Inexorable

by Sarah Costin

You, with your early Sartre smile, eye the night.
Your cigarette a marker light, its flash divines the wreck,
the surge too strong for sleeping on the deck.

Entanglements grow daily, I wield a futile blade,
bent on slashing lines, the undermines that thrive on my deceit.
You burn them with dispassion, then linger unafraid.
Your fingers trace old patterns in the ash of incomplete.

Freeze flame blazing, you doubt the gods you curse.
Caught in the crossfire, I skirt their stars in verse.
The crash and burn, the conflagration, drops me to my knees.
You, with your early Sartre smile, turn to face the seas.

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His Name Was Yitzhak

by Redd Ryder

-for R., my friend-

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Rational Drug Design: Gertrude Elion and Her Medicines That Changed the World

by Leonardo Chung

“It’s amazing how much you can accomplish when you don’t care who gets the credit.”¹

– Gertrude Elion

Faced with financial hardships, gender discrimination, and difficulties many first-generation immigrant families experienced in the early 20th century, one persevering scientist overcame these obstacles and co-created a pioneering method of inventing new medicines, better known as rational drug design. This method of creating the next generation of medications would go on to save millions of lives. This scientist is the Nobel Prize-winning Gertrude B. Elion, who, despite all of the challenges she faced, advanced the pharmaceutical industry and pioneered a new medical frontier. After receiving her Masters in Science, Elion tried many times to pursue a Ph.D. To her surprise, she was rejected from 15 schools due to her financial situation and gender. However, because of the severe labor shortages caused by World War II and the lack of males to fill scientific job openings, Elion gratefully accepted a position as a laboratory assistant in New York. With the help of her mentor and fellow scientist George Hitchings, Elion would become one of the most influential women in science of her generation. This is the story of her critical role in establishing the frontier of rational drug design.

Elion’s Early Life

Gertrude Elion was born to immigrant parents Bertha Cohen (from Poland) and Robert Elion (from Lithuania) in the bustling metropolis of New York City on the 23rd of January, 1918. Elion’s brilliance was clearly visible in her early childhood as she devoured book after book and earned outstanding grades in school.² As Elion entered her teens, the Wall Street Crash of 1929 struck the US, essentially erasing her family’s life savings.³ Adding to the family’s misery, Elion’s grandfather was diagnosed with and eventually succumbed to stomach cancer in 1933.⁴ Despite the emotional pains of her grandfather’s death, she graduated early from Walton High School at age 15. Her grandfather’s death guided her toward a career in the study of medicines and their biological responses within the human body.^{5, 6}

Elion stated in 1997:

“I watched him go over a period of months in a very painful way, and it suddenly occurred to me that what I really needed to do was to become a scientist, and particularly a chemist, so that I would go out there and make a cure for cancer.”⁷

Gendered Educational Inequalities of the Twentieth Century

Through an educational bursary, Elion was able to subsequently attend and graduate summa cum laude from Hunter College in New York City, earning a Bachelor of Science in Chemistry in 1937. After completing her degree, however, Elion became aware that it was unusual for women to pursue a scientific education at that time⁸ and, as a result, her job prospects were poor.⁹

“I thought there was no reason that someone wouldn’t let me try… but wherever I went, there weren’t many jobs to begin with, and what they were, they couldn’t see any reason to take a woman. They would interview me for long periods of time, but then they would say, ‘Well, we think you’d be a distracting influence in the laboratory.’”¹⁰

Frustrated by the lack of options available to her, Elion enrolled in a secretarial school, one of the few career paths that was open to young women in the 1940s,¹¹ while she searched for a Ph.D. program that would accept her.¹² However, after completing six weeks of secretarial classes, Elion dropped out because the classes did not align with her interests and were unrelated to her particular academic expertise. She instead decided to teach biochemistry to nurses at the New York Hospital School of Nursing.¹³

After working as a teacher for three months, Elion was able to secure a job as an unpaid scientific assistant with chemist Alexander Galat, eventually being hired on as a full-time employee.¹⁴ Earning a comfortable weekly salary of 20 dollars, Elion saved up enough money to pursue a Master’s degree at New York University (NYU).¹⁵ While attending NYU, she taught chemistry and physics to high school students to finance her studies. At the university, Elion met Leonard Carter, who became her fiancé. Tragically, Carter passed away from bacterial endocarditis shortly before Elion’s graduation, causing her immense grief. In the aftermath of his death, Elion reaffirmed her commitment to her life’s goal in medicine.

“It reinforced in my mind the importance of scientific discovery, that it really was a matter of life and death to find treatments for diseases that hadn’t been cured before.”¹⁶

In 1941, Elion received her Master of Science degree from NYU. Eager to continue her studies and pursue a doctoral degree, she applied to 15 graduate schools but was rejected by all of them. During this time, women in the scientific field were often discouraged and discriminated against, and Elion believed that this was the reason for her rejection from all of the institutions she applied to.¹⁷

“I almost fell apart. That was the first time that I thought being a woman was a real disadvantage. It surprises me to this day that I didn’t get angry.”¹⁸

During World War II, many men were drafted into military service, which created numerous job openings in the United States—particularly in the field of science. Elion took on a role as a food analyst for The Great Atlantic & Pacific Tea Company, where she was responsible for analyzing the acidity of pickles and the color of mayonnaise for the company’s grocery stores.¹⁹ Although the job was unconventional, Elion gained valuable instrumentation skills while working at the food research facility.²⁰ She later secured a research position at a new laboratory in Johnson & Johnson, which was focused on developing a new method of drug manufacturing. However, after a change in administration, this project was abandoned, and Elion left the company as she did not see any further opportunities for growth within her areas of interest.²¹

In 1944, Elion was contacted by a job agency desperately seeking chemists, inquiring if she was interested in conducting medical research:

“Interested? Of course I was still interested! It was all I ever wanted to do. It wasn’t until men went to war though, that they finally found they needed me! War changed everything. Whatever reservations there were about employing women in laboratories simply evaporated.”²²

Shortly thereafter, she was recruited by pharmaceutical giant Burroughs-Wellcome to work as a laboratory assistant to George Hitchings.²³

Realizing a Dream

When Elion joined the Burroughs-Wellcome laboratory in Tuckahoe, New York, her work centered on the synthesis of new drugs.²⁴ At this laboratory, Elion became the pioneer of a process later labeled as rational drug design, which is the creation of new drugs designed by targeting specific molecules by understanding their chemical properties and interactions.²⁵

Meanwhile, inspired by her new career and recent discoveries, Elion reaffirmed her desire to pursue a Ph. D. degree. However, she realized that she would have to earn the degree while working at Burroughs-Wellcome to financially support her studies.²⁶ For two years, she commuted to Brooklyn Polytechnic Institute at night to take classes. However, she was informed by the dean that she would need to leave her job and study full-time in order to earn her degree. Elion decided that she could not leave her laboratory position and sadly stopped taking classes at the institute.²⁷

At Burroughs-Wellcome, Dr. Hitchings was studying nucleic acids, compounds that were not yet fully understood. Hitchings assigned the newly hired Elion the task of analyzing purines, which are the building blocks of DNA. Elion’s work focused on synthesizing imitation purines and manipulating them in order to affect the synthesis of amino acids, proteins, and ultimately a disease process.²⁸

People at the time, including some of Elion’s peers, were skeptical of her work and considered it to be of little value. However, Elion persisted and focused on understanding the properties and pathways of purines.²⁹ She began designing chemotherapeutic drugs that interfered with the synthesis of DNA, known as antimetabolites. Elion also studied the role of nucleic acids in the proliferation of cancer cells, recognizing that these molecules were vulnerable to disruption.³⁰ Elion’s approach was to create synthetic versions of purines that were similar enough to combine with natural purines, but that would inhibit the replication of cancer cells.³¹ Elion believed that “letting the drug lead [her] to the answer nature was trying to hide”³² was key to her success.

She discovered that the bacterium Lactobacillus casei, which grows on purines, also grew on her synthetic purines.³³ This enabled her to test purine, pyrimidine, and folic acid analogs for their ability to interfere with the growth of L. casei. Through this method, she realized that she could now control how and when this bacteria could be produced.^{34, 35} In 1948, Elion’s first cancer drugs were tested—unsuccessfully, as human bodies did not tolerate this false purine very well.³⁶ In particular, one patient, pseudonymized “JB,” appeared to be improving from the drug. Observing this, Elion considered it an early success. “JB” married and had a child, but passed away as the cancer relapsed.³⁷ Elion was deeply saddened by this, as she often developed personal relationships with her patients. Yet, Elion did not allow this experience to impede her research.

“Research is very hard work. There’s no other way, but how you handle setbacks can make a difference…you must never feel that you have failed. You can always come back to something later, when you have more knowledge or better equipment and try again.”³⁸

A Pharmaceutical Frontier

In the early 1950s, Elion achieved her first breakthrough. She found that substituting an element in the amino acid guanine, also a purine, created a substance that prevented cancer cells from replicating.^{39, 40, 41} Elion’s new drug, named 6-mercaptopurine (6-MP), was tested on children with acute lymphoblastic leukemia (ALL), and astoundingly, 15 of 45 children were cured of the disease or showed significant improvement.⁴² In another study of 6-MP, of 67 children with leukemia, 30 had complete remission, and 16 others showed significant improvement.⁴³ In 1953, the Food and Drug Administration approved her new drug, branding it Puri-Nethol.⁴⁴ It became the first-ever drug to treat leukemia and continues to be an integral drug in the treatment of this disease. Presently, 6-MP is used to treat Crohn’s disease and ulcerative colitis, and also plays a pivotal role in organ transplantation.

The first human organ transplant was successfully completed in 1954.⁴⁵ However, at this time, organ transplants could only be conducted between related donors, as unrelated donors’ immune systems would act as though the organ’s antigens were different from theirs. Therefore, their bodies would reject the organ. During their investigative work with 6-MP, it was also found to lower the immune system’s responses in very particular ways. Elion and her colleagues gave the drug to Dr. Roy Calne, a young British transplant surgeon.⁴⁶ Utilizing this medication, he was successful in transplanting an allograft kidney in dogs. The initial success was tempered due to the side effects of 6-MP. Undaunted, Elion investigated azathioprine, an altered version of 6-MP that had less toxicity, and in 1959, once again collaborated with Dr. Calne.⁴⁷ He administered the drug to a dog that had received a kidney transplant from an unrelated dog—to find that the recipient did not reject the kidney. This was a monumental advancement in the field of transplantation, as this indicated that organ transplants could be conducted on unrelated persons.

In 1962, the first kidney transplant in humans between unrelated donors was performed.⁴⁸ This was successful only because of the immunosuppressive effects of azathioprine. Her investigative work with azathioprine revolutionized transplant surgery. Allograft organ transplantation has helped save thousands of lives, and azathioprine continues to be an indispensable drug in organ immunosuppression. Elion’s drug would also go on to be the drug required for patients who undergo liver, heart, and lung transplantations.⁴⁹

Tackling the Impossible

In the early to mid-1900s, it was thought that a virus never left its host after infection. There were no treatments for viral infections, and very little ongoing research. Antiviral medicines were considered impossible to create.⁵⁰

Elion made it her next objective to embrace this seemingly futile task. In 1974, Elion derived acyclovir from guanosine—a nucleoside related to guanine—that inhibited viral growth and acted as an antimetabolite.^{51, 52} She noticed that acyclovir mainly targeted cells that were infected with the herpes virus and did not attack healthy or uninfected cells. Four years later, Elion’s research team officially revealed the new drug to other scientists—as they had concealed this drug discovery for years to analyze it properly and publish findings in the esteemed journal, Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America.⁵³ Acyclovir, the first-ever antiviral drug, is now widely used for treating oral herpes, genital herpes, shingles, and herpes simplex infections.⁵⁴

“[Acyclovir was] my final jewel. That such a thing was possible wasn’t even imagined up until then.”⁵⁵

Her other major contributions using rational drug design include designing drugs to treat gout and parasitic and bacterial infections. Several examples include allopurinol, the main

therapy used worldwide for the treatment of gout; trimethoprim, a drug that interferes with bacterial DNA and is a critical antibiotic to treat various infections; and pyrimethamine, an antiparasitic used to treat parasitic infections such as malaria, toxoplasmosis, and pneumonia.

The Legacy of Rational Drug Design

The significance of Elion’s drug discoveries and method of drug design is monumental. They have influenced lives worldwide and have given life back to patients with previously terminal diseases.^{56, 57} Rational drug design continues to be the gold standard for drug discovery, as exemplified by the discovery of the landmark drug azidothymidine (AZT) for the treatment of acquired immunodeficiency syndrome (AIDS).⁵⁸ Other well known drugs recently discovered using this approach include sildenafil (Viagra), omeprazole (Prilosec), fluoxetine (Prozac), varenicline tartrate (Chantix), and celecoxib (Celebrex) just to mention a few. Elion’s drugs: 6-MP (leukemia), acyclovir (herpes), trimethoprim (bacterial infections), pyrimethamine (parasitic infections), and allopurinol (kidney stones and gout) are on the World Health Organization list of essential medicines.⁵⁹ For her lasting and distinguished contributions, she was awarded the Nobel Prize for Medicine in 1988.^{60, 61} She was the fifth woman bestowed this prestigious award and one of only a few without a Ph.D.⁶² Elion has been the recipient of many other lifetime achievement awards in science, most notably the US National Medal of Science and many honorary doctoral degrees.⁶³

Conclusion

Gertrude Elion made her mark on the world of medical science by pioneering the novel technique of rational drug design. This pharmacological frontier meant, for the first time ever, biochemists could design medicines based on the known biological properties of a substance rather than through trial and error. The process made it possible to design new drugs that targeted very specific diseases. From her immensely disadvantaged beginnings, as a woman of a low-income immigrant family seeking work at the highest levels of scientific research, she overcame financial obstacles and gender discrimination. Her steadfast scientific contributions, from curing widespread diseases to organ transplantation, will always be remembered.

¹ “Gertrude Elion.” Jewish Women’s Archive, jwa.org/womenofvalor/elion. Accessed 5 Feb. 2023.

² Creston Junior High School. “Report of Elion, Gertrude.” Department of Education – the City of New York, Jewish Women’s Archive, 1930, jwa.org/media/gertrude-elions-junior-high-report-card. Accessed 29 Dec. 2022.

³ Gertrude B. Elion – Biographical. NobelPrize.org. Nobel Prize Outreach AB 2022. Thu. 29 Dec 2022. https://www.nobelprize.org/prizes/medicine/1988/elion/biographical/

⁴ “Gertrude Elion (1918–1999).” American Chemical Society, www.acs.org/education/whatischemistry/women-scientists/gertrude-elion.html. Accessed 29 Dec. 2022.

⁵ “Gertrude Elion.” Lemelson-MIT, lemelson.mit.edu/award-winners/gertrude-elion. Accessed 29 Dec. 2022.

⁶ Elion, Gertrude. Letter to Rani Shankar. 21 Sept. 1989. Nobel Prize.

