The Brain Electric, by Josh Bloom

 

How to describe what seems indescribable.                                                                                                It’s my Achilles’ Heel.                                                                                                                                                                                                                   It’s without warning or restraint,                                                                                                     Stealing myself from me, letting anarchy rule.                                                                           Even when I’m myself again, emotions take control,                                                                                                           They’re a fire inside ready to run wild.                                                                                        Yet, I don’t know how to express them.

Which only leaves questions.                                                                                                      How long? Seconds? Minutes? Hours?                                                                                      What was said?                                                                                                                            What was done?                                                                                                                        Where did it happen?                                                                                                                                Who saw?                                                                                                                               Wanting answers,                                                                                                                           Though I may fear them more,                                                                                                      For what comfort will answers bring?                                                                                                    Answers won’t change the outcome,                                                                                                    Answers won’t change the conditions,                                                                                       Answers won’t settle this burning inside.                                                                                         They’re simply consumed by this void obsession,                                                                                Until I find myself again.

Feeling like a slave,                                                                                                                          Is this living in fear?                                                                                                                       For it’s undetectable, unprovoked,                                                                                           Unrelenting in presenting despair.                                                                                                          And despair weighs in a heavy enemy,                                                                                                             But defeat is no option.                                                                                                                 Too much has been taken to surrender,                                                                                                              And a strength is held that cannot be measured.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        This is merely an obstacle to be overcome,                                                                                                              But, can that obstacle be overcome,                                                                                                                 When that obstacle is myself?

How to describe what seems indescribable?                                                                                                                          An excessive disorderly discharge of cortical nerve cells in the brain,                                                                                                   Like an irregular electric current in a defunct machine.                                                                   It‘s so simple without individuality.

The Making of Man, by Rebekah Phillips

Sinead woke up that morning surrounded by dirty shot glasses and an empty bottle of rum. She was lying on the floor, her arm at an uncomfortable angle under her head, and there was an alarming taste in her mouth that was alcohol mixed with something bitter she didn’t remember eating.

Sitting up, she looked at the mess that was her life and said to herself, “What am I doing?”

A week before, Sinead had proposed to her boyfriend, who had calmly and coolly rejected her, and then made it very plain that he didn’t think much of girls who asked boys to marry them. Ever since, Sinead had been drinking, and now her apartment was a mess of empty vodka bottles that were only half-full and day-old pizza that had been left out on the living room table.

Sinead thought about crying, but too many tears had been shed in the last week, coupled with vain epithets like, “Why did I do that?!” and “What did I ever see in him?!” which no one had answered and, Sinead realized, no one could answer. Sinead had cried her tears, and now that no more were coming, it was time to sit back and think rationally about what she was doing with her life.

Slowly Sinead stood up, testing all of her joints, and then went into the kitchen and made blueberry pancakes and coffee. She ate mechanically, not really tasting much, all the while thinking.

Her mind was a marvelous one, as far as brains go. It was in its own way very logical, although skewed and a little morbid. Often it would beat itself to death for accidents of the past instead of letting those little slips go with the past, and sometimes it would even tell her things she did not want to know. However, it was a well-organized and dedicated brain, and it served Sinead well that morning.

First, her brain told her, it couldn’t possibly be Sinead’s fault that this mess had occurred. It was a new era, after all, where women did propose to men and men took their wives’ names, and so her actions should not have been as shocking as her boyfriend had thought them. Besides that, Sinead knew she was a reasonably attractive girl, with clear skin she was very proud of, dancing green eyes, and hair that was, while undeniably mousy, could be made to look acceptable with blond highlights and some gels. She also had a little bit of a stomach, but this did not trouble her too much; a little bit of fat was comforting, and in the long run a little pouch was healthier than not.

Her personality, too, was fairly average, if things like that could be measured. Sinead had her quirks, as all humans do, but she was well-adjusted, liked to laugh, enjoyed horror films, and didn’t mind watching sports with her boyfriend during football season. All of this was fairly normal.

The fault, then, Sinead’s brain told her, was not in her actions, but in her choice of a boyfriend. He had obviously been a bad choice. He had always had a terrible habit of petting her hand in public like she was a small dog, and he wasn’t very good at reading social cues, but he had been reasonably smart and attractive and put together. She had been optimistic that it would work out, but apparently not. Her ex-boyfriend was a loser. He had not been even a little appreciative of the effort involved in getting down on one’s knee and preparing a little speech, even though he had made clear it was the man’s job to propose! Well, if he didn’t have any sympathy for her, she wouldn’t waste any on him.

