by Dylan | Apr 3, 2025 | micro
When the boy’s mother told him to at last get dressed for the pool party, what he heard was: son, revel in yourself because everything in this life is permissible.
Beyond the pool, he found the boys gathered around the air conditioner’s metal cage, handing each other things to drop in its obedient fan blades. They fed it a sack of soft, rotten fruit, one by one, then a toad that just exploded all over the place. The boys slapped the brass of each other’s backs, their stomachs wet and flat and tight from laughter. Splashy toad blood determined their ab lines, or maybe that was all in his head.
The girls were somewhere else. They were high above. They were in the house, frittering over the boys from the balconette. One said: look at how flat that boy’s stomach is. They shuttled the boys into Edwardian bathrooms and cleaned them with linen rags, leaving pink florets gyrating in clawfoot tubs.
Cockled, he walked through the house and out the back. The road ahead was pointed and conical, like he was being pulled toward the tip by magic, or even falling into it. A portalic funnel bound home, or whatever.
Aside, he felt a throbbing again — down in his darkness.
And he can’t believe it.
by Sara Lippmann | Mar 31, 2025 | flash fiction
For all that she wants, Janie knows Mr. Neilson will never kiss her. He conducts. When he conducts, his hair whips, his arms fly through the air. His moustache glistens. There are dark rings in his pits. Janie wants to be the kind of person whose devotion yields dark rings. Her father calls this giving it one’s all. Her mother gave it her all. She lost. There are no miracles. There are only days. Days marked by dinners from the coordinated meal chain. Days of ladies with Pyrex and tinfoil; pitying ladies who draw Janie to their stuffy breasts, to comfort their own worried hearts, to convince themselves that Janie’s mother’s fate won’t befall them.
The neighborhood has seen enough. Janie has seen casseroles, stuffed shells. She saw one lady of the chain bent between her father’s knees. Mr. Neilson, Janie heard, does not even like girls. He’d been a daytime soap star before becoming a music teacher, she heard; she’s also heard about hamsters and celebrity butts. Janie knows you can’t always believe what you hear. On the gym bleachers she stands next to Candace Connor whose mom supposedly had her at 15. They are both altos. Once, Janie saw Candace’s mom at the roller rink in Jordache jeans. She is beautiful. Candace’s mom will live forever.
Today is the dress rehearsal. They sing Rudolf, Frosty, Hallelujah. Mr. Neilson works himself into a froth for Do You Hear What I Hear? which is done in a round. Janie lip-syncs the Jesus parts of Silent Night, and still her face reddens like a hot plate. Her voice is not missed. Mr. Neilson only accepted her into chorus on account of her mother.
Poor girl. At the funeral other mothers brought Janie gifts wrapped in silver and blue. Her father passed along these gestures of kindness; there was nothing to do but pass along other people’s gestures, saddling him with the added grief of all this stuff.
Every night of Hanukkah he gave her a dollar bill “to put in a safe place.” He gave her knee socks. Today with the socks she is wearing her jean skirt with the snaps and flare, a white button-down her father found in the boys’ department. Her calves itch. She smells like apple juice. A meal chain lady tried to do something about her hair last night, but Janie said, “Thank you. You’ve done enough.”
When they sing about dreidels, Mr. Neilson gives Janie an extra head bob, and she’s not sure if she should feel special or singled out. She feels something. Chorus is supposed to make her feel less alone. Tomorrow they’ll go downtown as a group to Wanamaker’s. They will do their show in the department store lobby between cosmetics and perfume. The lobby will be festooned in lights and pine and poinsettia. They will sing and the shoppers and sales clerks and non-working parents will whoop and clap. Afterward, every child in Brook Valley District Choir will ride the escalator to the North Pole.
The gate will be strewn in clumps of fake snow, like the stuffing of quilts. In his chair Santa will be flanked by candy canes and human elves. For balance, there will be a cardboard oil can. It will look like a genie’s lamp. There will also be electric menorahs, whose fat orange bulbs will either be lit wrong or burned out. Not that it matters. The holiday falls differently each year. This year, it is already over.
In Joy to the World, Janie makes perfect O’s with her mouth, like Mr. Neilson taught her. She wonders if he notices. She wonders what the ladies will bring for dinner tonight, when they’ll stop bringing; when the ladies will be replaced by just one lady. She wonders how she’ll behave for Santa tomorrow, if she’ll be fresh or demure, if she’ll deliver a laundry list. Last year she wore her Star of David defiantly on his lap, only instead of dismissing her, he squeezed her tighter and said, “Jewish girls can want things, too.”