⁷ Avery, Mary Ellen. Biographical Memoirs. Washington, D.C., National Academies Press, 13 Nov. 2000, www.nap.edu/read/9977/chapter/14. Accessed 25 Feb. 2023

⁸ “Women, Impact of the Great Depression On”. Encyclopedia of the Great Depression. Encyclopedia.com. 20 Dec. 2022. www.encyclopedia.com. https://www.encyclopedia.com/economics/encyclopedias-almanacs-transcripts-and-maps/women-impact-great-depression

⁹ American Chemical Society.

¹⁰ Elion, Gertrude. Interview. Conducted by Academy of Achievement. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kamweFBx0iU. 18 Nov 2016.

¹¹ Lewis, Jone Johnson. “The 1930s: Women’s Shifting Rights and Roles in United States.” ThoughtCo, 29 Jan. 2020, www.thoughtco.com/womens-rights-1930s-4141164. Accessed 29 Dec. 2022.

¹² Ibid.

¹³ Elion, Gertrude B. “The Quest for a Cure.” Annual Review of Pharmacology and Toxicology.

¹⁴ Ibid.

¹⁵ Koenig, Rick. “The Legacy of Great Science: The Work of Nobel Laureate Gertrude Elion Lives On.” The Oncologist, vol. 11, no. 9, 1 Oct. 2006, pp. 961–965, https://doi.org/10.1634/theoncologist.11-9-961.

¹⁶ “Gertrude Elion.” Jewish Women’s Archive.

¹⁷ Wasserman, Elga Ruth. The Door in the Dream: Conversations With Eminent Women in Science. Joseph Henry Press, 2000.

¹⁸ McGrayne, Sharon Bertsch. Nobel Prize Women in Science: Their Lives, Struggles, and Momentous Discoveries: Second Edition. Subsequent, Joseph Henry Press, 2001.

¹⁹ “Gertrude B. Elion.” Biography, 2 Apr. 2014, www.biography.com/scientist/gertrude-b-elion. Accessed 29 Dec. 2022.

²⁰ Elion, Gertrude. Interview. Conducted by Academy of Achievement.

²¹ Ibid.

²² Macbain-Stephens, Jennifer. Gertrude Elion: Nobel Prize Winner in Physiology and Medicine (Women Hall of Famers in Mathematics and Science). 1st ed., Rosen Pub Group, 2003.

²³ “Gertrude B. Elion, M.Sc.” Academy of Achievement, 16 Feb. 2022, achievement.org/achiever/gertrude-elion.

²⁴ “How Gertrude Elion Became a Pioneer of Modern Medicine.” PBS, www.pbs.org/video/how-gertrude-elion-became-pioneer-modern-medicine-uaapru. Accessed 29 Dec. 2022.

²⁵ Elion, Gertruade. Interview. Conducted by Charlie Rose. https://charlierose.com/videos/30741. 10 May 2020.

²⁶ Hitchings, George. Letter to Milan Logan. 17 Dec. 1951. Jewish Women’s Archive.

²⁷ Elion, Gertrude B. “The Quest for a Cure.”

²⁸ Hajdu, Steven I. “Pathfinders in Oncology from the First Clinical Use of Single Agent Chemotherapy to the Introduction of Mammography.” Cancer, vol. 127, no. 1, 23 Oct. 2020, pp. 12–26, https://doi.org/10.1002/cncr.33223. Accessed 14 Oct. 2021.

²⁹ Shader, Richard I. “A Tribute to Gertrude Belle Elion on the 100th Anniversary of Her Birth.” Clinical Therapeutics, vol. 40, no. 2, Feb. 2018, pp. 181–185, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.clinthera.2018.01.008. Accessed 26 Oct. 2021.

³⁰ Elion, Gertrude. Interview. Conducted by Lou Massa. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UMXxk7cx66k. 10 May 2020.

³¹ Nicholls, Mark. “George H. Hitchings and Gertrude B. Elion.” European Heart Journal, vol. 41, no. 47, 2020, pp. 4453–4455., https://doi.org/10.1093/eurheartj/ehaa124.

³² McGrayne, Sharon Bertsch.

³³ Kent, Richard, and Brian Huber. “Gertrude Belle Elion (1918-99).” Nature, vol. 398, no. 6726, Apr. 1999, pp. 380–380, https://doi.org/10.1038/18790. Accessed 12 May 2020.

³⁴ Balis, M. Earl et al. “On the interconversion of purines by Lactobacillus casei.” The Journal of Biological Chemistry vol. 188, 1 (1951): 217-9.

³⁵ Elion, Gertrude B., and George H. Hitchings. “Antagonist of nucleic acid derivatives. III. The specificity of the purine requirement of Lactobacillus casei.” The Journal of Biological Chemistry vol. 185,2 (1950): 651-5.

³⁶ Whitlock, Catherine, and Rhodri Evans. Ten Women Who Changed Science and the World: Marie Curie, Rita Levi-Montalcini, Chien-Shiung Wu, Virginia Apgar, and More (Trailblazers, Pioneers, and Revolutionaries). Diversion Books, 2021.

³⁷ Ibid.

³⁸ Elion, Gertrude. Interview. Conducted by Academy of Achievement.

³⁹ Elion, Gertrude B. et al. “The purine metabolism of a 6-mercaptopurine-resistant Lactobacillus casei.” The Journal of Biological Chemistry vol. 204, 1 (1953): 35-41.

⁴⁰ Balis, M. Earl et al. “The effects of 6-mercaptopurine on Lactobacillus casei.” Archives of Biochemistry and Biophysics vol. 71,2 (1957): 358-66. doi:10.1016/0003-9861(57)90046-2

⁴¹ Skipper, Howard E et al. “Observations on the anticancer activity of 6-mercaptopurine.” Cancer Research vol. 14,4 (1954): 294-8.

⁴² Burchenal, J. H., et al. “Clinical Evaluation of a New Antimetabolite, 6-Mercaptopurine, in the Treatment of Leukemia and Allied Diseases.” Blood, vol. 8, no. 11, American Society of Hematology, Nov. 1953, pp. 965–99. https://doi.org/10.1182/blood.v8.11.965.965.

⁴³ Heyn, Ruth M., et al. “The Comparison of 6-Mercaptopurine With the Combination of 6-Mercaptopurine and Azaserine in the Treatment of Acute Leukemia in Children: Results of a Cooperative Study.” Blood, vol. 15, no. 3, American Society of Hematology, Mar. 1960, pp. 350–59. https://doi.org/10.1182/blood.v15.3.350.350.

⁴⁴ Elion, Gertrude B. “The Quest for a Cure.”

⁴⁵ Barker, Clyde F., and James F. Markmann. Historical overview of transplantation. Cold Spring Harb Perspect Med. 2013 Apr 1;3(4):a014977. doi: 10.1101/cshperspect.a014977. PMID: 23545575; PMCID: PMC3684003.

⁴⁶ Ibid.

⁴⁷ Elion, Gertrude B. Significance of azathioprine metabolites. Proceedings of the Royal Society of Medicine. 1972 Mar; 65(3):257-60. PMID: 5083313; PMCID: PMC1644003.

⁴⁸ Hatzinger, Martin, et al. “Die Geschichte der Nierentransplantation” [The history of kidney transplantation]. Der Urologe. Ausg. A vol. 55,10 7(2016): 1353-1359. doi:10.1007/s00120-016-0205-3

⁴⁹ Cohn, Sharyn. Letter to Gertrude Elion. 3 Mar. 1998. Jewish Women’s Archive.

⁵⁰ “The Legacy of Gertrude Elion: Inventor of Medicines.” YouTube, uploaded by Burroughs Wellcome Fund, 10 Aug. 2020, www.youtube.com/watch?v=qqza99M1b3s.

⁵¹ “How Gertrude Elion Became a Pioneer of Modern Medicine.” PBS.

⁵² Elion, Gertrude B. “An overview of the role of nucleosides in chemotherapy.” Advances in Enzyme Regulation vol. 24 (1985): 323-34. doi:10.1016/0065-2571(85)90084-6

⁵³ Elion, Gertrude. Interview. Conducted by Academy of Achievement.

⁵⁴ Adams, Patrick. “Meet the Woman Who Gave the World Antiviral Drugs.” National Geographic, 4 May 2021, www.nationalgeographic.com/science/article/gertrude-elion-antivirals-coronavirus-remdesivir.

⁵⁵ Whitlock, Catherine, and Rhodri Evans.

⁵⁶ Pack, Ted. Letter to Gertrude Elion. 11 Aug. 1996. Jewish Women’s Archive.

⁵⁷ Elion, Gertrude. Letter to Ted Pack. 20 Aug. 1996. Jewish Women’s Archive.

⁵⁸ Crouwel, Femke, et al. “The Thiopurine Tale: An Unexpected Journey.” Journal of Crohn’s and Colitis, vol. 16, no. 7, 12 Jan. 2022, pp. 1177–1183, https://doi.org/10.1093/ecco-jcc/jjac004. Accessed 10 Feb. 2023.

⁵⁹ Ibid.

⁶⁰ Scanpix Scandinavia. “Gertrude Elion and Other Recipients at the Nobel Prize Ceremony, 1988.” Jewish Women’s Archive, 1988, jwa.org/media/gertrude-elion-with-other-recipients-at-nobel-prize-awards-ceremony.

⁶¹ Gertrude B. Elion – Biographical. NobelPrize.org.

⁶² “Gertrude B. Elion, M.Sc.” Academy of Achievement.

⁶³ Larsen, Kristine. “Gertrude Elion.” Jewish Women’s Archive – Shalvi/Hyman Encyclopedia of Jewish Women, 31 Dec. 1999, jwa.org/encyclopedia/article/elion-gertrude-belle. Accessed 29 Dec. 2022.

Appendix A

Scanpix Scandinavia. “Gertrude Elion and Other Recipients at the Nobel Prize Ceremony, 1988.” Jewish Women’s Archive, 1988, jwa.org/media/gertrude-elion-with-other-recipients-at-nobel-prize-awards-ceremony.

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Cupcakes and Eternity

by Kristin Eck

Miss Chapman was a tall, thin woman who bore a striking resemblance to a bird. Her nose was decidedly beaklike, a sharp pointed affair. The messy bun perched at the nape of her neck resembled a nest to our hyperbolic third-grade eyes. But she might have avoided the avian comparison were it not for her mannerisms. She cocked her head, wreathed in straw-yellow hair, in a twitchy, angular fashion. Her eyes darted around our classroom with the intensity of a bird sighting worms in the dirt. Even her posture, poised but stiff, was borrowed from the bird on a branch. And that’s exactly how I remember her standing before us the day of the holiday party.

On a slushy December day, we had trudged into Miss Chapman’s room with an assortment of baked goods in tow. The classroom was generously festooned with red and green paper chains. Our jolly Styrofoam snowmen greeted us with lopsided grins, Popsicle-stick arms flung open in welcome. It was supposed to be a festive day. But there was a strange pall hanging over the room. We lumbered out of winter-wet mittens, took our seats and looked up expectantly.

Miss Chapman stood, urgently vertical, her head tilted at a sharp angle as usual. But what happened next, or didn’t happen, was most unusual. Miss Chapman did not anoint a lucky classmate to affix a magnet matching the day’s weather to the Weather Wheel pie-cut into the days of the week. We did not write our names in the hot or cold lunch columns. There was no lecture on voice levels or taking turns even though it was a class-party day.

We never embarked on a field trip or party without some checklist of Do’s and Don’ts. We had collectively discovered it was a menu of Don’ts sweetened with a few ostensible Do’s. But it was still part of the way things were supposed to be done. Rules and routines were sacrosanct boundaries. Holding firm even when we tried to breach them. And that is just how we liked things even the things we didn’t like. Had something violated the perimeter of our orderly little world?

Miss Chapman took a deep breath. We held ours. Then she broke jarring news. She told us that our classmate Seth had suffered a tragic loss. His father had passed away. Seth was here to join us for part of the celebration. But he would have to leave early. By our first-blush elementary-school calibration, losing his dad and leaving the class party early both seemed weighty. We were caught off balance by this peculiarly cosmic scale.

Miss Chapman had a daunting task. Previewing eternity to a cohort of wide-eyed third graders. Mortality is a tough concept to make palatable in general let alone on the day before Christmas vacation. I must give Miss Chapman credit for her aplomb whether it was by default or design. She used her familiar “let’s-get-down-to-business” tone when she told us about Seth’s dad. The same tone she used for standard directives like opening workbooks or not encroaching on a neighbor’s square on the checkerboard Reading Rug. We barely noticed the foreign accent of sorrow modulating her voice. Or how hard she tried to suppress it as she educated us on death’s ruthless corollaries. The mercurial trajectory of grief, the bittersweet mining of happy memories. Her instruction, scrupulously unvarnished by emotion, belied the tragic curriculum. She kept it pragmatic and fundamental. Like a phonics lesson on death.

We were soothed by the perfunctory delivery, but the unsettling content was still hard to digest. It was difficult to fathom the bewildering rites of passage, or passing, that awaited Seth beyond the fortress of our classroom. The rest of us were intuitively glad we could shelter in place. But unclear on how to extrapolate all this troubling knowledge to Seth. When we looked over at him, after Miss Chapman finished speaking, a lot of us were unsure what expressions our faces should wear. He was a Special Education student so there was already some mystique to him. He left class for mysterious encounters on a regular basis. Now here was another perplexing layer of separation. Seth had been touched by something that seemed too big for him, or any of us, to hold in our little hands.

For many of us third graders, it was a first close encounter with sudden, raw grief. But for all of us, it was an exquisitely disquieting juxtaposition. What place did this awful event have among silver bells and reindeer games? It was like the then-popular Sesame Street skit, where a felt board sported two related objects and a third item that was clearly incongruous. Like a mitten, a hat and a tennis racket. Then a sing-song voice queried: “Which one of these things is not like the others?” Well, the elephant in the (class)room was crystal clear—and that was Seth’s dad dying. Fortunately, Miss Chapman shared our dismay with the discordant note in our midst. We looked to her, our barometer of harmony and order, to silence it.

Miss Chapman had reluctantly ceded the specter of death its brief but necessary audience with her students. Now she needed to navigate all of us, even Seth to whatever degree possible, back to our celebratory agenda. I’m sure Miss Chapman marshaled some teacher superpower to keep trauma at bay. But I think our de facto assumption helped, too. We didn’t think it possible that such an abstract horror could ever get to us. We were already incredulous that it had managed to get so close to Seth. We didn’t want to alienate him. But our instinct was to distance ourselves from the ambiguous heaviness that had settled down around him. When Miss Chapman beckoned the rest of us back to fun and games, we were only too ready to follow. In the end, the hardest thing for Miss Chapman wasn’t getting us back. It was letting Seth go.