 Sinead stirred an extra scoop of sugar into her coffee and sighed. The real problem, she knew, was that she wanted a Disney-style, fairy-tale ending, in which she and her husband would share a hundred in-jokes and listen to the same music and quote the same movies. He would call her “beloved” and wake her up with breakfast in bed, and not panic if she happened to deviate from the cultural norms of how a woman should behave. Sinead knew she wasn’t looking for perfection—she herself was not perfect—but she wanted someone who was perfect for her, whose flaws matched perfectly with her own, someone who thought along the same lines. Once she had not thought that this was so unrealistic. Now she was wondering if she had set the bar too high. Maybe all there was in this world were men who smelled of alcohol and watched too much football and burped unpleasantly at dinner, men who watched horror movies with their girlfriends but refused to watch a chick flick with them, men who thought that a woman’s place was in the home.

“The problem,” Sinead reflected, “is that women think that they can change men—that if they get a specimen that’s close enough to the Real Deal, with some tweaking and minor adjustments and fashion advice, they’ll turn out to be Prince Charming after all. But that isn’t how it works. If only we could build men from scratch!”

And that’s when that brilliant brain of hers struck gold.

She would do what Frankenstein’s monster had only dared dream of. She would defy the expectations of biology, of eugenics, of everything, and build herself a creation made for her. It would be Adam and Eve all over again, where a partner was created to satisfy the needs of the one. Sinead would have love!

And so Sinead began. She worked late into the night, reading and tinkering and scrapping and starting from scratch again. And when it was finished, Sinead stood there for a long moment, stunned. It seemed bizarre that she should have finished at all, and, staring at her creation, she felt shyer around him than she ought, considering she had created him.

He was fairly average-looking, a little taller than she, with dark hair and eyes. He stared back at her levelly and said, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Sinead said. “Want to go out for coffee?”

They went out for coffee. The Man (Sinead had neglected to name him, thinking somewhere along the line that he ought to have the right to name himself) stared, goggle-eyed, at everything, pointing and asking, “What’s that?” like a child.

Sinead had not realized creating a man would be so like having a baby. For a while she tried to be patient, but after a while it just got annoying. How long can a girl answer questions about what food tastes like, or why a person is dressed a certain way, or how a plane flies? The answer for Sinead was: not long.

When at last they reached the coffeehouse, Sinead had to order for The Man, because she didn’t trust him to order for himself. He, meanwhile, sat down next to a guy with a laptop and started asking questions about how it worked and what it was.

“Downs Syndrome?” the woman behind the counter asked sympathetically.

“Let’s just say he hasn’t left the house in a long time,” Sinead said. She collected the coffee and went over to The Man, trying to drag him away from the poor guy with the laptop.

“I don’t want to go,” The Man said. “This is interesting. So, what’s the difference between Windows Explorer and Mozilla Firefox?”

Sinead sat there for a few minutes, trying to decide if she should engage in geek-talk or drag The Man away. After an hour of indecision, the guy with the laptop said he was going to be late for work, but left his phone number for The Man in case he had any other questions about computers. The Man asked him what a phone was.

When at last the over-obliging guy the laptop was gone, Sinead tried to talk to The Man about himself. Was he happy? What did he need? What was his favorite color? How did he feel about watching a move tonight? But The Man did not pay any attention. He kept staring at everyone in the café and asking those very annoying questions.

He didn’t like his coffee. He wanted to re-order. Sinead, exhausted, gave him five dollars and her blessing to order for himself. Sure enough, once he got to the counter, he wanted to know what things tasted like and what a latte was and what the difference between an apple and a pear was. Eventually Sinead rose, grabbed The Man bodily by the arm, and dragged him home.

That night, Sinead made him a nest on the couch. The Man requested that she tuck him in. She did so.

“Sinead?” The Man said, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Yes,” Sinead said, thinking of ways to kill The Man in his sleep.

 “I think I’m gay.”

“Oh, God,” Sinead said.

The Man was gone in the morning. Sinead gave up on biology, moved to California, joined an all-female commune dedicated to living in tune with nature, and was eventually tried in a court of law for creating a human being without contacting the proper authorities first. Sinead doesn’t mind jail. She says it’s better than the real world, and she counts it as a blessing that the only guy she has to put up with on a daily basis is the warden, who slips her moonshine whiskey on Sundays.

