Sedona Epstein

 

Grace Evelyn

Annie, down the street Annie, just had the most beautiful pair of twins – equally caked in fat, equally full of bubbling giggles, equally innocent in this world of promises always broken and wishes never granted. 

It’s a shame Annie is such a terrible mother. 

Anyone could see it, even if they hadn’t spent the last three years and seven months reading every parenting book, going to every fertility doctor, and spending every possible free second fucking and praying that with every rhythmic thrust that this might be the time. 

But it never was. And, meanwhile, of course, sixteen-year-old, down the street Annie, drunkenly, casually fucked a boy whose name she can no longer remember, and ended up with not one, but two baby angels. 

When Annie gets home from school, she pushes them around the cul-de-sac and I watch her from behind my curtains. It’s cold outside because it’s always cold here and Annie never wrapped her angels in a blanket to keep them warm. She pushes the stroller with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth like it’s a quiet plea for the poisonous smoke to kill her babies. Even from a distance, I can see the cold wave of regret in her eyes as she trudges down the street, youth robbed from her teenage breasts, a certain glow absent from her wrinkleless face. 

How easy it would be for me to just take one off her hands. Perhaps then, some joy might return to her cheeks. The fraternal twins would never know they shared blood – Annie and I could keep such a quaint, little secret to ourselves. And maybe when the children were two and still too young to remember, Annie would see how great mine was turning out because I was raising a child as one should: with deep, profound love instead of spite. That child would mark the beginning of my life, not the end. Maybe once I had proven myself, Annie would simply give me the other one. 

I wouldn’t protest. This brief little moment of her pushing two perfect babies down a cracked sidewalk would be blip, a faded memory, and Annie could go back to fucking strangers (who would wear condoms from now on) and I could finally, finally, stop fucking according to a color-coded schedule. Maybe then we’d both be happy. 

But Annie keeps pushing the stroller and Harry closes the curtain. 

Cameron Katz

Allison Tsai

Veronica Paltaratskaya

Matthew Buxton

Ruth Nelson

Surely it is you — trapped, the butterfly.
Or perhaps not trapped at all but living
Finally with visible wings, I see
You flit across the air — an afterthought.
Surely it was you who painted this sky,
I can make out your initials in the
Corner of the canvas — you startled me,
There at the helm of the pirate ship cloud.
Leave me behind while you sail through these skies,
Only concerned with choosing the right hues.
This and all sunsets are yours forever.
Show yourself in any way, big or small,
And I will notice it, for I am still
Looking for answers, and looking for you.

 

Raegan Allen

Jordan Henry

Firecrackers sneak inside,
Painting my unlit room.
The thin white door, now hued,
Let’s me hear the old
Chants welcome the new.
Glasses wait for a choral clink
And the bubbly corks are primed.
Eleven-Fifty-Nine heralds hugs
And handshakes, alas,
All are initiated ill-timed.
Promises are cataloged, to be
Filed in weathered cabinets;
As we pledge our sobriety,
Upon toasts of champagne
Among half-empty glasses of wine.
Yet, as the clock hands close,
Young couples crowding
Old lovers’ homes, tremble;
Their first kisses flooded
By an encore of ringing phones.

 

Aniketh Khutia