When it was time for Seth to leave the party, Miss Chapman faltered. As he edged toward the door, a mountain of cookies and candy threatened to implode on the reindeer plate in his hands. But Miss Chapman anxiously shoveled more treats under the straining cling wrap. Wrangled a hasty bouquet of mini candy canes into the goody bag looped over his wrist. Seth’s emotions were hard to read in general, so it was difficult to say exactly what he was feeling. But he was obviously done with the party. Done with his peers’ inadvertently grating curiosity. Done with lyrics that callously touted “the most wonderful time of the year.” Seth even seemed to be done with Miss Chapman herself. He muttered, almost growled, in protest as she tried to shoehorn a richly frosted cupcake onto the sagging paper plate. It was as if the weight of that last cupcake was simply too much for him to bear.

The rest of us were scattered around the room, busily decorating cookies, drowning our D.I.Y. ornaments in glitter glue, laboring over handmade cards. But we couldn’t ignore the power struggle happening at the door. Our eyes were drawn, magnet-like, to the stand-off between Miss Chapman and Seth. We weren’t used to seeing a student trying to dismiss a teacher. We didn’t know why Seth would do that. He probably didn’t know either.

Perhaps he was rejecting Miss Chapman’s authority because today he knew there were far more powerful forces at work in the universe than his third-grade teacher. Even though just yesterday she’d been one of the mightiest. Miss Chapman was disconcerted, too. She didn’t want to surrender Seth, unfortified, to the cruel world beyond her classroom. There was nothing to do but dispense her waning power in a currency of calories.

“Seth, please take the cupcake,” she was almost pleading with him.

But he was done. His plate was full. He was sweating in his winter coat. He emitted a guttural, strangled sob as he put his mittened hand on the doorknob. And then he was gone with his feast of treats. And some of the sweetness in the room went with him.

We looked back to Miss Chapman, the abandoned cupcake cradled in her still-extended hand. Her impeccable posture dissolved in a crestfallen valley of slumped shoulders. One of her baby birds had fallen out of the nest. And she didn’t have enough frosting to soften the fall. We hardly recognized this woman gutted and stooped with despair. But the next moment, her shoulders snapped back into place. She reinhabited her full height. Took a brisk survey of the room with a jerky, flitting swivel of her head. To our great relief, she looked just like a bird.

Our third-grade world had its North Star back. Miss Chapman led us out of the mysterious detour that had claimed Seth’s family. Redirected our fickle attention to truly complex matters like the proper sequence of scissor cuts for a snowflake chain. We gorged ourselves on peppermint and fudge. The holiday spirit resurfaced in our cozy classroom. By the time we reached the grand finale of story time and hot chocolate, it felt like death hadn’t come to our party at all. Buzzy but sated with sugar, we returned to our desks. The class eagerly watched Miss Chapman gather up a stack of bright red cups, an industrial-sized can of whipped cream and an armload of hot cocoa packets. She set one aside for Seth. She would send it home with him another day.

Most years in the Decembers of my adulthood, my mind will light upon the memory of that elementary-school day. Suddenly, I’m teleported back to that time and place. The wintry playground unspools beyond the flurry of paper snowflakes on our classroom window. Miss Chapman’s vigilant silhouette unfolds before me like a paper doll. I see the pain in Seth’s eyes. I feel a discomfiting chill on my spine. A deep, sad hurt for Seth’s loss of innocence. A wistful empathy for the nine-year-old me bearing witness to the frailty of the human condition; glimpsing the darkness instead of a light at the end of the tunnel.

I think of Seth’s father, himself a tragic abstraction to me. But his passing eternally deposited in my childhood memory bank. I consider how strange it is that we randomly appear on the canvases of each other’s lives. Or unwittingly play bit parts in someone else’s storyline. That we can hijack other people’s most intimate tragedies without even realizing it. Preserving them forever in the amber of an adjacent stranger’s memory. Just like Seth’s father’s death lives on in mine.

I’ll never forget the winter day Miss Chapman told us Seth’s father had died. Or the haunting simile it imprinted on my brain: How much death is like a snowflake kissing the sun. A singular crystalline entity dissolved in an instant cruel, inevitable, arbitrary as the dissolution of a unique human life. My mind stalls, as it always does, if it idles too long in this existential pathology.

But I blink my eyes. The raw edges of the memory soften. The third-grade day recedes back to its rightful place in time. And I am recalled to Christmas present. There are gifts to give. Cookies to bake. The lights on the tree twinkle. An aroma of mulled cider blossoms from a thick red candle. I hear the odd footstep or voice, the pitch of a laugh, the scuffle of a pet’s paws. The gentle narrative of my home.

It seems Miss Chapman’s wisdom withstands the test of (Christmas)time. Sometimes, maybe most of the time, it’s good to let gingerbread or jingle bells—or whatever makes your life the sweetest—sugarcoat death’s bitter truth. And I guess I’m not so different from my third-grade self even after all these years.

I still wish for less eternity and more cupcakes.

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Offline Friend

by Angie St. John 

I left early because I had a feeling about Carrington. When I got to my apartment, she was perched on the couch, stroking the cat I’d convinced her is not food. I said hello, and she gave her grunt-hum in return. I told her about the money we’d raised for the museum that night; the numbers were meaningless to her. I stepped on the scale; the numbers were meaningless to me. I preheated the oven for a DiGiorno. Then Carrington, who had steadily learned to modify her jaws, lips, and tongue into lingual shapes, said, “Food,” and pointed to a large cooked bird. Perhaps a goose, I wasn’t sure. The neck and head–leathery, umbilical–were still attached to the roasted body. I watched as she crouched and bit into the breast.

The Rite of Exhumation

I remember there were a lot of shamed faces, embarrassed for me, not sure how to talk to me. First of all, because of the details of my mother’s death, the taboos around suicide, the remaining fear of discussing and naming my mother’s neurological disorder–a fear mummified in the cause of her death. Secondly, I was sure, because they hadn’t seen me since I was a child, and I had failed to do the thing for which girls are put on this Earth; become beautiful by my society’s standards. I was pale and chubby, with acne, chronic lower-back pain, slight pronation in the knees and ankles, flat feet, a likely candidate for type II diabetes. All of these were, I know from my studies, results of dysevolution; my body hadn’t been selected for the environment it grew up in. Perhaps I hadn’t been well selected for my body.

The grave was filled at the burial. I watched the dirt pour out of the tractor scoop in brown, damp curtains. My grandmother put her cold hand on me, but I didn’t need it. I had my own secret salve. While others tossed mementos on the fresh grave, I relished in the memory of my most important dig.

When I was young, an abandoned construction site near the apartment complex of my childhood—Carrington Court—left much exposed dirt. Wonderful dirt. Dirt full of microbes and worms, immune system boosters, nature’s delights. The holes started with a spade pulled from a neighbor’s unattended flower box, then, when deep enough, an ice scraper and snow shovel. I never met rock resistance, we were too close to the river.

I dug, dug, dug, then struck bone. Piece by piece, as river-damp clay gave way, I pulled her. I spent that summer exhuming her body. I was ten, and imbibing a secret glory.

I snuck those precious findings past my mom in her room, her solitude. I wrapped each one individually in a towel or shirt. I retrieved a kitty litter box from the dumpster and buried my treasure chest in the back of my closet. An emptiness filled. Sudden and consummate. She was everything from then on.

I know what she looked like back then. I had a knack for keeping archives. I have drawings and measurements of the original pieces, scanned files on my computer and meticulous notes, 3D renderings of her original pieces on pirated software.

I got into a small midwestern liberal arts college, Princeton of the Prairie or Harvard of the Hayfield and other such titles. It was known for its museum curation program. I wrote my entrance essay speculating reasons for delayed decay of some bodies: burial environment, health, lifestyle. My thesis statement was something rudimentary like Being loved makes a human decay slower and yet they admitted me on scholarship.

I moved onto campus into a dorm and thought I would try to make offline friends. I had a few false starts. Church kids are inviting, but really their endgame is you participating in ill-defined communion. There were guys with blocky gaming laptops who made sport out of getting around the campus firewall, but they were overwhelmingly amateur. I focused on my classes, made friends with Lucy the Australopith and King Tutenkamen. I started calling her “Carrington” when I learned about Turkana Boy named for the place of his uncovering. She remained in my closet.

The Bones

Once she had been a woman, soft skin and warm fat pulled around the curve of hips, nipples puckered for feeding. Then her body bloated to twice its size, necrobiome to maggots who invite mice luring rattlesnakes. Then she deflated, her skin worn and leathery, like muddy clothes draped over a skeleton. She was consumed by the clay earth.

In the passing years, microbes had grown riotous when her immune system slept and ate her from the inside. Her muscles, fat, ligaments were long expired in cellular death. And yet I yearned for her soft tissue. I wanted to feed her; give her carbohydrates and proteins and watch the space in her cavities fabricate and glisten into gorgeous squamous and cuboidal membranes, membranes that filter and diffuse while they secrete and absorb–O! to absorb her! To let her pass into me, epithelial and total. O! for her to billow into animation and bite my pulse! To love! To eat!

No, she was not flesh. She was architecture.

The bones I found in the original exhumation at Carrington Court in 1999 are as follows:

Teeth: intact except for both back molars, gone from decay or having been impacted

Vertebrae: curved unnaturally, but intact, except L7

Sternum: collapsed on her vertebrae and ribs

Ribs: broken and scattered, cartilaginous parts decayed

Fibula (left): intact

Tibula (left, right): intact

Femur (left): intact and gorgeous

Femur (right): decayed and busted up

Ilium and Pubis: chipped variously, powerfully wide

Skull: lovely

Carpals, Metacarpals (left, right): somewhat intact

Phalanges: a couple left

I noted that she needed a mandible, humerus, ulna and radius, more phalanges, bones for her feet, and a femur–but these would come. I was an exhaustive internet explorer.

As a teenager, I sat for years in a hunched position over my laptop, or laying back with it nestled and warm on my belly, probably killing any eggs in my uterus with radiation exposure, rendering myself near-sighted. Blue-light burned deep in my retinas. I was often blinking back white phantoms that rose in the dark, rose when I closed my eyes. My grandmother would knock on my door: “You come out and get some sunlight” and see me at work: “You sit up straight if you don’t want to be a hunchback.”

What I told no one: I was obsessed with harvesting information about laws surrounding human remains. Laws differed state by state and were vaguely worded. There were some corners of the dark web with need of human remain display laws but this research quickly bled over into corpse-abuse laws. I installed an onion browser, got an anonymous P.O. box, bought cryptocurrency, and went to work on my body. And it was, I’ll admit, sloppy. I couldn’t find matching femurs, for instance, so Carrington would eventually walk with a limp. But some of the work was inspired. This is when I attached the finger.

The Finger

I realized I had an oral fixation when I started reading Freud in psychology class. My mom had weaned me at one week old because I sucked blood out of her nipples; red and white marbling together became a part of my inner world, a clue to who I was. I chewed on everything. Even as an adult, if I don’t understand something, I have to fight the urge to put it in my mouth to know better what it is, especially now that I work with ancient artifacts that would dissolve into atomic dust at the touch of my lips. I remember being a kid and kneeling over my treasure box holding a single phalange close to my mouth, just barely brushing it against my lips. The sensation made my mouth buzz the rest of the day.

The thought of reburying Carrington only tempted me once, at my mom’s funeral. I fantasized about being there alone, unwatched, unperforming, and emptying the kitty litter box over her casketless body, my mom’s bones and the bones from my closet intermingling and coalescing in hard, beautiful ways, decaying together, vitality juiced and discarded, resting together. But I couldn’t bear to part with Carrington. And my mother had already been cremated.

After the funeral, I lived with my dad’s mom. She was very Catholic, in an old way, a macabre way. She wore black lace over her head at Mass and went to a church that only used dead Latin and miasmic incense that invoked the cloud around Sanai. Her house smelled of cobwebs and dried rose petals, always littered around her Mary statues as offerings, roses she claimed had appeared after her most recent Novena to Therese of Liseux. She had what she claimed was a piece of St. Teresa of Avila’s incorrupt finger in a reliquary on the mantle. Sometimes she touched her with her rosary, sometimes with gentle, shaking fingers, and always she talked to her as if she was in the room. I never talked to her myself, but I came to be comfortable around her, even curious.

My grandmother did not approve of my mother’s cremation. She once told me a story about how one of the sisters of the convent of Our Lady of Sorrows had died suddenly and they couldn’t afford a new coffin so they had to use one they had on hand that was meant for one of the hunched over infirmed sisters. The coffin was too short for the sister’s body, so Mother Superior said, Sister Ignatia Joseph, you were obedient to me in this life, you will be obedient to me in the next life. You fit yourself into this coffin. And the obedient body of the sister shrunk two inches and fit just right. We should let our bodies be, even after death, my grandmother thought. How is anyone going to know that you’re a saint if they can’t dig you up and see your holy non-decay.

Right before I left town for good, I stole the incorrupt finger out of the mantle reliquary. My grandmother sent an email chain that went to my spam with the subject line “bodies of holy virgins” featuring her speculations on if individual body parts could be assumed into heaven. St. Teresa’s phalange fit perfectly into the fleshless metacarpal, and it never came loose. In fact, Carrington could bend it.

The Rite of Exhibition

By my second year in college, Carrington was a complete skeleton, except for her back molars.

I sat in the cafeteria with my book, The Story of the Human Body. I watched a girl bring her boyfriend a couple of napkins at the cafe table. She reached to wipe his mouth at first, he let her, then took the napkin gently, hands lingering for a moment, eyes never leaving his computer screen, she went back to her work, they continued holding hands for a few seconds, it felt so long to me. The ease and comfort of familiarity.

I looked away and saw a dad holding his baby. When the waving mother, clad in a drab cafeteria worker uniform, walked by, the baby, eyes closed, little puff nostrils flared, lurched the direction of her scent.

I looked away and saw a girl from one of my classes eating a pear. She looked at me looking at her. I glanced away. But something transpired, because the next time we looked at each other was more pointed, in our Vertebrate Prep lab, and I really noticed her. She was skeletal; fabulously emaciated, mannequin like. I noticed the sharp edges of her cheekbones as she fastened her goggles and the veins straining against the thin skin of her hands as she pulled on her gloves. When instructed to find partners, we crossed to each other easily, barely nodding as we took our places side by side, facing the specimen on the table. Her voice came out deep, wet, so primal I couldn’t deny it, couldn’t hide from it– “Hey.”

I felt sweaty in my boots, bloated in my ill-fitting jeans, utterly drawn.

Her name was Gemma. She was also in the archaeology school. Chosen lab partnership led to out-of-class study sessions, which led to late nights of earnest sharing of personal histories filled with gaps and misremembering.

Gemma had many times explained to me that she’d never had a man do this, or say this, and that she didn’t think she could ever be–she used words like open, vulnerable, intimate interchangeably–with a man. I admired her trust in neuroplasticity; she was on a self-aware journey of “healing”. She could name the wound but could never really soothe those ragged neural pathways. She was on a constant hunt for father-figures, but at her age, father-figures weren’t usually thinking of her as the archetypal daughter they’d been missing. Her interest baffled them and made them act in ways they were ashamed of. Like them, I found her fascinating.

We settled in, and she scrolled through her emails while I pressed my fingers into the medial and lateral pterygoid muscles around her mandible, thick from frequent mastication; she chewed a lot of gum. “I want to make a mold of your skull,” I told her.