*Originally published in People Holding.
by Adam McOmber | Mar 27, 2025 | micro
Find a pool of water. It should be still. Maybe in a hidden grove somewhere. Remember a person or thing is always itself and not something else. Now think about a glass. A flat piece of glass. Consider mercury, a type of silvering. Certain things do not have a reflection. Carpets, for one. Dark hallways. A specific type of oil painting. But there are other things too. The soul itself, for instance. What is a soul? A type of diamond? An imaginary narrative? Ask yourself the following question: “Who is that in the mirror?” Do you have an answer? How old are you right now? Imagine the first mirrors. They were small. Probably made of copper. You couldn’t really see yourself in them. Ask yourself another question: “Have you ever been in love?” What did it feel like? Was it good? Bad? Let’s say it was bad. Mirrors can become tarnished. You have to polish them. Or maybe you don’t. Maybe polishing won’t work. Also, remember the fact that there are magic mirrors. Voices can speak to you from a mirror. Usually, these voices are demons. What else? There are different types of mirrors. Hand-held. Two-way. Mirrors found in dreams. Have you ever looked at a mirror in your dream? Think about the “fiction of the ego.” Think about the fact that no matter what you say, you’re always leaving something out. When I was very young, my mother had a mirror in her bedroom. I would go and look into the mirror and pretend I was my mother. Remember what Paul wrote about seeing through a glass darkly. How often do you consider states of non-being? Do you suffer from what might be called “repetition compulsion?” It’s a very difficult thing. I know it is. When your mirror is finally finished, hang it in a hallway. Walk past it every day. Check your hair. The way your eyes look. Try not to think about anything more than that.
by Valentina Rivera-Lies | Mar 23, 2025 | flash fiction
Marisol goes dancing on Fridays. She leaves at dusk, smelling of kiwi and tree branches, walking much taller in her black strappy pumps. She won’t come home until her heels blister. Later, she’ll say––These are my battle wounds, miren––as she shows us all that’s peeled open, what’s given way to the red tender flesh that bloodies her sock.
One day, we hope to be just like her. In the late afternoon, we flock in from the streets where we play, smelling of sun, soil, and sweat. We know that a shower is coming, a time when our mothers will rub orange peels on our elbows and knees, the high points of our bodies that the sun likes to darken. They’ll scrub hard, until it stings, trying to get us to brighten. But for now, we’ve come as we are to see Marisol.
We gather in her room, on her bed, where we sit cross-legged on her Hello Kitty blanket. Perched on a shag rug on the floor, she is painting her toes. There’s spunk to the color she’s picked: a nearly fluorescent shade of pink that isn’t natural to flowers. When she’s finished, she undresses, says, how about this––Qué piensan?–– and holds a cotton shirt to her frame, one that is small enough, we think, to fit one of us.
Oh, yes, we say, we love it.
Now what about this? she asks, and over her faded pink panties, she pulls on a short denim skirt. Between her shirt’s hem and the skirt, which hangs low on her hips, there are miles and miles of skin. A brown, brown stomach. A thin chain of gems that hang from her navel.
Yes, we say, and we pull up our shirts, tuck the ends into our collars. Jumping around on the bed, we dance to Akon and rub on our bellies. Marisol shows us some moves, how to circle our hips, how to trace a kind of shaking movement from our waists to our bottoms.
Somos sexy, somos muy sexy, we sing, and in the mirror, Marisol paints her eyes, her cheeks, then glosses her lips. She gives us some of this shine, dabs a little sparkle on our puckered mouths.
Not too much, she says, so your mom’s no se enojen.
Rubbing and pressing our lips together, we nod.