 

 

 

The Struggle Bus, by Sara Sabadosa

Dedicated to Hannah Faber

Hurry! Hurry! All aboard the struggle bus.

With a wailing baby who’s causing a fuss.

And her mother who has sleep-deprived eyes,

Plus a cranky bus driver who utters lies!

The girl next to me failed her spelling bee,

And the grandmother next to her spilled her tea.

There’s a cranky child rolling on the floor.

Distracted people trip on him as they exit the door.

An investigative man can’t keep his stories straight.

And a new entrepreneur is running thirty minutes late.

A college grad seeks her dissertation in distress

Her aura tugs at my heart, I must confess.

The crowd of flawed humans trapped in one tiny space.

Express various emotions that we all certainly face.

But, at some point, the “so-called” journey is complete

And everyone must rise and get out of their seat.

Time to look straight in the eye of the challenge at hand

And not let it defeat us; we must take a stand.

All our worries, fears, and stress are left on the bus.

Now, productive and creative energy surrounds us!

 

Rejoice, Our Newborn King! By Cheryl Pullen

The inns were all filled; there was no place to stay.
He was born in a manger, in a bed filled with hay.

Did anyone realize who this child was; did they know

He came to save us because of God’s great love?

The wise men followed the star shining bright.

They journeyed the land in the quiet of night.
When at last they found our Newborn King; in the still of
the night, you could hear the angels sing:

“Glory to God, let the world know, our Savior has arrived

in a manger so low. He has come to save us from our sins.
Rejoice the birth of our Newborn King.”

Unexpected Blessing, by Delvonta' Pinkston

Crying in front of fifty or more people at a scholarship banquet wasn’t exactly on my list of things to do when I walked out of the house that morning. What I’d planned to do was meet new people, eat good food, and network with those who I believed could lend me a hand in my goals and endeavors. Even unexpected experiences can have positive influences on the mind. I experienced this myself when I won a scholarship and was required to attend a banquet to honor not only my achievements, but also the achievements of my peers. The scholarship that was given out to everyone was specifically for those who have overcome challenges in life and have continued on the path to success.

I’ve had my fair share of struggles in life, but I’d never known hardships like my fellow peers had gone through. Their stories pulled at my heartstrings like never before. Before I knew it, I was shedding tears for my peers. They had been so brave throughout their bouts with pain and heartbreak. They’d fought valiantly to not be cast away along with those who had given up moments too soon.  Before I knew it, I had shed a few tears for myself as well. I had fought just as valiantly as my fellow recipients. I’d struggled and I’d lost, but had not let my struggles consume me.

As the time came for the recipients to give our speeches, I felt confident and free. I felt confident, because I knew I was not alone. I had found people who could not only relate to my tales of struggles and triumph, but could also understand the courage to act when the odds are stacked against you. I felt free because in that moment I had released the pain that I had held on to for so many years. The time had come to deliver my speech. I started out well. I started by thanking God and the scholarship committee for granting me the scholarship. It went downhill after that.

I thought of all the struggles my fellow recipients and I had to endure, such as homelessness, having a parent addicted to drugs, and having to fight for the right to live your life the way you want. Standing there at that podium, I also thought about all that we had achieved. I realized that the struggles we endured were completely necessary in shaping the people who we had become and the people who we are still developing into. I suddenly became overwhelmed with emotion.  My voice started to crack and quiver. I tried to regain control over my voice and emotions, but the more I tried, the more it worsened. 

It wasn’t long before slam! I felt a jolt of emotion hit me all at once. A waterfall of tears started to pour out of me as I was giving my speech in front of over fifty people at my scholarship banquet. I tried to finish my speech, but the hyperventilation that soon followed made this no small task. One of the scholarship committee members and one of my fellow recipients decided that my crying had gone on for long enough and slowly started to pat and rub my back while I was trying to get the mess of unintelligible words out of my mouth. 

It wasn’t long after they joined me at the podium that I started to think, “Hmm, maybe I should sit down now.”  Two seconds after thinking this, I said a barely audible “thank you” and slowly made my way back to my seat as an overwhelming applause roared throughout the room. My plan of a quick and silent retreat to my seat was foiled as a small line of scholarship committee members were lying in wait to shake my hand. Their words of encouragement echoed against my seemingly overwhelming lack of dignity that I had suffered only a few moments ago.