She smiled, her muscles lit up. She said, “Creep.”

Lounging on each other’s beds turned into sleeping in the same bed which turned into a lot of kissing, not sleeping, both of us gaining five-ten pounds, and me being much, much happier.

Every moment became about Gemma. I had a constant eye out for her on campus, changing my paths to cross her and exchange a secret smile. Evening plans were assumed. Embraces yearned for. Texts constant, lacking substance and full of words and emojis obscurely funny to the two of us, ciphers. Suddenly, porn did nothing. Suddenly, oxytocin charged my every thought, every movement. She said we were ‘just hooking up’ but gave a throaty hum when I called it ‘making love.’ And it was. Because if I was making espresso for me, I was also making it for her. If I was doing my intent-to-graduate form, I was doing hers. She was delightfully disorganized. I reminded her of tests, scholarship deadlines, filed her taxes, paid her parking fines. I even called a doctor as her–having committed her birthdate and social security number to memory–to set up an appointment to get her wisdom teeth out.

“Thanks for doing that,” she said to me over lunch. Her hand was on my knee under the table, which is how she usually got after I completed a task for her.

“Can I have your wisdom teeth after your surgery?” I asked.

“Hell no,” she said.

“You know, Victorian women used to gift each other their hair and nails and shit. Tokens of love,” I said.

“Absolutely not,” she said, but she was smiling, and we both knew she owed me. She squeezed my leg and I yelped. She removed her hand when a tall guy from history club approached us. She removed her hand. We all exchanged pleasantries. She watched him walk away.

Gemma’s texts slowed down. She stopped inviting me out, but accepted my gift of food or study guides, especially when she was recovering from wisdom teeth removal. I’d make the delivery for her, but most times she was out and had me leave it on her desk.

When she finally told me she was dating a guy, my amygdala burned in what might be considered an overreaction. I bit my fingernails bloody.

Occasionally, we still spent the night together, we kissed like we used to. These reprieves from despair became fewer and fewer as she was drawn to Patrick or Bryan or whomever. I was filled with sudden, sharp loneliness. Oxygen seemed sparse. Food seemed spoiled. And Carrington–blessed Carrington–alone could pierce my darkness. I’d bring her out of her trunk–I had a proper treasure chest for her by college. I’d finger the various bones and notice how strong and supple they were feeling, how alive, hold onto her relict finger, and me and Carrington would be alone together.

One night, I went over to Gemma’s room, tears welling up. I was dropping off ibuprofen, chocolate, and takeout pho; she was menstruating and post-oral surgery and generally unwell. The thought of her body in pain obsessed me, so she gave me occasional grocery lists so that I could do something about it with my body. She wasn’t in, but there was a note for me on her desk, and a little jewelry box.

Her loopy ink scrawl elicited a learned dopamine reaction in me.

Mar– these are for you.
luv,
Gem

Inside the jewelry box were four molars. The roots splayed and twisted from their captivity in her mouth. I took them gently in my palm and sniffed them. They were so lovely.

I went to my room–Carrington still laid supine on my desk. Her mandible lay agape. If she had eyes, they’d be boring into me.

I understood Gemma’s gesture as a treaty; an emotional ceasefire. Gemma was buying out her debt to me. Fine.

I cupped my hand around Carrington’s jawbone. My own baby teeth rattled. I had placed them there years ago with super glue before I understood how to take care of human remains. A couple fell out and I refixed them into place quickly. Perhaps there was residual glue because they stuck.

I placed Gemma’s teeth in the empty back molar grooves at the back of the mandible–I swear a ghost buccinator muscle twitched. When all four were placed, they didn’t fall out, just like the saint’s finger on her right hand. Above the buzz of the air vent, I could hear a wet, stretching sound. I looked closely at the teeth. The roots were digging down into the mandible, finding something alive in there, pulling themselves into place.

I had to show Gemma.

It took some convincing, but she met me in my room after classes one day.

“You need to promise you are not going to tell a soul what you see,” I said.

“Stop being weird,” she said.

I led her into my room. My skeleton laid perfectly on a blue tarp over my desk, full. I noticed a change: tendons were vine-creeping, attaching bone to bone. There was something remarkably in between life and death in front of us. A valley of dry bones suddenly teeming with life.

“Jesus Christ!” Gemma said.

“Shit, maybe,” I said. I hadn’t thought of that.

Horror-stricken, “Are those my teeth?”

“Uh, yeah. But only your teeth, nothing else of yours.” She was still struggling to take normal breaths, so I said, “Don’t worry, I found most of it underground when I was a kid. Well, some I bought from, uh, overseas.” I thought, then added, “I didn’t kill anyone or anything like that.”

“No. Just, no.” She left. And she blocked my number.

For the rest of the year, I obsessively cataloged changes in Carrington. Sinews crawled up bones. Muscles leeched around limbs. Fibers hooked tissues. The brain stem ran down the spine and drew itself into the heart. Before the brain’s dura fully formed, I could see the pinkish hills and valleys, the blood vessels coursing over its surface, a cloudy membrane with spots of fluid.

More flesh sprouted on her fingers. I resisted the urge to put them in my mouth, nibble the growing fingernails, suck the bulbous knuckles. Something like comfort, like clouds, spread throughout me when I’d touch them.

The Heart

Two months after Gemma had blocked me, after I signed out of her emails for good and erased the memories from my password manager, I looked up from my laptop and saw her chest—thinly skinned, mounded breasts now—rising and falling.

I sold my plasma to the blood bank and bought a stethoscope.

And in the quiet dark of my room, I would press the metal to her skin, and perform medical listening, which became intimate listening.

I saw a living heart when I was a kid. Before Carrington, before school, before my father had been totaled with his Saturn, he took me to the St. Joseph Cathedral in Sioux Falls to see the traveling heart of St. John Vianney. The Cathedral ceiling towered gothic above. People thronged and pulsed inside like neurons carrying a message, and we followed the pathway, past the nave, around the altar on the crossing, past the choir stalls, to the back altar. The heart was a crusty crimson maroon in a little golden reliquary, glass bordered, like a tiny temple. People took turns pressing crosses and rosaries against the glass revealing the strange piece of flesh. My Dad gave me a Miraculous Medal to touch against the heart. What my dad did not see: I pulled a small plastic baggie from my corduroy pocket containing the baby teeth I’d lost up until that point. I pressed those to the glass. I made my own relics.

The Rite of Burial

I posted about Carrington to a speculative thread. There were certainly theories: curses of ancient religions deep in the soils, or an electro-magnetic field supplying a lifeforce, proof that neural-impulses could control external matter, or some epigenetic potential yet to be understood. I posited that she was an incorrupt saint, which seemed implausible to users.

After college, we moved to the city and I started a museum job where I’d handle artifacts and give presentations on contemporary digs.

Her prefrontal cortex must’ve grown because suddenly I could watch her control her impulses. She became cooperative overnight, helping with the day to day tasks of apartment keeping, gathering trash, doing dishes, folding clothes.

While I was away at work, Carrington kept house for me. In a way. Her pre-frontal cortex must’ve grown because suddenly I could watch her control her impulses. She became cooperative overnight–she captured a number of cockroaches that crawled in and out of the outlets in the kitchen and brought them to me folded in a hand towel, motioning that I should eat them. She fermented squirrel meat in a catgut pouch on our patio. She learned to make frozen pizza. She’d be perched on the counter, barefoot and in my robe, hovering over half the DiGiorno, saving it for me. I would record her behaviors and continue my research.

I wanted Carrington to meet my grandmother. I’d have to get Carrington into clothes, which she hated, and brush her matted hair. I could say she was foreign. I could say she was Deaf-mute. I could say she was my friend, or my girlfriend.

I looked at Carrington, watched her eat for a moment. She snapped all of the fried chicken bones in half after expertly stripping all the meat, and she sucked out the marrow. But too soon, I got a chain email from my grandmother. She had died. She preset the email to be sent out by the funeral home. I imagined she told St. Teresa that she wanted to go, and the demigod obeyed and sent a lightning bolt of bone cancer. Carrington would remain with me alone.

That night, we ate the roast bird she killed and prepared with our fingers, tossing pieces of gristle aside, wiping our oily mouths with the backs of our hands. My head was spinning with the savory meat and the feeling of being cared for. She wet a hand towel under the faucet and dabbed my face, tap turned baptismal. She looked at me. I started to cry. She pulled me close—a split thought, was kissing ingrained rather than taught?—but she pulled my head down to her chest and arrested me there. And I did. In a moment amniotic and familiar. And then she was lactating. And I cried harder. She puckered. I let myself be fed.

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Mystical Messages

by Grace Ryan

The comforting serene feeling Hayley got from inhaling the scent of freshly washed bedlinen, created a much-needed balance to the feeling of isolation and sadness that had been dominating her thoughts that Saturday. The warm humid weather had lent itself well to drying her bedlinen outdoors. There was something about sheets dried in that fashion that just gave them an extra softness. She inhaled deeply and felt the scent of sensitive skin washing detergent calm her mind.

Every object in her room seemed to come alive. The Buddha statue smiled peacefully towards the air. The rose gold heart ornament, seemed like it was emitting a real throbbing rhythm. The painting of the female tribe members, swimming in a natural forest pond, felt as if the water ripples were moving. The bubbles rising in her glass of water had a sporadic rhythm that caught her attention. The rosemary incense had burned out, maybe it had succeeded in taking away the negative energy of the room in which she found herself absorbed that day.

She tried to remember how and when the bad feelings had started. There was a moment during her online study class when she noticed that the teacher was not being authentic or sincere when he spoke to a student. She felt the teacher’s feeling, as if it were, her own. It felt heavy. There was a loss of connection between everyone in the class in that moment as others pretended that they did not notice, in that pretence, they also became inauthentic and disconnected.

She had gone to the gym after that thinking that it would make her feel better if she exercised but unfortunately while in the gym, she had tapped into an emotion that was very bleak and even overpowering as it was a mass effect of people who became obsessed with a misaligned value driven addiction. The endless mirror taking selfies, posting to social media, posing and needy glances in seek of admiration from other gym users seemed to consume the entire gym population.

The podcast Hayley had listened to at the gym seemed to amplify the bad feeling instead of ease it. A woman advising other women, how to get what they want and how not to accept bad treatment from men. As she listened to what she felt was endless examples of where women go wrong with dating, she feared those were examples of things she had being doing herself. The podcast had advice that was all about how to get what you want to be happy but nothing about how supporting others on their journey of happiness. It was good for the ego but maybe bad for the soul.

She missed the guy she had been dating. Was it okay to even admit that? She worried that feeling the emotion would maybe magnify the bad situation of them not having spoken for a week now. This was not the first-time things had turned bad with him and she wondered was she an example of a woman described in her podcast who just did not know her own merit. Was it needy to miss him? What she really missed was the feeling of connection she had when with him. In a world where there seemed such an abundance of disconnection it was finally something that she had, that felt real.

The singing from the bar on the street which had live music grew louder and louder. The crowd cheered along. She listened for a moment and decided it was a mixture of real happiness from music lovers, with drunken bargoers deep in their journey of escapism, all chanting along the lyrics together.

She cast her thoughts back to yesterday. Her work day had gone well, she was focused and felt a sense of achievement when she logged off her computer having completed her desired objective. She had plans, that evening to meet a friend for dinner and drinks for which she felt pleased about, as it was a Friday and she would feel ashamed if she did not make any effort to be social. She was not sure at which point exactly the night turned a bit sour. Was it the throbbing ache she felt in her chest at the point in the night her friend asked her if she had been dating anyone? She managed to answer the question and quickly move on the conversation. In that moment she wanted to avoid what was really bothering her rather than risk magnifying it by going in to a full-scale analysis. Other than that, she had enjoyed the conversation. The music in the bar they were in got very loud, which put an end to their chatting. When the music went on a break, she noticed her friend’s mood had changed and between slight glances she saw a sad, displeased look wash over her friend’s face. She wondered if she had done or said something wrong but she could not think what it may have been.

Trying to make conversation during the break seemed to go a little stiff. When her friend finally said, “Shall we head home?” She instantly retorted, “Sure,” in an upbeat tone but secretly glad the night had come to an end. Her friend’s mood rubbed off on her and when she woke in the morning, she felt a bit low and dehydrated from the beers she had consumed the previous night.

As she listened to the singing from the bar outside, she felt a little ashamed of spending a Saturday night alone. The song changed and Bob Marley’s ‘Three Little Birds’ came on, as she hummed along the lyrics she thought about them.

“Singin’ sweet songs
Of melodies pure and true
Saying’, (“This is my message to you, ou-ou”)
Singin’: Don’t worry ‘bout a thing,
‘Cause every little thing is gonna be alright”

She thought about how she had spent her day worrying, worrying that she was anti-social and feeling ashamed, longing for connection and feeling lonely because she didn’t have it. The song intercepted her thoughts again.

“Three little birds
Pitched on my doorstep”

As she thought about the meaning of the lyrics, she felt that he was singing about how we can connect with nature and how it can pass us divine messages. She admired the fact that this connection with nature and the divine was open to her, just as it was to Bob Marley when he wrote the song. In fact, it was her moment of solitude that allowed her to feel this connection as it allowed her to pensively focus on the lyrics and their significance. She felt there was a divine co-ordination in the moment, that was orchestrated for her to hear the message in the lyrics of the song. Although she was alone in that moment, she no longer felt alone and realised that in her quiet moments when she listens, she can receive answers to her worries. In all that time she thought she was alone, it seemed she was really being listened to. She thought about how Bob Marley was probably alone when he felt this connection with nature, which led to him to writing the masterpiece and how that probably all inspirations for great works of art came from a connection to something greater than themselves that artists find when alone.

She put down her pen and hummed as she left the room, “Every little thing is gonna be alright.” She picked up her mobile phone that had been left on charge, she had a message waiting for her, that read, “Hey, I miss talking to you, how have you been?”

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Imperfect Endings

by Judith Carlough

Merry smelled the salt air even though the Boston Excelsior Hotel blocked her view of the harbor. She stepped from the limousine and a valet rushed to open an umbrella against the drizzle, but it jammed, forcing Merry to quick-step toward the hotel’s high canopy, her curls accumulating a sheen of droplets.

“Probably a goddam omen,” she muttered. Her phone rang. The ID showed her business partner and Merry answered, “I hate you.”

PK Diamond laughed. “Don’t blame me ‘cause you lost the bet,”

“I’m never, ever playing Truth or Dare with you misfits again”

“Tonight will be fun,” PK insisted. “Your date only has to last one hour.”

“It’ll be fun when I’m back at the Ritz, ransacking the minibar.”

“Don’t forget pictures,” PK said in her sing-song voice.

Merry disconnected. The game of Truth or Dare had taken place at a rum-fueled

senior management conference in the Bahamas. Merry lost by refusing to share details about her over-the-top college romance, now two decades past. For the dare, Merry had to register on Blissful.com, so the management team could match her with a date. Tonight was the payoff.

