalom of orange and yellow traffic cones, but there
beneath the calming shadow of the play-
ground oasis elder, sat a boy made of glass.
He wore a semicircle smile and hand-me-
downs found at the bottom of a garage sale free bin;
in his hand, clutched like the innocence of spring, a
bouquet of dandelions plucked from the Earth
stained his fingers with melted butter. He had
spent his recess alone with choosy eyes,
finding the perfect array for her, his Guinevere
of the swing set kingdom.
Now leaving the quiet whisper of the elder tree,
wanderlust abound, stealthily trips over
tire chips and deflated Juicy Juice boxes
to where she sat, perched atop the jungle gym.
His love is her memorystone, the one she clutches
like the feather of a robin, a delicate im-
balance between beauty and loss, the memory
she soaks into her roots, her branches.
He presented her the flowers, her balm of Gilead,
with his freckled cheeks turned toward heaven
and, for once, the past was itself
Trent McMahon 