When she leaves, we follow her out like little ducks trailing a swan instead of their mother. Sitting on the sidewalk, we watch her walk away until she is very small, just a speck in the distance, and then eventually, nothing. Soon, our mothers will call for us, one by one, from the front patios. Any minute, they’ll say, Niña, it’s time to come home.
by Lori Sambol Brody | Mar 20, 2025 | micro
During the day I paint numbers on watch dials so they shine luminescent, but when the factory bell rings, I paint myself for you. My teeth, my eyelids, my nails. The circle of my drugstore compact reflects the glowing pieces of me, the mirror a door I could slip through if I were just bright enough. I wield the same brush I use on the watch dials, so soldiers can tell time in dark trenches, dipping it into the Undarkpaint. In the Radium Factory’s bathroom, I unbutton my smock, unlace my corset, paint my skin. Starbursts on my stomach, arabesques down my shoulders, spirals on my areolas. Your skin’s sensitive there, you say, your tongue on my nipple, licking off the paint, so I don’t glow anymore; I’m just like the other girlfriends you’ve brought to your rented room. The girl from the milliner, the girl from the laundry. I come to you like those sea creatures I saw once on the shore at night, bioluminescence limning each wave. I bare my shining teeth, how I growl for you. My body moves against yours until the Undark fades away, absorbed into you. The girls at the Radium Factory whisper to me, Watch out for him, he’ll throw you out soon enough. At our workstations, we suck on the brushes’ camel hair tips, to give them sharp points. Our gums bleed, our teeth loosen. That night when you slipped rings on my fingers, stacking them so my hands were armored with shining gold and crimson embers and hot flashing white, I didn’t ask you the names of the women who wore the rings before me, didn’t ask if the gems were glass, didn’t resist when you took the rings back. I just let them slip from my fingers into your palms. The sound of my teeth falling into your cupped hands, my bones shattering under your touch. My brothers threaten to jump you in a dark alley, tell me rumors. But every night I paint myself into being for you, and every night you unmake me.
*originally published in Synaesthesia Magazine
by Caleb Ludwick | Mar 17, 2025 | contest winner, flash fiction
She wakes to a white-bellied blur, a frantic smudge of a bird looping the motel room. It jerks sideways like something hunting or hunted, bounces off the window and scrabbles at the mirror. Its wings pop so loudly, the sound ricocheting off the pressboard walls, that at first she thinks there are dozens of them. Hundreds.
“Get the window.”
Her voice is wet with sleep. She elbows Coby lightly and he sits up. “Open it, let it out.”
But he is already out of bed, chasing the bird around the room in nothing but his socks. He is thinner than ever, his legs sticks, his stomach a wrung sponge. Light from the cracked window pools at his hip bones and dances along his swinging arms, down his back. She pulls the blanket over her head, but he grabs the corner and tugs until she tumbles off the bed. She is thinner too, her breasts nearly only the dark nipples, tight in the cold morning air. Her eyes dark circles that spread out and across her nose, brown going yellow at the edges. But her hips are still wide, thighs strong as levers.
She stands, pulling another corner tight and holding it over her head. Their arms swing in sync, both laughing now.
“Higher,” she says, and they come around the bird, keeping it between the blanket and the window. It flies in a cramped circle, tighter and tighter as they shuffle forward, glancing off the window pane with every pass until it dives straight into the blanket, trying to pierce the thin cotton with its beak. Areli gropes behind her with one hand until she finds the doorknob, twists, and the door jumps open. She nods at Coby, and they shake the blanket until the bird zigzags out.
They stand laughing in the open doorway, naked, sweating, starting to shiver, trying to watch the bird fly away but losing it against the clouds. In front of them, the parking lot is scattered with old cars and RVs angled haphazardly between the evenly-spaced, perfectly parallel white lines. A tall patch of ragweed and a chain link fence, then the mumbling highway stretching from dark to dark, punctuated with bubbles of grainy yellow streetlight. A caravan of early morning delivery trucks rumbles past, downshifting up the hill to the black silhouette of the horizon.
Areli’s laugh fades first.
“I don’t like sleeping all night,” she says.
“Sometimes we couldn’t even sleep through the night. She’d wake us up every hour. Remember?”
“Don’t use that word, not about her. I don’t want to. I don’t want to have to.”
Coby wraps her in himself, in the blanket. The doorknob is cold in his palm.
He waits for her to tell him what to say, what to do.
Closes the door.
Walks her back to bed.
Curls against her in the quiet.
Watches sleep hover overhead, just out of reach, suspended by strings from the ceiling.
by Desiree Cooper | Mar 14, 2025 | flash fiction
The guide led the small group of tourists through the grand foyer of the Powell Hall plantation house. Madison shambled far behind the others, eight months pregnant and exhausted by the Georgia heat.