The lobby’s Balls and Pucks sports bar hummed with congeniality. Merry found two empty stools, ordered a glass of French wine, and gazed at photos of Boston celebrity athletes. She wondered how many of them were in town for tomorrow’s big autograph show at the Seaport Convention Center.

Merry’s wine arrived. She took a dainty sip and scrolled emails.

“Uh, hi. Are you Mary? Like the Virgin?” a scratchy voice said.

“Actually, I’m Merry like the Wives of Windsor,” she replied.

His expression went blank. He was short, wore a sweat-stained Patriots hat, and reeked of tobacco. His teeth were as orderly as dominoes spilled on a table, nothing like his Blissful.com photo.

“Never mind,” Merry said. “You’re Francis?”

“Call me Francie.” He slung his cheap windbreaker onto the bar. “Gotta hit the can, y’know, make room for the beer.” He laughed nervously and vanished.

Merry took a deep hit of wine and texted PK, Game on, start clock, nightmare scenario.

A second voice came from behind, startling her. “If I knew I was gonna get this lucky, I woulda bought a Powerball ticket.” A tall, muscular man slid onto the empty bar stool. “How’d you find me, babe?

His deep, purring voice wrapped Merry like a full-contact slow dance. “Hello, Gregory,” she said. “Actually, I thought you were in Key West.”

Greg Jericho looked like he could still take the field for the Green Bay Packers as the all-star wide receiver he had been. His grin tilted higher to one side. “You didn’t come to see me?” He clutched his chest. “I’m crushed.” He leaned in for a smooth, easy kiss. “PK set me up to do the show a couple days ago. She didn’t tell you?”

“I flew up from Manhattan today, and PK sometimes omits details,” Merry said, thinking, This is an ambush.

“Join me?”

“I’m meeting someone. See you at the show tomorrow.” Merry smiled, bright and false as a beauty queen. She urgently needed Greg to disappear.

He gently massaged her thigh. “Join me later?”

Merry’s heartbeat accelerated.

“Holy shit! It’s you, Getaway Jericho! No friggin’ way!” Francie had reappeared “Wow, I’m like your biggest fan, bro.”

To Merry’s utter horror, Francie improvised a play-by-play of Greg Jericho’s famous miracle fingertip catch that won the 2003 Gator Bowl for Boston College. Francie promptly made it worse by removing his filthy hat for Greg’s autograph.

Greg politely complied, then said, “Thanks for stopping by, man, but I’m catching up

with a friend.”

“She’s my date,” Francie said enthusiastically. “This is wicked awesome. I gotta get a

picture.” He shoved his phone at Merry. “D’ya mind, sweetheart?”

Seeing Merry’s extreme discomfort, Greg beamed. “I’d love to.” He stood, rising a foot

above Francie.

Merry threw Greg a warning look, then clicked a single picture, hoping it was blurry.

Greg waved Francie onto the barstool. “Been together long?”

“Nah, it’s one of those online, one-night hook-ups. No biggie.” Francie said.

Greg gave him a knowing, macho thumbs-up.

Merry prayed for a stroke.

“Well, enjoy your evening.” Greg stepped behind Francie and mouthed, Later, then went to a table filled with guys Merry didn’t recognize.

Francie texted the photo non-stop while rambling about meeting the Greg Jericho. Finally, he asked, “How d’you know Getaway?”

“We dated in college,” Merry said.

“Whoa, I’m dating Getaway Jericho’s main squeeze from BC?” Francie fist-pumped

twice. “Man, the guys at work are gonna freak out.”

“Tell me about your work. You mentioned investments, on Blissful.com?” Merry was desperate for a new topic.

Francie went still as a kid caught stealing candy. “Uh, I don’t exactly work in investments yet. I’m takin’ online classes, y’know, to get credited.”

“Oh? So, what’s your work now?” Merry sensed she wouldn’t like the answer.

Francie found the windbreaker and pointed to a logo, Bucky’s Auto Repair. “I’m chief mechanic.”

“Always good to be chief.” Merry’s sarcasm leaked through.

“Nothin’ wrong with being a mechanic,” he said, belligerent. “It’s an honest job.”

More honest than your Blissful.com profile, Merry wanted to say. Instead, she got up.

“Excuse me, got to hit the can, y’know, to make room for the Bordeaux.”

“Bored who?” Francie said. “Is that a dig?”

In a stall, Merry read PK’s latest text: Tik tik tik, 45 mins to go. Merry didn’t reply.

Greg had texted twice. When’s the engagement? came first, followed by a video

of Francie gesticulating like a madman as Merry gulped wine.

She replied, Delete, if you value your manparts, then sat for a moment considering how to salvage this train wreck of an evening. Only one answer came: she called the limo driver and asked for a pickup in five minutes.

Back at the bar, Merry forced another smile. “Sadly, I have to cut our evening short. Business emergency. It was a pleasure.”

Francie looked panicked. “You leaving?” he asked through a mouthful of complimentary bar snax that had left a toxic orange smudge on his chin.

Merry nodded, gratified by his disappointment.

Francie swallowed hard. “Did ya pay for your wine? Y’know, ‘cause Blissful.com says chicks pay for themselves.”

Across the room, Merry saw Greg smirking at her. She slapped a twenty on the bar. “I can’t think of when I’ve had a more memorable…” Merry consulted her watch, “…nineteen minutes.”

Francie swiveled to face her. “Bitch. I bet Getaway dumped you at BC, but you’re still hot for him, and I’m here to make him jealous.”

“What?” Merry stammered. “You’re here because I lost a bet, pal, and I’m not hot for Greg Jericho, I’m his agent. Merry Moretti.”

Most folks had heard of the East Boston native who had built the world’s largest sports marketing agency. Global Team Moretti set staggering contract records for their stable of MVPs, hall-of-famers, and Olympians.

Francie gasped. “You’re Merry Moretti? I’m havin’ a date with friggin’ Midas Merry?”

“Had a date.” Merry bolted.

“Hey, how about gettin’ me face time with Gronk?” Francie yelled.

Outside, Merry waited for the limo and texted PK: Mission aborted. U win again. Dirty trick using Getaway. When she heard footsteps closing in, she envisioned Francie-turned-lunatic and twisted sharply, holding her purse like a shield.

Greg’s lopsided grin was wider than a slice of cantaloupe. “He’s quite a catch, babe.”

Merry held up a hand. “No more tonight. You can resume humiliating me tomorrow.”

Greg put his arms around her. “Let me walk you to your backseat.” His deep kiss and the sea air brought back memories of Cape Cod nights on Greg’s sailboat. Merry felt everything south of the border heat up until her smarter self remembered the downside of loving Greg Jericho. The nickname “Getaway” wasn’t limited to his talent for breaking free as a wide receiver, it applied equally to the ladies in his life. In Merry’s case, he’d slipped from her dorm room to other women’s—eluding detection.

Merry broke away. “Tomorrow.”

Greg smiled and sauntered back to the entrance, his gait marred by a hitch on the left side, a lifetime souvenir of the NFL.

The potent chemistry of the kiss faded as the limo pulled up twenty feet ahead. Stepping off the curb, Merry’s foot landed on something squishy.

A revolting odor defiled the misty air.

Dog shit.

Merry stepped gingerly away and hopped to remove the shoe, which she held with two fingers.

A belly laugh split the night and she saw Greg doubled over.

The driver deposited the offending shoe into a plastic bag, then slammed it into the trunk.

Merry flipped Greg the bird, which only made him double over again, and settled into the velvety backseat, just as a text pinged from PK: Best time ever?

Merry responded: Imperfect ending. Deets later.

The limo drove off. 

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Good Reason

by Jillian Grant Shoichet

It was reasonable to assume the man was asleep.

Who doesn’t fall asleep in the second half of The Nutcracker during the Sunday matinee, when the smell of wet boots, children’s bodies, and centuries-old wood panelling lingers in the upper balcony of the Royal Theatre, warmed by hot stage lights and the exhalations of five hundred ticket-holders in seasonal finery?

She’d have fallen asleep herself if she wasn’t supporting the heads of two sugarplums of her own: Maddie on her shoulder; Zee snoring in her lap.

When the house lights came up, she didn’t join the surge towards the exits. She sat for a few minutes, savouring the rare opportunity to not do, not rush. She watched as other parents shook their children awake and trooped down the steep balcony stairs.

The man in front of them also seemed content to doze.

Only when she shifted Zee’s head from her lap did she begin to wonder otherwise. She studied the man’s still form as she slid Maddie’s left boot closer to her foot. Zee whimpered, as she always did after a too-hot, too-sweaty afternoon nap.

She touched the man’s right shoulder. “Sir?”

She applied a bit more pressure. “Sir?”

The man’s head dropped forward. In the space between his ear and his tartan scarf was a trail of dark, viscous fluid. She inhaled sharply and drew her hand back as if she’d been stung.

“What’s wrong, Mum?”

She hesitated. “He’s sleeping. Let’s not disturb him.”

Zee began to whine. “But the show’s over. He has to leave the theatre!”

“He’ll be fine.” Jenny fumbled with the buttons on Zee’s coat, stuffed a program and a wayward ball of yarn back into her purse.

She grabbed Maddie’s hand and nudged Zee forward.

She risked a backward glance as they made their way down the stairs. The man’s head was still slumped forward, chin on chest. One of the spotlights was directly over his chair. It looked as if he was on stage, lit from above.

The usher smiled brightly as they approached the door. “Enjoy the show?” she asked.

“Yes!” said Zee.

“No!” said Maddie.

“There’s a dead man in Row R, seat 34,” said Jenny.

She hustled the girls out of the exit without waiting for the usher’s response.

At 8:30, there was a knock at the door. The girls were in bed. Jenny was clearing the table of an uninspired dinner of cut-up hotdogs in Campbell’s tomato soup.

She wasn’t surprised by the knock. She imagined they’d track down all the credit card holders linked to rows P through T. It was probably straightforward police procedure.

But she couldn’t shake her sense of unreality as she opened the apartment door to two uniformed police officers. Nothing remotely like this had ever happened to her before. She ushered the men into the tiny kitchen and offered to put the kettle on. Both officers refused.

She put the kettle on anyways and told them she always made tea in the evenings.

She didn’t always make tea in the evenings; that was a lie. She wasn’t sure if she lied out of nervousness or defiance. Who wouldn’t be nervous with two officers at the front door? And lately she was defiant in the face of male authority—or, as Tess would say, whenever she faced anything with a pair of balls.

She was compensating for the past, said Tess.

Whichever the case, making tea gave her something to do. She puttered at the counter, fussed with the canister and the teapot, got out the milk and sugar and three mugs and three spoons—in case anyone changed their mind.

From there, the conversation progressed just as she imagined these conversations did.

Yes, she was Jenny Folkes. Not Jennifer, just Jenny. Yes, she bought tickets to The Nutcracker matinee. She sat in S34, her daughters were in seats S33 and S35. Maddie-short-for-Madeline and Zee-short-for-Zoe. They weren’t Folkes, they were Burke; Jenny was separated.

No, they didn’t leave their seats during the first half, but they left for intermission early because Zee had to pee. That’s what Zoe always said when she needed to go: Zee has to peeee! No, they didn’t leave during the second half; both girls fell asleep.

No, she didn’t speak to the man in R34. No, she didn’t pay much attention to who was sitting beside him. She remembered young children but it was a matinee of The Nutcracker so she supposed a vague memory of children wasn’t helpful. She remembered thinking the man was probably someone’s grandfather.

She snapped her fingers: Wait, the family to his right didn’t come back after intermission, she just remembered.

No, she wasn’t immediately concerned when the man didn’t get up to leave; she thought maybe he wasn’t someone’s grandfather after all. Yes, she touched him on the shoulder to wake him.

Of course, when she saw he was dead she didn’t touch him again; she got the girls out of there as fast as she could and alerted the usher. No, it didn’t occur to her the man might not be dead; she saw the blood and just assumed. Oh good lord, she should have checked! Oh my god, was he not dead?!

No, no, the officers assured her. He was definitely dead.

Thank goodness, she said. Then she got flustered: why on earth had she said that? They’d think she was a lunatic. She poured herself another cup of tea to cover her agitation.

No, she couldn’t think of anything else. Yes, she’d call the number on the card if something more occurred to her.

She closed the door behind the officers and flipped the deadbolt.

Then she finished drying the dishes. She emptied the teapot and threw the teabags in the garbage.

She swept the floor.

She tied the garbage bag closed, opened the apartment door, and walked the bag down the stairs and out to the bin in the back parking lot. She wasn’t worried about leaving the apartment unlocked. Everyone in the building looked out for one another.

Jenny met Alexei Boudjikanian six years ago, on her first shift following her maternity leave. She was anxious about leaving the baby at home with Adrian, but Maddie was a good sleeper and she figured picking up a few night shifts would be better than going back to days.

Dr. Boudjikanian was older, suave, new to the Jubilee. Tess had mentioned him, but not in any particular way. She hadn’t mentioned that his gaze was penetrating, or that just standing next to him at the nurses’ station would make Jenny’s hands sweat. But Tess wasn’t affected by men the way Jenny was. Jenny was a sucker for an authoritative male figure.

Not so much now that things were different. But she’d met Alexei Boudjikanian at a time in her life when an authoritative male figure was just the sort of thing she thought she needed.

Since then, she’d come to see her life through a therapist’s eyes: a string of mid- to long-term relationships, each new relationship beginning before the previous one ended, and always at a point when she felt beaten down, vulnerable, no longer good enough.

The new man would sweep her off her feet, tell her she needed deeper love, gentler nurturing, better sex—things that he could provide and her current man couldn’t. She wasn’t just good enough, the new man would say, she was perfect: any man who couldn’t see that was a fool.

She fell for it, every time.

But while Alexei swept her off her feet, he didn’t carry her away. When she started to hint to him that her marriage wasn’t happy, Alexei told her his marriage was—if not happy, then at least content. He had no intentions towards Jenny beyond their stolen moments in the linen supply closet and a frantic “night shift” or two at a nearby hotel.

Jenny found herself in that uncomfortable space between unhappy marriage and unsatisfying affair.

As days went by, Jenny became insecure. Alexei wasn’t as hungry; he no longer told her she was perfect. One shift, Alexei’s gaze left hers to follow the rump of a new intern as it disappeared down the hallway behind her and she knew, suddenly, that she’d been the biggest fool of all.

By then, she was pregnant.

There was a chance the baby was Adrian’s. This is what she told herself as Alexei’s attentions tapered off. This is what she held onto when she opened the door of the linen supply closet a few weeks later and met the wide eyes of the new intern, Alexei’s head buried between her thighs.

This is what she told herself in the delivery room, even as she held dark-eyed, olive-skinned Zoe to her breast for the first time.

It’s what she shouted after Adrian as he stormed out the front door two months later, got in the truck, and drove off. The next morning, he froze her out of their joint back account.

The bastard didn’t even bother sending divorce papers. He just disappeared.

Jenny didn’t return to the Jubilee. She couldn’t face Alexei Boudjikanian and his flavour of the month. She applied at Saanich Peninsula Hospital and moved to a smaller apartment. When the girls were old enough, she enrolled them in the elementary school down the street.