After overcoming this small army of scholarship committee members, I slowly inched back to my seat, only a few feet away from that anxiety-inducing podium. The individuals occupying my table congratulated me on my tear-inducing speech. I didn’t bother contemplating the judgment of the fifty-plus audience members in the room. For by breaking down the way I had, I had freed myself from unknown burdens. I felt lighter after leaving that podium, because I had let go of pain that had caused me so much misery throughout the years. I am stronger now because I have broken free of the chains of struggles and loss. I left that banquet free from any worries or fears. The pain of my past and the tales of my struggles will forever be etched into that microphone.

The Art of Procrastination, by Delvonta' Pinkston

Procrastination is a fairly simple task that even the dullest hammer in the toolbox can accomplish. In fact, millions of teenagers and young adults around the world conquer this challenge without even noticing it. However, do not take this task lightly. Procrastinating is an art that must be appreciated. The art of procrastination has saved many from completing work on time and continues to serve easily distracted people around the world.

The first step to procrastination is very simple. Bury your head in the sand, which you can take literally if you would like to. Doing so may actually help the process. Take a small glance at your assignment and entomb it under the piles of meaningless papers that a proactive person probably would have thrown away last week. However, you haven’t because you somehow think you’re going to need these insignificant papers. 

 The second step is where things get interesting. Busy yourself with the variety of social networks the internet has to offer. Do not limit yourself to just Facebook. Enjoy any and everything from chatting with friends in a group message to stalking that cute guy that you’ve seen around campus’s profile. Once you’ve done that, why stop there??? Find reasons to message people whom you haven’t seen in years, if only to keep your momentum.

Now it’s time for some tough love. Everything that we’ve discussed will be for nothing if you don’t convince yourself that what you’re doing is just as important, if not more so than writing some ten-page paper on the life of Abraham Lincoln. Remember that you have all the time in the world. You might as well use this time to have a little fun while you’re at it. Remember, all work and no play makes Jack a very dull boy.

The third step is the easiest of all. Spend an hour or two listening to music. Tell yourself that the music you’re listening to is going to inspire you to write; although you know writing anything is something that is long gone from your mind by now. Don’t feel bad about lying. It is something that must be done in order to fully procrastinate. Doing anything less is cheating yourself out of one of life’s greatest thrills.

We’re halfway through our little course. You should feel a sense of accomplishment coming over you. Neglecting writing a paper, no matter the difficulty of said paper, is hard work.  Avoiding friends, siblings, professors, and parents who are all encouraging you to complete your assignments on time can be a daunting task. It sometimes may feel as if there is no escaping these words of encouragement. Nevertheless, you must overcome these inspirational concepts your peers are trying to hammer into you.

The fourth step requires the following: A television, satellite cable, an internet connection, and a Netflix account. You’re becoming accustomed to channel-surfing, which is essential in completing this step. Spend a half hour flipping from channel to channel, trying to find a rerun of that show you missed the day before. If you haven’t found that reshowing of Lost, don’t fret. Now use that internet connection earlier mentioned to log into the account mentioned previously.  Without a care in the world, scroll through the vast categories the website has to offer. Don’t forget that half of procrastinating is acting as if you truly are without a care in the world.

The fifth step may be the most the most challenging for those who have a thicker shell to come out of than others. Strike up a conversation with someone. It could be your roommate, parents, or neighbor. The topic of the conservation doesn’t even have to have any meaning. You could even start up a conversation with your grandmother about how her last trip to the slot machines at the casino went. Listening to her drone on and on may not be the most enjoyable thing in the world, but what’s hard work without a little sacrifice, huh?

The moment that you’ve been waiting for is nearly here. Now that we’re nearing the end of this small tutorial, don’t think you’re completely out of the woods yet. There is still one step left to complete before you can call yourself a master procrastinator. You’ll have to give it everything you have, because this next step will determine if you’re really cut out to be a slacker. Good luck!

The sixth step is the most challenging of all. Now that you’ve waited until the last minute to start your paper, you must rush to complete it. Whether it is a five-page paper that is due tomorrow or a one-page paper that is due in two hours, completing said paper is a must. Act as if there is nothing to distract you or steer you off course. You should basically act exactly how you would have acted if you had been proactive about the situation and started on the paper when you were supposed to.