As she and Justin stood in the parlor listening to the docent yammer about the Powell family fortunes, the floodwaters of anxiety rose. In her last trimester, her senses had gone feral: she could sense the cruelty that still permeated the big house. It was in the brocade drapes that kept the interior shrouded in darkness. It was woven into the lace doilies crocheted by gnarled Black hands. It was in the pewter punchbowl gleaming from the sideboard, waiting for the South to rise again.
Her knees buckled. She needed air.
“You OK?” Justin asked, pulling her close.
“I’m fine,” Madison said. “I just need to step out a minute.”
The couple had planned this trip more than a year ago, after the second miscarriage, after Madison’s struggle with depression. Her mother and grandmother now long gone, Madison consoled herself with documenting the family stories that they’d passed down—and unearthing the stories they hadn’t. Genealogy became her obsession. If she was never going to be the conduit of her family’s mitochondria, she thought sadly, at least she could be the vessel of its history.
After several months of research, she had made good headway: DNA tests, online research, connections to cousins she never knew she had. But the road to the past hit a dead end in Georgia’s Sea Islands. She had talked Justin into a road trip from their home in Philly down the Atlantic Coast. They could sight see, gorge on seafood, and snooze on beaches. Once in Georgia, Justin could golf while Madison scoured area plantations, rummaged through courthouse records, wandered among tombstones in old churchyards. Her excitement about the trip began to replace the emptiness of infertility. With time, Madison was able to gaze in the mirror, see her grandmother’s gray eyes, and not buckle with grief.
But there came a day when she saw something new in the contours of her face.
“Look!” she’d said one morning, pouncing on the bed where Justin was still asleep. In her hands, she held a pregnancy test.
Justin had opened his sleepy eyes and gazed dreamily. Then the alarm: “Is that a Covid test?”
“I’m pregnant, sleepyhead,” she laughed.
He yelped with relief, then pulled her into a bear hug, planting kisses everywhere. They’d lounged in bed that morning, missing work, trying to figure out when the miracle had happened.
Suddenly, Justin grew somber. “We’re not going to Georgia this summer, then,” he’d said. “We’re not taking any risks.”
But already, the new life had cemented her connection to the past.
“We’re going,” she said firmly. “I have to do this now more than ever.”
Madison fled to the portico and down the front steps of Powell Hall. Heaving, she slumped against a 200-year-old live oak. But even in outside, she couldn’t escape the gravity of the plantation house and its proud horrors.
Escaping past the garden, she found herself among a row of small, brick cabins—the homes of the Igbo people who had been kidnapped, enslaved, and forced to toil in the suffocating heat sowing and harvesting rice. She approached one of the cabins and gingerly peered inside. It was a single room, half the size of her high rise living room back home. A packed dirt floor, a crumbling hearth. Sharp anguish pierced the air. Madison protectively cradled her taut stomach.
The sweetgrass weaver in town had told her the story. How a handful of enslaved Igbo had tried to escape through the surrounding marshes. Beneath a new moon, they could not find their way out. When the choice was between the baying hounds or water snakes, some had decided to clutch their children tightly and drag them down into the depths. At least in death, their spirits would be able to fly home.
A slight breeze moaned. Grief floated on the sunlight like dust. Madison’s blood pounded hot, her head a cyclone of voices, her skin prickling cold. Her body shriveled against a crowding presence. The room was too small; not enough space for her, her unborn child, and the ghosts who still lived there.
The fetus began to scutter. Lunging for the cabin door, Madison spilled onto the ground. Screams clotted her throat. There she writhed in the windless sun, the child laboring to get free, the mother lolling in the grass, drowning.
The labor had been sudden, three weeks early, and unusually fast for a first child. The baby arrived thin and lethargic, skin tinged indigo.
It wasn’t until the baby was allowed to leave the hospital that Madison and Justin dared to give her a name. They had picked out “Bella” after Madison’s mother, Isabel. But when Madison held the child who had narrowly missed being born on a Georgia plantation, she insisted on “Kambili,” Igbo for “Let me live.”
They brought Kambie home to Philadelphia and nestled her into the nursery of seafoam and sunshine. Madison went through those first hours in a haze of shock and gratitude: she was finally a mother.
But the longed-for child was five pounds of rage. For days on end, Madison offered the newborn her engorged breast, her pinky finger, a bottle. But the tiny thing would lock her jaws and throw her head from side to side, refusing succor.