She was in a much healthier place now.

The morning after The Nutcracker, on the way back from dropping the girls off at school, she bought a newspaper. Usually, she just scrolled through headlines on her phone. But today something compelled her. Maybe she’d make a scrapbook, point to the clipping years from now, and say to the girls, We were at this performance. The man was right in front of us! Can you imagine?

She found the story on page A-2, but it was hardly worth the dollar-fifty: “Man Found Dead Following Matinee.” The reporter made it sound as if older men died at The Nutcracker all the time.

She’d told Tess about the upcoming matinee a couple of weeks before. Tess, loyal Tess, had followed her to Saan Pen after Jenny left the Jubilee.

Like always, Tess stepped a few feet off hospital property for a cigarette. Jenny was counting stitches because she thought she’d dropped one.

Wouldn’t it be nice, Jenny said. Nothing fancy. Just the upper balcony—in the middle so we can see everything. When I can afford it, I’m going to take the girls.

The next day, at the end of their last shift together before the holidays, Tess gave her a Christmas card. Inside was $250 in cash: For the Nutcracker. Love, Tess.

She should have gone straight to the box office. But she bought a few groceries on the way home and then didn’t have enough cash for the tickets, so she deposited the remaining money in her account and paid off just enough of her credit card bill to be able to buy the tickets over the phone. To be honest, she could have used the money for more groceries, or a new coat for Maddie, whose wrists were sticking out the ends of her sleeves, but she knew Tess would ask her how the ballet was and she didn’t want to say they hadn’t gone.

She wasn’t finished reading the paper when there was a knock at the door. She opened it to the same two officers who’d come the previous evening.

She folded the newspaper and set it aside.

“We have a few more questions,” said the shorter one.

“I haven’t remembered anything new.”

“Do you recall anything more about the family to the man’s right? You said they didn’t return after the intermission.”

“Yes. Zoe was thrilled. She could see the stage. Not that it mattered. She was asleep within fifteen minutes of the lights going down.”

“Can you remember anything about the family? How many there were, maybe?”

“Five? There could have been four. There was definitely more than one kid. I notice if a family has only one kid.”

“Why is that, do you think?”

Jenny shrugged. “I don’t know. Envy, probably.”

“Do you remember who sat closest to the man in R34?”

Jenny snapped her fingers. “The father. That’s why Zoe couldn’t see.”

“Why didn’t you move?”

“Excuse me?”

“You could have switched seats with your daughter.”

“What good would that have done? I was behind a tall man too.”

“She could have sat on your lap.”

“Do you have children, officer?”

“I do. My first was twelve weeks old yesterday.”

“When he turns five, why don’t you come back and tell me how much you enjoy having him sit on your lap for a two-hour ballet performance?”

There was an awkward silence. Tess would have shaken her head: There goes Jenny, defiance in the face of balls.

The taller man took a photograph out of his notebook. “Do you recognize this man?”

She studied the liquid brown eyes, olive cheekbones, and greying temples of Alexei Boudjikanian. Even after six years, the eyes held her.

“I’ve never seen him before.”

“Take your time.”

She looked again and then sucked in her breath. “Is that the man from R34?”

“So you do recognize him?”

“Not really. But you’re obviously asking for a reason. The skin colour is the same—and the hair. I never saw the man’s eyes. Who is he?”

“Alexei Boudjikanian. An internist at Royal Jubilee. You’re a nurse, aren’t you? You work at—” he looked down at his notes. “Saanich Peninsula. How long have you been there?”

“Six years.”

“You ever run into Dr. Boudjikanian?”

Jenny shook her head. “I’d have remembered the name. There’s no internist on staff at Saan Pen. It’s a pretty small hospital.”

The taller one tucked the photo back into the notebook and stood up. “I think that’s all for now, Ms … Folkes, isn’t it? We might have more questions later.”

Jenny also stood. “Why did you ask me about that family?”

“We’re just trying to identify the people who had seats nearby.”

“Couldn’t you trace them through their credit card? Like you did for me?”

“You’d think so, but R35 through R40 were paid for in cash. Believe it or not, some people still use cash.”

As she flipped the deadbolt, Jenny thought to herself, Dammit, some people are smart.

During her second therapy session after Adrian’s departure, the therapist commented on her hands.

“I’ve always bitten them,” said Jenny. “I even tried that stuff that tastes bad when you put your fingers in your mouth. Nothing works.”

Not your fingernails, said the therapist, your hands.

In the two weeks since Adrian left, she’d had to ask her parents for a loan, retain a lawyer, file custody papers, and hire a private investigator to try to locate the absent Mr. Burke. Her skin was sloughing off her hands in white flakes. She’d started wearing gloves to bed; otherwise, she’d wake up in the night to find herself scratching until she bled.

Why don’t you take up knitting? suggested the therapist. There’s lanolin in sheep’s wool. It might help.

It wasn’t a bad idea. She’d learned to knit in college—some liberal university club devoted to reviving the cottage arts. Now that she was a woman of modest means, she might as well start knitting sweaters for the girls.

Two weeks later, her hands were so much better that her therapist commented again.

And your nails, said the therapist. You’ve stopped biting them.

That’s the thing, said Jenny. It’s hard to bite your fingernails when you’ve got a fully loaded pair of knitting needles in your hands.

Since then, she always had a project on the go—sometimes several. Every handbag she owned had a set of needles and a ball of yarn. She taught the girls how to hold a pair of knitting needles before they could hold a pencil.

When the officers knocked on her door for the third time, she was ready. The kettle had boiled, the three mugs were in the drain board. She set them on the table before she opened the door.

They wasted no time.

“Why didn’t you tell us you knew Alexei Boudjikanian?”

“What do you mean? I don’t know Alexei Boudjikanian.”

“You worked with him at the Royal Jubilee.”

“I did? I left the Jubilee six years ago. Most of the last two and a half I was on mat leave. I don’t remember a Dr. Boudjikanian.”

“You worked the same wards. The same shifts.”

Jenny shrugged. “Sorry. It wasn’t an easy time. I had two babies in eighteen months and then my husband left me. I don’t remember very much from that period of my life.”

Outside the kitchen window there was a low growl of an engine and the hiss of hydraulics as the garbage truck nosed its way into the narrow courtyard. With a metallic whine, the arms of the truck extended, lifted the bin off the ground and dumped the contents into the truck bed. The cacophany of glass and metal and plastic made conversation impossible.

The truck deposited the empty bin on the pavement with a loud bang and reversed slowly out of the courtyard with a series of warning beeps. Then, it drove away.

Jenny took a sip of tea. “I don’t know an Alexei Boudjikanian. I didn’t recognize the man in R34. But I didn’t spend a lot of time looking at him. I didn’t want the girls to know something was wrong.

“My shift starts in half an hour. If you aren’t going to have tea, and you don’t have any more questions—and you’re not going to arrest me for the death of a man who happened to be sitting in front of me at The Nutcracker—then I really have to get to work.”

Take that, balls.

She flipped the deadbolt behind them.

After the girls used the toilet during intermission, Maddie asked if they could go back to their seats. Jenny, still sitting in one of the stalls, felt a stab of anxiety. But Maddie was a responsible seven: she remembered where their seats were, she knew not to dawdle and not to talk to strangers. It was hard to imagine a safer place than a matinee performance of The Nutcracker.

Straight back to our seats, okay? And hold hands.

The girls left the crowded women’s bathroom, and Jenny rushed to finish up. She dried her hands on her slacks because there were no paper towels.

When she started up the steps, she saw the girls were already in their seats. Zee, the little minx, had struck up a conversation with the man in front of them. She was leaning over the seat back of R35, and the man had turned to face her. They were engaged in an animated discussion. Maddie was reading the program.

As she got closer, she heard the man say to Zee, “Where’s your father? Didn’t he want to come to the ballet?”

Then the man turned and locked eyes with Jenny, and Jenny felt herself grow cold with shock. Here was Alexei Boudjikanian, the father of Zee, chatting with his daughter as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“This lovely woman must be your mother,” said Alexei.

Zee whipped around. “Mom! This is Dr. Boudjikanian. You said we can’t talk to strangers so I told him my name and he told me his.”

Alexei held out his hand. “I’m very pleased to meet the mother of two such articulate and self-assured young women.”

It took Jenny a moment to realize that Alexei Boudjikanian had no recollection of her at all. He clearly expected her to introduce herself, to be charmed and flattered by his attention.

He didn’t have any doubts she would take his hand in hers.

Which she did, of course, because she was a sucker for that sort of thing. She took his hand and immediately felt her knees go weak.

The chime signalling the end of intermission sounded over the speakers. Zee tugged at her sleeve and she extracted her hand from his and reached into her purse as if she were looking for something important. Her hand closed around the ball of yarn and the pair of knitting needles and suddenly her knees were no longer weak.

She sat down in her seat and Zee settled herself in hers. Maddie closed the program and the lights dimmed. With a last smile into her eyes, Alexei Boudjikanian turned to face the stage, leaving Jenny to stare at the back of his head, still working the ball of yarn in her hand.

#

Looking back, she doesn’t recall the opening scene of the second half. What she does recall is the back of Alexei’s head. She thought about the feel of his salt and pepper curls between her fingers. She imagined tearing those curls out by the roots—or better yet, wringing the neck beneath them.

When Zee dropped a program over the back of the now empty seat in front of her, Jenny stood to retrieve it, eyes locked on the back of Alexei’s head. She leaned forward and the scent of his aftershave caught her in the back of her nasal passages.

She gagged. All the anger she’d ever harboured towards him rose up like bile in her throat.

She struck.

In the future, she might tell someone—a lawyer, maybe—that she struck without thinking, but she knows the description wouldn’t hold up in court. For one thing, she was holding a knitting needle. The fact that she was holding a knitting needle but not knitting with it looked suspiciously premeditated. She might testify she didn’t know the knitting needle was in her hand, but what jury would believe that? Second, she stabbed an unsuspecting man in the ear and shoved the knitting needle all the way through his brain. This isn’t possible to do without thinking, even if someone is fuelled by strong emotion. It’s not like she bashed him on the head in a fit of rage. She calculated the entry point, the force, the angle; she was devastatingly precise.

She might say, perhaps, that she wasn’t in her right mind. But in fact, at the moment the needle perforated Alexei Boudjikanian’s ear drum, she felt remarkably right, as if she’d just righted a lifetime of wrongs.

She might say she hadn’t intended to kill; any medical practitioner knows the odds of killing a man with a knitting needle to the brain are exceedingly low. At best, she might hope to cause life-altering injury.

But she knows, deep down, that she intended to kill him. She saw his ear to her left, felt the needle in her right, took aim, and fired the knitting needle into his brain with all the intention of a hunter firing a gun.

Then she sat down in her seat and watched Alexei Boudjikanian die to Tchaikovsky.

After the police officers left her apartment following that initial visit, she placed her purse and its contents—the bloody knitting needle, the yarn, and everything else except her cards and her keys—into the kitchen garbage. Then she tied the bag closed and took it out to the bin.

Back at the table, she transferred her cards to an old wallet. She had a few days before someone worked out her connection to Alexei. First they’d discover they worked together. Eventually, someone at the Jubilee would mention their affair.

If anyone saw Zoe Burke and did the math, well, game over.

She fingered her driver’s licence. She hadn’t ever taken Adrian’s last name—she’d always preferred her own.

But the marriage certificate was still in the bureau. If she wasn’t arrested in the next few days, then maybe, after all, it was time for Jenny Folkes to disappear and for Jennifer Burke to take her place.

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Choosing Week

by Ruth Scharff-Hansen

The black sheath dress that the Council picked out for me makes a crunching noise as I walk down the corridor to my first trial. It is too plain to give any hints as to what I might have to endure this Choosing Week.

I just graduated from what many would consider the best university in the world. A city full of dreaming spires, crumbling sandstone, and statues of problematic men who funded our ornate institution by trading drugs and weapons and people. It was austere. But the benefit of a serious education is that my path now seems clear enough. The professors I worked under are well-respected, and I am sure that the Council will take their recommendation whole-heartedly when making my Choice this week.

The elders say that Choosing Week is a relatively recent practice. Back when our country used to be prefaced with the word ‘United’, all young adults had the illusion of free will. But that illusion crumbled along with the economy. Suddenly, masses of fresh graduates all vying for the same jobs found themselves crushed under the weight of student debt, with no way to pay it off. Meanwhile, necessary positions that weren’t considered as desirable remained unfilled. The government, which evolved over time into the Council, decided that talent needed to be redistributed. They took this distribution into their own hands.

Now, don’t get me wrong, there is still some remnant of autonomy in the Choice. When you’re 5 years old, you share your future hopes with the Council, and this childhood nonsense is regarded as the first guiding point in their decision. And again when you finish school, whenever that may be, you work with your teachers to recommend a second option. This is generally the more realistic and thought-out possibility. Rarely, the Council will select a profession completely outside of these two paths: I know of a medical student who became a model! But most of the time, especially when you went to a university like mine, the Council avoids ruffling any feathers. They make sure artists get to make art, musicians get to make music, and bankers get to make money, and that’s that.

I’m going to be a lawyer. Adults have told me this since I was little. Apparently I have “a way with words” that should be put towards “something useful.” I’ve been groomed in this vision for years: from internships at law firms to heading up the debate club. It’s an easy slam-dunk for the Council. On the second day of Choosing Week, I will show them what a day in my life as a lawyer will look like. They will observe before coming to a decision this Friday.

Before I get to prove myself, though, I must make it through the first day. Today is a day to “live my childhood fantasies.” Like many of my peers, I do not remember what I told the Council a decade and a half ago. A distant dream picks at me—one full of tall stories and old books—but the feeling I get in my gut is dangerous, and so I suppress it. Now I dread to think what waits for me behind the heavy brass doors at the end of this hallway. It could be a herd of giraffes if I said I wanted to be a zookeeper. It could be mounds of unmolded clay if I had wanted to be a sculptor. Or perhaps I wanted to be a unicorn. What would that even look like?

I take a deep breath. Part of me wants to throw this day away, but I know the punishment for not taking the process seriously is imprisonment. And another part of me—a quiet part—wonders what I hoped for before I was taught the right way to hope.

The metal doors creak in their hinges as I walk through the threshold. The room is completely bare, save for a microphone and a selection of instruments in the middle of the padded floor. Immediately, I decide to leave the guitar and piano alone. I can’t play. Opposite me is a massive mirror: double-sided glass. They’re watching.

“Emily Hudgens.” A voice rings through the room, and my heart beats out of my chest. I assume a Council member is speaking to me from behind the mirror. Should I say hello back? Would that be inappropriate? It’s unnerving hearing such booming words when I can only see my own trembling reflection. I shift from foot to foot, fidgeting, as I wait for my instructions. “Rockstar.”

My stomach turns. Rockstar? I’m about as tone-deaf and talentless as they come! Why on Earth would I have wanted to be a rockstar? I briefly recall a late-night television show I fixated on when I was little, but still, this is a ridiculous task. I can do nothing but gape and force myself to remember that, as always, quiet obedience is my only realistic option.