 

If done exactly as told, then you have completed your paper and earned the well-deserved title of Master Procrastinator. I urge you to take pride in your title. As you know, completing steps one through six is no easy feat.  Once again, I congratulate you. I hope that your future is filled with nearly missing assignments.

Bath Time, by Lawren Dame

We always had a ritual after my mom gave me baths
She’d ruffle my silky scalp of dark black curls
With a towel, then wrap it
Around my head so I looked like the Virgin
Mother and sing a song:
Heeeey Mary, whatcha gonna call that pretty little baby
I think I’ll call him one thing, I think I’ll call him Jeeeesus
It was an old joke, a movie reference
That I never understood, but never failed to laugh
Anyway.

And then quick I’d be wrapped in my towel

And we’d run downstairs
Into my father’s office where I’d screech
DADDY DADDY do I smell like a
Rose? Only it came out like Wose
And he’d play along, take a sniff at my wet dark curls
and say yes, yes, my little Wose
And then back up the stairs we’d go, mom and I
To where my insulin pump awaited me

That little black metallic box

That artificial pancreas
It my savior, I its slave
And right before my mother helped me plug it back

Into the socket protruding from my flesh

I whipped away my towel, no more Virgin, no more Wose
To dance around, this happy naked whirling kid
And my mother never understood, but never failed to laugh
Anyway.

And once she asked me why I danced
and I looked up, smiling; adoring Virgin, little Wose
And simply said Mama I’m dancing because
I’m pretending that I don’t have
Diabetes. And then she got this look on her face that I,
In turn, didn’t understand
Because I was just so happy in that instant to be
Free.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Baby, by Lawren Dame

My baby. For some reason yet unknown to myself, I have the habit of referring to those closest to my heart as “baby.” When I pray, I pray to the Baby Jesus. When calming myself down—“Stop it, baby; you’ll be all right. Don’t even worry, baby; you’ll be fine.” My sister is baby. My dog is baby. Even my goldfish was baby, before it was discovered belly-up two days after its purchase—poor baby.

 He has always been my baby, too, in my heart. And I think he always will be.

 It didn’t start out that way. When he was born, I hid under my high chair and refused to come out.

 “When are you taking it back? Now? Okay. Back now.” Persistent pout. Furrowed brow.

 “No, honey, come meet your brother. Your baby brother. He’s here to stay.”

 So baby was here to stay. Fine, then. I’d make do with what I had.

 Having grudgingly accepted his existence, I soon permitted baby to join ranks among the others. I made him into a baby of my own, lining up my dollies all in a row, covering them all in blankets, putting them to sleep. He got the same treatment—even as a big toddler, he could be found swaddled in Grandma’s crocheted blanket, curled up in my lap, while I fed him from a toy bottle. He liked it. He was my baby.

 We became the best of friends, my baby and me. My father was ridiculed by his friends for having a cute little daughter in place of his young son, because no matter what I did, baby followed suit. We played with our Barbie dolls, sticking dollies in our overall pockets, pushing them in strollers. The clacking of my pink plastic heels on the linoleum floor was echoed by his as we sauntered through the kitchen in our dress-up clothes.

 He got too old to be called baby—instead, we made code names for each other. He was Bike-l, I was Onion. He was Leahcim (lick-em), and I was Nerwal. Hours were spent creating languages and words that only the two of us could decipher. My mom would find us huddled alongside each other on the living room floor, giggling hysterically as we babbled on in code, changing the lyrics of songs we knew into ones that left our juvenile eyes streaming with tears. “Lawren, we gotta write this down,”—between gasps of laughter—“these are just too good.”

 I could still sing our songs today, if someone asked me to. I wonder if he could.

 He cried the first day of middle school.

 My mom told me in secret later that day: He didn’t understand how I was able to manage being the oldest, the first to conquer the milestones of life. I yearned to be there for my baby, longing to walk beside him in those wide hallways while he battled with his locker and forgot about which classes were what and where and when.

 He adjusted quickly, however. Suddenly, baby was a big boy. Not only big, but popular. He had swooshy blonde Bieber hair, an arrogant brace-laden sneer. I rarely saw him in the halls of our middle school, but when I did, I’d smile, adjust my glasses, try to free my hands from my armload of books to wave at him. He was always swallowed in a sea of friends. He never waved back.

 He was gone all the time—or so it seemed to me, who had all the time in the world to devote to my books and my studies. Off at bonfires, off at parties. Off. I had never been to a party. Bonfires? Weren’t those dangerous?