“She’ll eat when she’s hungry,” the lactation coach promised. “The best thing you can do is keep calm. This is a tough period for a lot of new moms.”
Madison couldn’t stop sobbing. She should have been flooded with oxytocin, the hormone of motherly bliss. And she should have been feeling complete, now that she and Justin were finally parents. But the magic of it all was swept away by the baby’s cruel rejection.
“I can’t understand what I did to her,” Madison wept as Justin tried to comfort both mother and child.
“You kicked her out of her snug, little womb,” he said, kissing the top of his wife’s head. “It’s going to take some time for Kambie to recover from being evicted.”
Madison tried to believe that the baby was just sensitive or colicky. But something was wrong. Night after night, the frail infant would startle awake, her arms thrown open wide, her body wired with terror. When Madison tried to soothe her, Kambie howled as if she were bruising beneath her mother’s touch. When Madison tried to calm her with a warm bath, the baby flailed as if fighting for her life.
For two sleepless weeks, mother and daughter struggled. Kambie only quieted with her father, or sometimes beneath the hug of a weighted blanket. Madison couldn’t find her footing, her eyes ringed dark with doubt, her hair as brittle as her patience. The pediatrician begged her to relax, assuring her that every birth—even miraculous ones—had its challenges.
But Madison was consumed with anger and shame; what kind of mother couldn’t satisfy the basic needs of her baby? What kind of newborn hated her own mother?
When Justin hinted that he needed to make an appearance at an evening work function, Madison offered a brave smile.
“Go, we’ll be fine,” she said, hoping that Kambie, now six weeks old, would sleep the whole time he was away.
As soon as he left, Madison heard Kambie on the monitor, squirming. At the first whimper, she rushed to the nursery. Gently lifting the baby, Madison pressed Kambie to her breast, trying to foreclose the inevitable storm. But the whimper hurricaned into shrieks. Madison paced the room, bouncing the child in her arms. She cradled her in the rocking chair, terrified that Kambie would stop breathing if she didn’t calm down.
Please, Madison whispered. Please, help me.
This she prayed to her long-dead mother, or maybe it was to her grandmother. Or maybe it was to her great-great-grandmother, the enslaved woman who had stood in the cabin doorway smothering the cries of the infant in her arms, trying to decide where the child would suffer the least—on the blood-soaked plantation soil, or beneath the liberating waters of the dark swamp.
From the closed window wafted the scent of magnolias. The sea lapped the stiles of the rocking chair. Hounds bayed in the city darkness. Madison clutched her baby tighter, as the child’s eyes mooned in fear. Up from the murky water, the spirits had come to take Kambili home.
“No!” Madison wept angrily. “We’re not going under.”
The humid sadness whisked out of the room. The baby exhaled deeply, then her body relaxed. Gingerly, Madison put the child to her breast. Now calm, Kambie bobbed her head and nursed.
“It’s OK, little one, you’re safe here with me,” Madison whispered. “Remember, we are the ones who lived.”
by Candace Leigh Coulombe | Mar 13, 2025 | contest winner, flash fiction
Do not let your children stand in the shopping cart. Do not let them ride in the bottom of the cart, where pigtails or small hands could get trapped in the filthy wheels. And never — never — leave them unattended in the store.
You will linger while looking for the price of party-size packs of gummy bears or thumbing through a book on string theory, and then she will be gone. She was just right here, you’ll say, or just one aisle over. It will feel like less than 30 terrestrial seconds have passed. You’ll call her name, check around corners, look for a helpful employee in a hyper-spectral blue vest. But soon, your hopes will be crushed by the vastness of the shopping megaverse.
To hold all that you could ever want, OmegaMart extends from the outskirts of the suburbs to the edge of the exoplanet sphere. Good luck remembering where you parked. You will be exhausted just by walking from the garden center to the plane that contains comfy flip-flops and replacement cyborg feet. You will need to stop for a bright blue slushie and soft pretzel.
The thing is, OmegaMart has everything. All the things you need. The things that you don’t need but your neighbors have so you think you do. The things that you’ll break and the things to replace them. The things that you’ll lose and the things that will make you forget about them. All of your hopes and dreams and regrets and untapped potential – all at very low prices.