“Sing.”

Shaking, I step towards the mic. But not for the first time, I’m angered that I need to go through this charade. There is a career out there for me that everyone knows I will excel at. Why should I bother with what might have once made me happy? Why pretend that we get to contribute to this choice, when even my goals were born from pressure? What should I sing, what should I sing? I lean down and echo the song I’ve performed in assembly every morning since kindergarten. The national anthem.

It comes out flat and harsh.

“Sing something original, Emily,” the voice behind the glass chastises. There’s a little laughter in it, and my face burns bright red at the embarrassment of my obvious failure.

“Original?” I repeat dumbly.

“Make your own song.”

I chew on my lip for a moment. I’ve never been very musically inclined, but you may remember that I allegedly have a way with words. The syllables catch in my throat, and when I choke them out, they’re tuneless, falling short of the chirpy melody I’m going for. But hey, at least they rhyme.

“I wonder what would happen
If I was just a teenage girl
If I let go of my worries
But held on to the world.”

I pause, hoping they’ll tell me it’s enough. But I’m only met with awkward silence, and so I scramble to craft another line. I’m getting agitated now, and perhaps a little too bold with my semantic selections. The words are starting to sound less and less like a rock song and more and more like slam poetry.

“If I let myself rant
About those who did me wrong
And didn’t feel an inch of guilt
About not singing this song.”

It’s a risky choice, but several voices chortle at the end of this verse.

“I wonder who I’d be
If I let myself slip
Into the world of adolescence
Where no one’s got a grip!”

They laugh out loud when I take a sardonic bow.

“Thank you,” I say.

Suddenly, I am very grateful that the single-sided glass prevents me from seeing the faces of my audience, for I can hear their pens scratching furiously against paper on the other side of this divide. I try not to wonder what it is they’re writing. When I write, when it’s quiet, and no one is watching, I only ever scribble so intensely when I am seized with inspiration. What did I do that would warrant that?

After an excruciatingly long pause, I clear my throat. “Um, am I excused?”

“Yes, Emily.” The voice says. “Be ready for your second trial this Wednesday.”

I want to tell him that I was born ready, but not only would it be blasphemous to speak to the Council that way, it isn’t true. I was made ready. I dip into a shallow curtsy—a peculiar thing to do, given that our country hasn’t had a monarchy in decades—and back out of the room in a hurried half-run.

When I get home, I tell my family how I bombed. They laugh and pat me on the back. My older brother, who made it through his childhood hurdle of marine biology before becoming an engineer last year, actually cries because he doubles over so hard.

“At least I didn’t kill a fish during my trial!” I quip back.

“It was an accident!” He protests.

I am assured that all will be okay, because I will be a lawyer anyway. I’m stuffed full of casserole and words of encouragement before I am sent to bed, feeling slightly annoyed. I’m not sure why: They mean well. It’s hours before the Council-mandated curfew, and a few of my friends are going out to celebrate the start of Choosing Week, but I don’t have it in me. I was defiant today. The Council may reward my boldness, but they may punish it too. 

When I take the same walk down the same corridor on Wednesday, wearing the same outfit in a gray color, I don’t have the same butterflies in my stomach. In fact, I don’t really feel much at all. I make my way through the motions: the room is set up like a mock trial, and I craft a watertight skeleton submission that I slip through the letterbox on the side of the room for the Council’s review. I then deliver a short speech, and though I am standing by the same microphone in the same room with the same audience, I am a different Emily Hudgens today.

No one laughs or applauds. I am dismissed, knowing I have done a cookie-cutter job.

The end of Choosing Week doesn’t conclude in a flourish like you might expect: Our country doesn’t have the resources. There’s no ceremony, no elaborate tradition, no rousing speech. There’s a thin, white envelope that comes in the mail on Friday, stamped with the official ink of the Council and addressed to one Emily Hudgens, 212 Primley Road. I know from my brother’s experience last year that I will be told to immediately report to my new position. After all, the whole point of this process is that the Council needs workers, as soon as possible.

The paper feels damp in my hands, like it has passed through many fingertips in order to get to my family home and deliver my fate. My brother leans over to open the letter himself—he says I am doing it too slowly—but my parents swat him away, though I can tell they are just as eager. They watch with baited breath as I read through the message.

It’s only four lines long.

It states my name.

It thanks me for my (forced) participation.

It states the address of my new workplace.

And it announces my position.

My parents don’t have time to ask questions, too stunned by what I have read aloud, before I hop in the car to drive to my new everyday spot. My hands shake on the wheel. As the glass doors of my office revolve, I think of the medical student who became a model. I wonder if she felt as alive as I do now.

“Hey!” One of my colleagues calls out as I make my way across the floor. “There’s the new girl who can rhyme!”

I tip my head at him with a broad grin. A way with words. The girl next to me chatters about how they heard all about my little show on Monday, and I can’t help but feel that the Council has rewarded me, after all. I remember how I hoped before I was taught the right way to hope.

There’s nothing on my desk but a fountain pen, a stack of empty pages that I itch to fill with dreams, and a name card that admits what I have been too scared to admit all along.

“Emily Hudgens,” the sign reads. “Writer.”

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Grand Prize

Matt Strempel, “Botched” (humor). Read the story here.

Memoir/Personal Essay

1. “Cupcakes and Eternity” by Kristin Eck
2. “Asia (1969)” by Jennifer Rose
3. “Like Mother, Like Daughter” by Kira Schiavone
4. “Seeking the Third” by Alison Luterman
5. “No Such Thing as Just One M&M” by Katrina Peacock
6. “Harvest” by Catherine L. Hensley
7. “To Write or Not to Write: The Case for Both” by Alan George Maki
8. “Night Rounds” by Joseph Marr
9. “First Shift” by E.R.J. McKay
10. “Who yo people” by Pam Sam

Honorable Mentions

• “A Final Prayer” by Carol Larson
• “A Poetry Lesson Named Craig” by Clint Martin
• “A Weapon of Junipers and Jays” by NV Mann
• “Aging, Angst and Anxiety” by Stephanie Baker
• “All Summer in a Day at the Ballpark” by Barbara Tylla
• “An Unspoken Apology” by Leslie Absher
• “And the walls came tumbling down” by Katrina Brown
• “Avoiding the Danger of Relative Privation When Lives and Art Are Lost: A change in the way society values art can address the growing popularity of putting art in the crosshairs to make a point.” by Ron Leshnower
• “Bitten by the Mosquito: A College Student’s Essay on Her Severe Intrusive-Thought OCD” by Hannah Lavoie
• “Come on Down” by Mary Warwick
• “Different Hands and Knees” by Penny Dahl
• “Door to Door” by Joella Aragon
• “Fantasy” by Skylar Colby
• “Fluent in Distance” by Laura O’Gorman Schwartz
• “Gotta Have It” by K. Patrick O’Neill
• “Grass Bradford” by Fillmore Same
• “Holding a Glass Up to the Light” by Rosanne Gordon
• “I was a little girl once.” by Devin Overend
• “Jocko’s Gone” by Steve Powell
• “Learning to Trust Again” by Linda Summerford
• “Mandy” by Amy Claire Massingale
• “Northern Lights” by Mo Conlan
• “Polar Plunge” by Jennifer Jones
• “Poop Happens” by Stephanie Kilpatrick
• “Powers of Poseidon” by Katherine Larryn
• “Raymona” by Allison Cross
• “Shattered” by Lillian Martin
• “Stays Mainly in the Plain” by Joe Blair
• “Teabiskitwala Cafe’” by Wanderwoman
• “The Club No One Wants to Join” by Rebecca Bartlett
• “The Fear of Going Missing” by Matthew Haynes
• “The Forever Medicine” by MJ Robertson
• “The Melting Watch” by Bliss Goldstein
• “The Wolf” by KT Ryan
• “There is an Ocean” by susan westlund
• “Threads of Life” by Diane M. How
• “Three Pieces of Pie” by Carole Vasta Folley
• “Unexpected Ending” by Brian Watson
• “Uninvited” by Brandon Williams
• “What They Brought” by Maryann Grau
• “Why I Hate Tuesdays” by Vivian Finck
• “Working … Like a Dog” by Sheryl Bass

Inspirational/Spiritual

1. “Mystical Messages” by Grace Ryan
2. “Family Matters” by Michelle Layer Rahal
3. “Flutter” by Shelby Poulin
4. “Fertile Emptiness” Marielena Zuniga
5. “Guzen or Gift?” by KK
6. “Finn” by Kristen Swanson
7. “A note from the friend every person should have” by Tiffany Chartier
8. “Taffy” by Karen Tinsley
9. “Breath as a Blessing” by Angela Waldron
10. “The Husband, the Hound, and the Good Shepherd” by Allia Zobel Nolan

Honorable Mentions

• “A Conversation with a Stranger” by Alex Lee
• “A Mirror Moment: God, Make Me Stronger Than the Alcohol Proof” by Sincerely Syreeta
• “A Personal Reflection on a Solar Eclipse” by Dan Zavoianu
• “A True Story” by Jean Lennon
• “A True Testimony” by Robyn Gaffney
• “Acceptance” by Kerith Mickelson
• “An Epiphany of Angels” by Preetamdas Kirtana
• “Anticipating Forsythia” by Maureen Miller
• “Bird Days: Living with Chronic Illness” by Kristina Fluitt
• “Conversations on Fire” by Jennifer G. Townsend
• “Cradlesong” by Maureen Miller
• “Cries from a Cold Bathroom Floor” by Rhett Wilson
• “Eulogy for Beth Martin” by Rona Trachtenberg
• “Field Notes from the Forest Floor: Foraging as Spiritual Practice” by Daniel Cooperrider
• “God, Roses, and Jiffy Lube” by Rhett Wilson
• “Growing Old” by Q. L. Berger
• “I’ve Always Been a Pirate” by Kendra Boersen
• “My Friendship Bracelet” by Jorge Brana
• “Star Sapphire” by Dianne Beard
• “Stay for the Cookies” by Kris Winters
• “Superheroes Among Us” by Karen Taylor
• “Tangled Up in Grief” by Sarah Brown
• “The Bluebirds” by Robin Rogel
• “The Day of Dance” by Annika Connor
• “The Everythingness of Interbeing” by Jenny Zenner
• “The Faithfulness of God: the MRI” by Kathy Benedetto
• “The Greening of My Soul” by Mo Conlan
• “The Handoff” by Tim Campbell
• “The Sheep and the Goats” by Chief John West
• “The Tree Who Saw the Sky” by Karen Townsend
• “The View From the Window” by Beth Olson
• “Vision” by JM Fletcher
• “What They Brought” by Maryann Grau
• “Windsong” by Rachael M. Colby
• “Woody” by Peggie S. Tucker

Children’s/Young Adult Fiction

1. “Choosing Week” by Ruth Scharff-Hansen
2. “The Art of Motivation” by Henry Weese
3. “Untitled Picture Book” by Paige Cohen
4. “The Field Trip to the End of the World” by Sydney Weber
5. “Mommies Always Come Back” by Sherry Sallows
6. “The Canon of Katrina Quinn” by Anne Hanovich
7. “SNORKELING WITH SHARKS” by Symantha Sanda
8. “Marta Blossoms” by Rochelle Stretton
9. “Beware of Monsters” by JL Auguste
10. “All Shapes Belong” by Theresa Rice 

Honorable Mentions

• “A Torch Made of Darkness” by Darya Black
• “Bedtime Crew” by Jenna Stehler
• “Bedtime Hullabaloo” by Sharon White
• “Betwixt the Stars and Seas” by Jennyfer Gilgan
• “Blood Raven” by Becky Franklyn
• “Castaway Carl” by Carolyn Irving
• “Colorful Feelings” by T.N. Wehr
• “Girls in Polka-Dot Dresses Change the World. A Peace Corps Stories Series Story (Cameroon)” by Leonia
• “Growing Up” by Liberty McArtor
• “How to Attract a Hummingbird” by Symantha Sanda
• “How to Ride a Tiger” by Nicole King
• “I’m Telling Your Mother on You!” by Kathleen Jacobs
• “Love, Little Liberty” by Kathleen Jacobs
• “Lovely Nothing” by Krista Harrington
• “Mrs. Patrick’s Attic” by Jessica Dunnagan
• “Nat and the Not-Recital” by Tracie Renee
• “Not Ready Yet” by Michelle Nott
• “Our House Illuminated” by Kate Spires
• “Passages” by Peter Hausman
• “Peace and Carrots” by Angela De Groot
• “Reenie Brings the Rain” by Angela De Groot
• “Stealthy, Wealthy & Lies” by Elaine Hrivnak
• “Sweet Sixteen” by Meg Oolders
• “The Bench” by Larissa Hockett
• “The Boogeyman Ballad” by Kimberly Dana
• “The Cosmic Adventures of Galaxy McManus” by Christa Martin
• “The Elm of Elmwick Manor” by Breanne Palmerini
• “The Gift” by Michael Harley
• “The Late Migration” by Blake Byington
• “The Magical Tree” by Robin Currie
• “The Stones” by DM Reynolds
• “The Wednesday Lesson: A Short Story in Free Verse” by Tracie Renee
• “Use This Book as Wings” by Allan Peterkin
• “Walk A Mile: Steps in Time” by Robin Korb
• “Winter in the Boreal Forest” by Virginia Talbert Hickey

Genre Short Story

1. “Good Reason” by Jillian Grant Shoichet
2. “Border Crossing” by Brian Huber
3. “The Potomac Smelled Like Guts” by Laura Garden
4. “A Parting Gift” by Susan Goodwin
5. “The Apex” by Jennifer Slee
6. “The Last Super” by Andrea Sumner
7. “Ink” by Erich Noack
8. “Child in Time” by Keby Boyer
9. “A Song of Love and Longing” by Leslie Wibberley
10. “FisherMan” by Megan Ham

Honorable Mentions

• “A Bedtime Story” by Erica Balfour
• “A Purr-fect Love” by C.K. Shard
• “A Recipe for Change” by Charly
• “Brilliant Cut” by Tanya Menoni
• “Ceremony for the Sea” by Katie McLean Hoar
• “Coin Boy” by Kayla Sue Pugh
• “Dark Wings” by B. R. Knight
• “Deathbreaker” by Gracie Eland
• “Default 666” by Sharon Wagner
• “Dilemma on Mars” by Fred Shackelford
• “Eden” by Michael Stanley
• “Enough” by Murphy Maurice
• “A House Without Flowers” by J.A.Clarke
• “In the Back of the Truck” by Covington Dunn
• “Mercy” by Jennifer Della’Zanna
• “Mrs. Kornelie’s Cup-de-sac” by Lynda Vaughan
• “Old Forgotten Friends” by Philip Rosenblatt
• “Prize Horse” by Christina Lyon
• “Puckish Delight” by Charles Green
• “Rain” by Danny Imwold
• “Robot Baptism” by W. Steve Wilson
• “Rougarou” by Robin Lee Lovelace
• “Rule Number One” by Cat Sides
• “Shavasana” by Tree Martin
• “She Suffered” by LJ Denham
• “Spiderwebs and Ants” by Casey Nyvall
• “Stepping Forward” by Shirley Qin
• “The Angel’s Workweek” by Amy Suto
• “The Draft” by Erin M. Chavis
• “The Ice Cream Man” by James Logsdon
• “The Lady” by Kayla Mesker
• “The Magus and the Rabbit” by Mariel Masque
• “The Running Game” by Jennifer Slee
• “The Temporary Pastor” by Barbara Barker
• “The Third Men” by Jennifer Slee
• “The Toreador of the Tunnels” by Sheila Sharpe
• “The Vessel” by Thomas Bergamini
• “World of Harms” by B.C. Bond
• “Wrath of Venus” by Joey Krzeminski
• “Yellowstone: A Mystery” by A.L.Padden