 I missed writing songs with him.

 “Mom. I don’t even know him anymore. It’s like a complete stranger is living with me in my house—and we used to be best friends.”

 “He’s growing up, honey. When you were little all you had was each other. Now he’s getting older, making his own friends. You’re just growing apart, and that’s a part of life.” I didn’t notice mom’s fingers gripping the steering wheel; I was too busy staring dully out at the grayness beyond the car window, tears trickling down from my foggy glasses. “It’ll be okay. You’ll see.”

 Baby’s form melded into a shadow—the shadow of a teenage boy who skulked about the house, seeping through doorways, blending into the couch. I prodded the shadow when I could, but shadows don’t smile, let alone talk. The few times we were in the same room together alone, the air hung low with silence—a silence I first tried to fill with mindless chatter about school and work, but soon learned to leave well enough alone.

 On rare instances, we interacted—to fight. 

 “Michael, I’m gonna change the channel. You watch the same shows with the same cake-baking crap all the time, and I’m sick of it.” I shifted on the couch, reaching around for the remote.

 The customary glower darkened his face. “You better not.”

 I snatched the remote up, felt the cold hard plastic. “Yeah, I’m gonna.” Click.

 His face morphed into a snarl of pure unrestrained rage. “When are you going to college? I can’t live with you anymore. I can’t do this.” His voice cracked, like the bone of a baby bird. I stared.

 “Michael…I didn’t even do anything.”

 “Exactly. You never do anything around here. You’re lazy and all you do is sit on your butt and I can’t wait for you to leave. My very own sister”—another crack. Little baby bird fallen from a tree—“and all I want is for you to leave.”

I couldn’t move. Tears streaked down both of our faces. And I watched as my baby stood, still crying, and left the room. My baby. Crying. Because of me.

I went off to college the following autumn. I visited home every few weekends, and tried to keep up with my family as well as manage my new life away at school. Nevertheless, living away from home meant a definite gap in communication, and the contact between my brother and me was still kept to the same bare minimum.

 One day my little sister texted me: “Michael’s in big trouble.”

I immediately called her. “What’s wrong?”

Her words gushed out in a babbled rush. “Dad took Mike’s phone away and saw a text that said ‘I need some more of that stuff, man.’ So Dad asked Mike about it and he confessed. He’s been making alcohol with his friends and selling it at school. They did it whenever no one else was home. They call it apple pie. Dad made him go to all of his friends’ houses and tell their parents about it.”

 I couldn’t breathe. Is this what surgery felt like? Surgeon’s scalpel slicing at my skin. Scouring at the flesh beneath my ribs. Like long, bony, scratching fingers, clawing at the pulsing of my heart. Who was this boy with these secrets doing these things secrets and I didn’t know him didn’t know—where was that baby that I used to hug and feed from bottles now he was stealing bottles from parents’ cabinets stealing mixing selling why so wrong oh why

 I hung up the phone.

I came home that weekend, terrified to see my brother, even though he had no idea that I knew of the trouble he’d gotten into. My sister and mom and I avoided the subject, going about our usual routine. But when my brother walked into the room, again I heard that snapping of fragile bird bones—only this time it was inside me. Caught in my throat. Choking me. I rushed past him, out the door, onto the sidewalk. Barefoot, but it didn’t matter. Hurling ragged sobs into the sleeves of my sweatshirt. I just wanted my baby back.

 The last time I came home to visit, my mom’s face was layered in lines of concern. “I think something’s wrong with Michael.” Her arms were wrapped tight around the family’s puppy, clutching his black fur. “Can you go talk to him? Just make sure he’s okay. He never leaves his room anymore. Never even sees his friends.”

 “Never?” I was skeptical. Sure, I knew that my brother hadn’t gone out much since the apple pie incident. But he never even left his bedroom?

 “All right. I don’t think there’s anything I can do about it. But I’ll go see.” I loosened the puppy from her clutches and placed him into mine. For moral support.

 “Mike?” I peered into his doorway. He lay sprawled on his bed, laptop open. “Are you okay?”

 “Yeah.”

Feeling brave, I walked in. Stood over him. “You sure?” Silence. “I brought you the dog.” The puppy wriggled in my arms, and I heard a pop. I stared down at the dog, his black button eyes aimed back questioningly at me. “What the heck? Did you hear that?”