You will not forget your child, but at some point you will concede that she will not be found. At least not by you. And perhaps she will have even toddled into the aisle with the isekai boxes and have been transported to a realm more happy and enchanting than your own.
Actually, you will momentarily forget and fill your cart with economy-value boxes of training pants and applesauce pouches, and then have to put it all back.
You will cross things off your shopping list. You will try to concatenate the logic of the store layout. Will the biological things on your list be near the produce aisles? Why is it so hard to find gin?
By improbable happenstance or a slushie-fueled fever dream, you will find aisles X1 – X137: a plane of companions.
There are boyfriend-shaped body pillows and boyfriend-shaped boyfriends. There are androids spanning the whole uncanny valley, depending on your preference and price range. There are girlfriends, too. One aisle over, there are iridescent betta fish in individual bowls and robotic dog and seal pups to comfort seniors with dementia. One aisle past that, you will hear the ma-mama chorus of shelves of babies.
There are babies that eat and pee and coo and even cry real tears. Like the dimpled dollies you’d played with as a child, there are chubby babies of every hairdo and hue — all with official certificates and extra jammies packed in their portable vivaria. There will be one with freckles just like yours.
There are also faceless baby-shaped magneto-active solid-liquid phase transitional machines. Those will conveniently re-form to fit any car seat or carrier. They have the weight and heartbeat of newborns without the mess.
And there are xeno-biological babies with the softest fur you can imagine. They smell like soap, fresh bread and milk.
You will spend an inordinate number of terrestrial minutes making your choice. It should be a good one this time, one that will last even if it costs a little more. If you chose a nice enough baby, you could finance it with no interest for the first two astronomical seasons.
Then, you need to rearrange the cart, so the baby box doesn’t get crushed. And get another slushie. And then, of course, you will need to backtrack to the aisle of diapers and food pouches and mommy-and-me matching outfits to get all of the accessories.
You will need a playpen. A strong one. Graphene, maybe, if you can finance it as well?
Those things are always such a pain in the ass to assemble. But if you’re making the investment in a good baby, you simply can’t lose it again. It requires a pen in time and space that’s safe, happy and near you almost always. And it should be escape-proof for the times you need a break.
When you finally find the checkout line, things will add up fast. You’ll look over the baby one more time to make sure it’s a good one before you tap to pay. You’ll keep the paper receipt in your left hand and push the extraordinarily heavy cart with your right.
While you wait by the exit for a vested employee to check your receipt, you may hear a faint cry. Mama, mama, mama. Soft and tearful at first, then louder — Mama! — then gone. It could be coming from inside the box. It could be for another of the many mothers in the vastness of the OmegaMart. It could be a cry from a freckled toddler who has, against inconceivable odds, found her way almost to you.
You will take your receipt and push the cart forward into the boundless parking lot. You will look into the void with fear, fatigue, hope and wonder.
You won’t return to the megaverse store until you need to replace something lost or something broken. It will be sooner than you think.
by Fractured Lit | Mar 11, 2025 | news
Here is the shortlist of 20 micros we couldn’t stop discussing! We’re excited to have sent these stories to judge Deb Olin Unferth! Results in 4 weeks!
- Runaway
- Dad Never Gave Me a Rabbit’s Foot
- Fifteen Shades of Pink
- To Play the Blues
- I Come From Aliens
- A woman makes a cardboard train
- Protoplanet
- Your Funeral Was Lovely
- Like Broken Glass
- Car Crashes
- A Hawk Brings a Message
- Secret to Marriage
- Baby
- Neighborhood
- The Last Apricot
- Our Father
- One Night, The Moon Starts Crying
- Dated
- Small Golden Squares
- Boy and Balut
by Leesa Fenderson | Mar 10, 2025 | contest winner, flash fiction
1.
I jump on my bicycle and keep my head straight when I see the girls a grade ahead of me who have boyfriends at sixteen—like that’s gonna last. They wave. I don’t. I’m heading to Pumpkin Circle to see what’s selling, last week it was crayfish and false hope. I’ll deal with the teenage-love-affairs when and where I decide. I pedal faster when I see Ma Eunice’s market truck take the corner. She sees me see her. My belly sinks in the fear that one of these mediumly able minds might know of me more than I can stomach.
2.