Mainstream/Literary Short Story

1. “Offline Friend” by Angie St. John
2. “Do Or Dash” by Patricia Ljutic
3. “Wingman From Hell” by Peter Morris
4. “Mother’s Milk” by Steven Sax
5. “Donovan’s Calling” by Stacey Marinuzzi
6. “The Wheat and the Tares” by Austin Lovelace
7. “Persuasions” by Jill Martin
8. “Arctic Peonies” by Birgit Lennertz Sarrimanolis
9. “The Wreck of the Triumph” by Baird Harper
10. “Snapshots: A Triptych” by Ernest Wiggins

Honorable Mentions

• “81 Bowery” by Holly Lau
• “A Handful of Smoke” by Greg Jones
• “And Only I Remain” by Michael Pearson
• “Blackbird” by David M. Herman
• “Bucket List” by Kelly Beachell
• “Burying Chago” by Morgan Smith
• “Child In Time” by Keby Boyer
• “Cripple Creek” by Stephany Zoo
• “Eat Your Heart Out” by Jennifer Slee
• “Festival” by Ronan Ryan
• “Fishing” by Karl Luntta
• “Gigi, September 1, 1985–August 15, 1988” by J. Milanes
• “Grandmother’s Blueberry Basket” by Katelyn T. Nelsen
• “Her Watch” by Nicole Senyi
• “Holy Ghost” by Kate Fitzgerald
• “House-Haven-Home” by Kem Joy Ukwu
• “How She Happens” by Frances Drayus
• “Lemongrass” by Nicole Chea
• “Lost and Found” by Patricia McMahon
• “Luck” by Megan Baxter
• “Mermaids” by Laura Souza
• “Of Course You Will Go to Grad School” by Beilin Ye
• “On Fire, a Halo for Eternity” by Michael Pearson
• “Only You” by Sonny Fillmore
• “Over” by Dan DeNoon
• “Phoenix” by Heather Foster
• “Polka-Dots” by Angela Kirby
• “Pushin’ Through” by Barb Miller
• “San Jose Ways” by Kate Fitzgerald
• “Sanctuary” by Patricia Ljutic
• “Seams” by Florence Ashley
• “She Believed in Numbers” by Martha Williams
• “Shiloh” by M. K. Brackett
• “Sins of Authenticity” by Bret Wengeler
• “Squeak” by Konner Mel
• “Sweat” by Marta Woodward
• “The Body in the Valley” by Anyelly Herrera
• “The Circus” by Katie Harms
• “The Clocks That Worked” by Edward Carthew
• “The Fragrance of Bitter Oranges” by Charles Frode
• “The Math of Universe” by Christine Panas
• “The Planet of Love” by David Gurman
• “The Pomegranate Lady” by Lucy Fielding
• “The Sultan of Flip” by Dana Fitz Gale
• “The Sweet House” by Eaton Hamilton
• “The Things They Carried: Women’s Edition” by Lori Crispo
• “The Wages of Sin Are Low” by Ken Elliott
• “This Is All Your Fault” by Tanya Menoni
• “Til Valhalla” by Eric Swanson
• “Well” by Gail Bradburn

Humor

1. “Imperfect Endings” by Judith Carlough
2. “Thursday Night Flights” by Jeanne Favini
3. “One-Star Reviews” by Jake West
4. “Ari and Dean (Harry and Dino)” by Nicholas Gaitanakais
5. “Breaking Burque—The Eyebrows” by Sneaks Montoya
6. “Blacksmith and Maiden, a Little Fairy Tale” by Carl Imboden
7. “The Answer Is …” by Don Michalowski
8. “Perfect Crimes” by Chuck Collins
9. “It’s Complicated” by Pauline Hepler
10. “Worms With Those Fries?” by Terry Sachko

Honorable Mentions

• “Playing Doctor” by Amy Mills
• “A Moving Experience” by Alicia “Panama” Canal
• “An RV Wife” by Karna Bodman
• “Big Break” by Aaron Hawkins
• “Braving Anniversary Trip #2” by Davene Coutts
• “Brotherhood versus Motherhood” by Patricia Stettler
• “Chainsaws Are Loud” by ER Castaneda
• “Copier Schmopier” by Julie Prince
• “Countrified” by Amber Dawnne
• “Emperor of Etiquette” by Michael Oakes
• “I, Marlon James, or The Case of Marlon James and the Unidentified Body” by A. Rafael Johnson
• “In A Pickle” by Gretchen Ayoub
• “Ina Johansson vs. The Scotcheroo Bandit” by Kate Swenson
• “King of the Cowboys” by Rick Niece
• “Not quite child proof” by Lucianne Poole
• “NYC Driving Directions” by Cynthia M. Balagtas
• “Please Rate Your Self-Driving Dogsled Activity in Finnish Lapland” by Wendy Diliberti
• “Sex, Blood, and Sugar” by Lars Chinburg
• “Spring Break 1977” by Mary Pat Burke
• “Their Stupidity Was Criminal” by Michael A. Fuoco
• “Three Swipe Rights Gone Wrong” by Lori Mulligan
• “Tired in the U.S.A.” by Molly Devane
• “Water, Water Everywhere … and Lots of Drops to Drink” by ER Castaneda
• “Wedding Whiplash: How I Lost a Friend and Regained My Sanity” by Cheryl Free
• “What’s In a Bowl and Basket” by Tresslyn Brown
• “What’s So Funny About Tennis” by Paul Fein
• “Who is going to move the body?” by Mary Finnen
• “Wild Goose Chase” by Andrea Poniers
• “Wonder in the Small Things” by Alex Lee

Rhyming Poetry

1. “Inexorable” by Sarah Costin
2. “Torus” by Linda Drattell
3. “The Liberace Terza Rima” by Holly Eva Allen
4. “Enigmatic” by Felicia De Chabris
5. “Foot-Notes” by Landon Porter
6. “The Backyard of the Universe” by Michael Olson
7. “17. Anonymous” by Jess X. Moor
8. “Transform” by Kathy O’Grady Bose
9. “While We Slept” by Landon Porter
10. “You’re Not in Kansas, Either” by Robert Daseler

Honorable Mentions

• “Baldwin Beach” by Konner Mel
• “Blackburn’s Devils” by Jack Bannon
• “Cabin Poignant” by Erik S. Nites
• “Cobwebs” by Christin Haws
• “Convalescent Summer” by Konner Mel
• “Dawn Moonset, Sunset Crater” by Konner Mel
• “Departure’s Eve” by Patrick Walker
• “Edinburgh Twilight” by Konner Mel
• “Far From (Religious)” by Ato Dankwa
• “For Blaise Pascal, in Regard to Public Transport” by Patrick Walker
• “Fractured Sonnet on the Survivors of Catastrophic Loss” by Clif Mason
• “Fruit Fly Genocide” by Patrick Walker
• “Grand Canyon Dawn” by Konner Mel
• “Hourglass” by Gloria Herdt
• “Kxai-Kxai Dawn” by Konner Mel
• “Little Old Men Who Live in the Desert” by Ockert Greeff
• “Loose Change” by Konner Mel
• “Missiles” by Jacob Schapiro
• “Nigel No Mates” by Steve McDonald
• “Night Passage” by Francis Flavin
• “Oaks and Such” by Robert Allen Nelson
• “Okaloosa” by Mikayla Holland
• “One Lightning Bug” by Anna Lena Phillips Bell
• “Outlaws” by Robin Johnson-Drogo
• “Passing” by Louise Kantro
• “Point—Counterpoint” by James Cook
• “Prelude to Cinematography” by Joshua Burton
• “Roses” by Kimberly Shaw
• “Smile” by King Shawn Da Dawnn
• “Sudden Infant Death Syndrome” by Kache’ Attyana Mumford
• “Tanaga Cycle: Class of ’99” by AJ Layague
• “The Borrowed Anthology” by Anna Amatuzio
• “The Color Blue” by MJ Craft
• “The Seduction” by Kathy Humenik
• “The Selfish Sacrifice” by Areej Khan
• “The Terse Calligraphy of Sunset Clouds” by Patrick Walker
• “Theophany” by James Cook
• “three tall blondes” by Michael Miller
• “Uncle Bob” by Patrick Walker
• “Weasel in Winter in the Summer Cottage” by Sally Cobau 

Non-Rhyming Poetry

1. “His Name Was Yitzhak” by Redd Ryder
2. “Minotaur in Love” by Redd Ryder
3. “Broken Pantoum” by Jessika O’Sullivan
4. “Slave Ship, Alabama” by Redd Ryder
5. “I am Trying to Ask the Dead Their Names” by Zachariah Claypole White
6. “Condemned” by Dennis Rhodes
7. “Nineteen Kinds of Moss” by Sonya Schneider
8. “Dissociation” by Kim Kavanagh
9. “The Squirrel Made His Way” by Alicia Cook
10. “Adding Flavor” by Paul Tifford Jr.

Honorable Mentions

• “1974” by Kimberly Shaw
• “A Red Hawk” by Enid Valdez
• “Amid the Luminous Grit” by Jeffery Allen Tobin
• “An Early Autumn Walk” by Elizabeth Elder
• “Before the Exorcism” by Mari Farrand
• “Cocoon” by Christy Wise
• “Demeter’s Drought” by Marion M. Walsh
• “Distant Recurrence” by Mickie Kennedy
• “Dogma” by Mary Paulson
• “elegy for two at the river thames” by Dean Gessie
• “Falling Watermelon” by Neal Wong
• “Finding My Boyfriend in Bed, 1993” by Mickie Kennedy
• “Full Self Driving” by Candice M. Kelsey
• “Guarding the Coop” by Mickie Kennedy
• “I Am of Big Woods” by Barbara Messick
• “I Saw You Crying” by Rick Kearns
• “In Between The Sheets” by Tanya Bartlett
• “In Safed” by Yael Ezry
• “Known For” by Dennis Todd
• “Lake Monster” by Andrew Beerworth
• “Lineage” by Marena Fleites Lear
• “Modesto’s Knitting Circle” by Redd Ryder
• “Muse” by Katherine Atwell Herbert
• “My body: a host for parasitic morality” by Julia Mauro
• “Myrmecology” by Alexandra Ozols
• “Need” by Mary Paulson
• “Nothing but Black” by Jane R. Snyder
• “Ode to a Letter of Recommendation” by Janice Zerfas
• “Ode to My Autism” by Melody Miller
• “Ode to the Clothesline of Trevi” by Suellen Wedmore
• “Omakase” by Afton Kolbe
• “play cousins” by Nicole Adabunu
• “Prostate Hierophany” by Mickie Kennedy
• “Restless in Arenal” by David DeGusta
• “Rosemary” by Leah Applebee Lojo
• “Sophomore Year” by Rebecca Buller
• “Tether” by Alison Luterman
• “The Beaches of Normandie” by kari martindale
• “The Boy Who Could Not Give Up” by Ockert Greeff
• “The Good Driver” by Joseph Kuhn Carey
• “The Neighborhood” by Kristen Wilson
• “The Post Office” by Rebecca Buller
• “The Vanishing” by Laurie Paternoster
• “The Visitation” by Kathleen Rugel
• “Uncle Ronny on the Local News” by Mickie Kennedy
• “Wait” by Veronica Schorr
• “Wall of Clocks” by Kathleen McCoy
• “What a Summer Was” by RG Thielen
• “What the Strength Card Said” by Alison Luterman
• “you when i find you” by David DeGusta

Nonfiction Essay or Article

1. “Rational Drug Design: Gertrude Elion and Her Medicines that Changed the World” by Leonardo Chung
2. “Candy Girl” by Matt Cheek
3. “There are No Patients. There are Only Dancers” by Ember Reichgott Junge
4. “The Holy Righteous Queen Tamar: Christian King of Medieval Georgia” by Angela Waldron
5. “Anatolian Sikke” by Angela Waldron
6. “Rosie the Riveter” by Cynthia Furlong Reynolds
7. “Meiringen, 1891” by Niki Fakhoori
8. “What’s in a Gnome?” by Justin Marlowe
9. “In the Footsteps of Valentino” by Cindy Gentry
10. “Watermelon and Buttercups: The Israeli-Palestinian Conflict” by Veronica Brown

Honorable Mentions

• “I Don’t Know What ‘Like This’ Is” by Ember Reichgott Junge
• “You’ll Never Walk Again” by Ember Reichgott Junge
• “A Bay Like No Other” by Doug Alderson
• “A Survivor’s Tale: Along Quebec Explorers’ Route” by David Lee Drotar
• “Armed and Dangerous” by Kathy Bradshaw
• “Channeling Her Inner Strength” by Kathy Bradshaw
• “Dementia: Meet Them Where They Are” by Ember Reichgott Junge
• “Donald Trump and the X-Bet” by Timothy Dixon
• “Duende in the Desert” by Elaine Howley
• “Expanding the Community” by Elaine Howley
• “Gravy Veins” by Ginger Sinsabaugh
• “Harmony and Union Come Home” by D. A. Dorwart
• “If Looks Could Kill: The Power of the Evil Eye” by Angela Waldron
• “Losing Luggage and Finding Hope” by Heide Brandes
• “Maud Without an E” by Naomi Horne
• “Mighty Mitochondria” by Elaine Howley
• “No Dance Partner? No Problem!” by Ember Reichgott Junge
• “Of Katydids and Mongolian Climes” by Elaine Howley
• “Primitive threat response” by Vivien Huang
• “Ryan Dusick Finds It No Longer Harder to Breathe” by Sheryl Aronson
• “Spy fiction is back in vogue. But did you know there are two basic types?” by Joan M. Kop
• “The ADHD Diagnostic Criteria Sucks at Capturing Females and People of Color” by Vivien Huang
• “The Civil Rights Connection Between the U.S.A. and Northern Ireland” by Forest Issac Jones
• “The Cold Way Women are Finding Relief” by Elaine Howley
• “The DSM may be wrong about anxiety disorders” by Vivien Huang
• “The Greatest Therapy of All” by Ember Reichgott Junge
• “The Missing Link: The Critical Connections Between Technique and Tactics in Tennis” by Paul Fein
• “The Mouse and I” by Troy W. Green
• “Let Us Entertain You” by Paul Fein

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