 “Yeah,” my brother snarled. “Can’t you see the way you’re holding him? Put him down!”

 I obliged. Still persistent, I asked, “Well. Can I give you a hug then?” Silence again. I reached out, trying to embrace his form. Stiff. Pure stone. I was growing desperate. “You been working out?”

 His eyes flashed up dully from his screen. “No.”

 “Well. Okay. Remember, I have a phone. So…you can text me sometime. If you want.”

Nothing.

“I love you, Michael.”

Still that interminable silence.

 I crept out of the room.

 My baby brother was born with two holes in his heart. Miraculously, those physical holes healed soon after his birth, closed straight up, as if they had never existed. But I think that maybe, as he’s grown up, and gotten bigger and older, one of those holes might have reappeared. Not in his heart, but mine.

 Rockabye baby

On the tree top,
When the wind blows
The cradle will rock.
When the bough breaks,
The cradle will fall,
And there will be sissy
To break your fall

 

 

 

My Left Hand, by Frances FitzGerald

Unexpected Consequences, by Tess Wenderski

October 31st, 2020

Seven years.

It all started seven years ago.

 If only they had listened, all of this could have been prevented. The death, if only it had stopped there. But no, my creation had to change, had to mutate. Why, oh why, did I have to make it? Why couldn’t I have stopped?

 I’m writing this journal today, on the seventh anniversary of the day everything changed. I’ll try not to ramble, but after so long without human contact, my sanity has begun to fray. Please know, please understand, this isn’t what was supposed to happen. This creation was supposed to help, not lead to all of this. Please forgive me.

 My day was pretty much standard, but I was excited to go to work. I was almost finished with my newest creation: Satiation. If would be the first of its kind, a food supplement that would lead to complete fullness and had all vitamins needed for a day. It wouldn’t deplete the world’s resources and, with fewer farms, more land could be devoted to green energy.

 “Hey, Tallie! How’s it going?” my lab assistant, Peter, greeted me. “Almost done with your new project?” He had been busy with his wife, who was expecting their first child. She was sick and he had needed time off.

 “Yes, I just need to find the right combination of antibodies. How’s Shirley?”

 “Oh, she’s…doing better.” Peter’s face fell. “I’m not sure though.”

 “I’m sure she’ll be fine. Hey, after Satiation is FDA-approved, Shirley can have a free supply.”

 Peter smiled and went back to his paperwork.

 Two months later, the first commercial appeared. Bright colors, happy music, an optimistic outlook on the future of the world. An end to world hunger, cheaper, more affordable food, more opportunities to improve our well-being.

 Five months after that: the first hospital visit. I was called at 1:16 in the morning, being asked to come to Winston General. When I arrived, the doctors told me that a patient had been admitted showing similar symptoms as several others worldwide. They suggested it might be a dietary change. The looks they gave, the suspicion and mistrust, I knew what their diet had changed to. Satiation.

 Over the course of the next several months, I worked to fix my creation. People were dying. Burning pain throughout their body, brittle bones, suffocation. I had tried to stop production, but the demand was too high. I was just about to start the centrifuge, when Peter came in. “Tallie, some men are here to see you.”

Behind him stood five or six large men in military uniforms. An older gentleman was in front. He addressed me, saying, “Talbot Isabelle Genesis, we have been informed that you are modifying Satiation. This has been prohibited. Your current research is to be stopped immediately.”

 “You don’t understand, people are dying. I can’t stand by and watch…”

 “This information is inaccurate. You have been sabotaging your research because your agreed upon profit percentage is too low. Peter Judas is here to vouch for this.”

 Stunned, I stared at Peter.

 “Tallie, Shirley needs your supplement. The baby…” Peter’s protests faded away.

 Numb, I watched the soldiers grab my files, vials, and the past nine years of my life and walk away.

 With a large pension and broken dreams, I stayed in my house, watching the world descend. Satiation was in high demand. Even with the high risks, people were buying more and more. Looking back, now, I realize that there was a highly addictive substance. People could literally not get enough. To stay even vaguely functioning, increased amounts were required.

 Even scarier, the bodies of those who died still craved Satiation. They crawled out of the hospitals, the homes, up off the street to find it. The junkies, who had only surrendered their future, not their lives, watched blankly, often following the corpses to the source. Children, babies, adults, they all sought it out.

 And, now, I watch the mass of bodies swarm slowly. They are heading towards the sunset. The sunset that will rise on the same day forever.