It was always Ma Eunice from the Pumpkin Circle that I thought might be the most observant. She remembers everything about everyone’s business. Thing is, to see is one thing. To understand quite another issue of cognitive ability. Because with an associative mind, A is cracked open and parsed and its applicable component parts are multiplied by Bs applicable component parts. Thing is, if you can’t understand A, how can the mind associate? So, scratch Pumpkin Circle Eunice off the list. She can’t understand shit. There’s also Mr. Maurice, he can add and subtract thousands of dollars but only sells last week’s crayfish. And he only sees himself. There’s an inverse ratio between the extent to which a person can decipher subliminal, or obvious for that matter, calls for emotional support and that person’s current personal hellfire. Which of course Ma Eunice reported to everyone the morning Ms. Idolene dash weh Mr. Maurice’s baby.
3.
You’re probably wondering how I know. I collect rumors and how tos. How to get a fishbone out of your throat? How to peel a mango? How to ride a bike downhill? Bend your knees and bend your back. Head and neck sinks between shoulders, tuck your lips in so the wind whipping up from town doesn’t split your lip. Both hands on handlebars with a tight grip. Because if you don’t hold on, you get knocked. It happened to Tru Juice, he was sailing down like a kite. When we bust the corner, Tru Juice’s loose hands were all we saw fly up and then a cloud of smoke from his clothes, shredded. Ms. Idolene was seen cascading down past Pumpkin Circle on her banana seat Schwinn, head bent, knees a K. Her lip already split because her father knocked her into next week for getting knocked up by a big head wotless Labor Rights who sells last week’s crayfish in Pumpkin Circle and who told her she could avoid getting pregnant by syncing up her cycle with the phases of the moon. She stopped taking birth control and when she didn’t see her period, she visited Mrs. Myrtl who gave her roots that made her nauseous. Her father saw her leaving the root’s lady holding her belly. He backhanded her, but she didn’t have time to explain she needed to get down the hill so she could wash out what was coming out between her legs in Yallahs pond.
4.
How to peel a mango? Choose a mango that is going to turn tomorrow. Ms. Idolene has seven mango trees, all of them the same type, my favorite. Ms Idolene’s mom named them sweetie, come brush me. Usually, you peel back the skin with your teeth, but that is for someone else. Your ego will have you cry over a closed door with nothing behind it, Ma Eunice told Mr. Maurice. So, you palm it and press the knife into the long side, feeling for the seed. Once it hits, tilt the knife up and slice the top off. She did this, offering Mr. Maurice a sliver. The knife is sharp, so a bit of seed comes off the top. He bites into the mango. It’s equally too sweet and too sour. Dummy. We accept the love we think we deserve.
5.
That’s what one of the mother’s told a teenage-love-affair who claimed to be crying about the shortage of sweetie come brush me mangoes but was really crying over a girl, with no shame, right in the middle of Pumpkin Circle.
And here comes Ma Eunice hopping off her market truck to cosign this with a basket of too sweet too sour mangoes on her hip. Dem sexual urges be stronger than your self-respect, that’s why y’all be at the clinic or on Mrs. Myrtl’s front stoop crying and begging. Begging? Mr. Maurice repeated shelling slimy crayfish with 31 sweetie come brush mes rotting behind him. He mouthed ‘begging’ again wanting ever so much to convince himself that he prefers too sweet too sour mangoes and not the sweetie come brush mes that we all want but can’t get any more since he stopped talking to Ms. Idolene because although she was barely weeks pregnant, he pictures what their big head baby might look like face down in Yallahs Pond.
This is not the first broken heart Pumpkin Circle has seen. After planting the seven mango trees, Ms. Idolene’s mother took sick. Ms. Idolene’s father spit at the root of each tree, a fury of spite when death took his wife. The trees bore more mangoes than Jesus. He hated them, each mango, seed, skin. The sweet, sticky juice that ran down the corner of his mouth—he hated the most. But they fed his daughter, so the spite grew because what’s worse than needing the thing you hate?
Ask Ms. Idolene.
Ms. Idolene, who has been outside Pumpkin Circle begging Maurice to forgive her every day for a full moon cycle, barely pedals and doesn’t tuck her lips when she rides off on the thirty-first day. She takes her last haul of sweetie come brush me seeds to Yallahs Pond. She walks slowly into the center. She looks over her shoulder, a sad hope, she sees no one coming to stop her. Water covers her waist and moistness creeps up as she up ends the crocus bag and drowns each seed.
6.
Look at how we break our own hearts.
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