Consumed by the orchestra
Of your sweet bloody kisses
Whispering don’t be shy
Unleash your demons.
Embracing paradise with my tongue
To savour the inferno and
Taste something so monstrously strange.
Poena damni, she smiles.
Editor who has an infatuation with horror and fantasy that has only grown with age and a mild-to-moderate obsession with Eve and Genesis 2-3. Twitter: jxmsxne____
i’m just going to leave your
picture in the top drawer you
can take it if you want but
i will not give it to you
i cannot be that big i
cannot see you i’m sorry
this is for the best i swear
Davis G. See is a gay writer and game developer based in Edmonton, Alberta. He has published short stories, essays, and poems in a variety of places. Find him at https://twitter.com/DavisGSee.
Finalist in KPFT’s Fall Writing Contest (2019)
Leading out from the bar is a maze of raised laminate tabletops and booths, with the leather cracked and torn, smoothed/faded etc. They huddle together in the farthest dimly-lit corner, waiting on Peace and Justice to arrive. As a matter of policy, the pub never hosts private parties. Instead, they had to arrive hours early and compete with patrons for the necessary number of seats. But, even now, they refuse to break position. To do so would compromise the perfect “SURPRISE!” moment, when they cue a chorus of party horns and spring out from behind bar booths.
Everyone is so tense with anticipation they leap out at the slightest sound and end up tossing fistfuls of confetti at strangers. Sometimes the strangers ask if they can join the party.
“Peace and Justice?” one man asks with eyes rekindled, “the four-time Grammy-nominated artist?”
“That’s Post Malone,” snarls The Event Organizer, “This party’s for Peace and Justice.” The man’s entire body seems to sag after hearing that.
“I mean, I’ve heard they’re pretty okay. Can you waive my entrance fee?” The Event Organizer shakes her head and extends a hand.
“$25.”
“Even though I’m already in the pub?” he asks.
She shrugs and says “How many people will be able to say they attended Peace and Justice’s official welcome-home-party?” then raises both eyebrows, as if her point’s been proven, but he saunters off, resigned to drag himself onto the next peace-less injustice.
“…you even get a party hat!” she calls, but he doesn’t so much as turn around.
Maybe if they had T-shirts or something, he thinks.
The Event Organizer, in her designer pantsuit, with that huge billboard smile, turns around and directs everyone back into place. In that high but stern tone, she says they (Peace and Justice) will be here any minute.
Ankles waver, sore from crouching in wait for this long. So far there have been four false flags. This has failed to even slightly diminish the partygoers’ enthusiasm.
I can already see the looks on their faces, they think with smiles aglow.
Collectively, they consider the possibilities that will bloom before them once Peace and Justice arrive. Perhaps they wouldn’t have to say a silent prayer whenever happening upon the police. Retirement with healthcare benefits, clean water, who knows?
I could live, thinks Gretta, a partygoer, do the things I’ve always wanted to. We all could. With Peace and Justice here, anything could happen. Anything is possible.
Pub patrons not participating in the festivities look at them there, beneath a “WELCOME HOME” banner slung across dusty rafters, crouching and smiling in wait, and can’t help but shake their heads. They think them fools. Naïve fools.
They down the rest of their after-work beers and step around the group, party hats and all, to make a beeline for the shitter. Scattered across the rotted floorboards: multicolored confetti, shaped like small champagne bottles, dull from being walked on so often.
***
On the way there, Peace and Justice shift uncomfortably atop the stained seats of their Uber. The driver is a young man with suspenders attaching smoke grey slacks to a white collared shirt. In the mirror, from over his small circular glasses, he squints at them.
“You sure your names don’t have some kind of allegorical meaning?” he asks.
“None at all,” says Peace.
“We swear it,” says Justice. The driver nods, but is clearly unconvinced.
They’ve been gone so long. The sun’s harsh glare against skyscrapers owned by Big Oil© and The Banks™ is completely alien. In fact, now that they think about it, neither of them can recall any of these buildings being here before they left.
It was all large expanses of green, they think, with wild horses galloping over the hills, across the rivers. Lovely. Just lovely—or perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps it was always like this.
Being just slightly younger than their cousin, Time, Peace and Justice often have difficulty remembering the specifics of any particular person/place/thing. It all gets muddled together.
But, looking at the entangled structures of concrete and steel that block out the sky, the people inside them shuffling about without really going anywhere, we can’t help but feel as if there is something more. Underneath it all.
“The whole thing just really feels like an allegory to me,” mumbles the Uber driver.
“How many times do I have to tell you?” cries Peace. “This is no allegory! I am Peace!”
“I’m not even sure if mere personification constitutes allegory,” Justice thinks aloud, “metaphor, perhaps, but not allegory.”
“Justice,” huffs Peace.
“Right. Um—look: this is Peace, I’m Justice.”
“Alright, alright.” The driver leaves one hand on the wheel, but puts the other up in defeat. “Just don’t give me a bad review, man. One more of those and I’ll have to find another job. Can’t have less than three if I want to make rent.” Silence blossoms for a moment, until Justice leans over.
“Peace,” whispers Justice, “why did we agree to come here again? I was so happy deep in the Amazon. There were no exploited workers, yet we had all we needed. Whereas, here-” Justice glances towards the front seat. Peace shakes its head and lets a laugh ring out. It’s the most peaceful sound the driver has ever heard.
“Because, Justice, they really want to see us. They’ve poked and invited us so many times on Facebook. Plus, I figured they seem organized and conscious enough to bring us about.” They lurch forward from a sudden stop, but are yanked back by seatbelts. After a quick glare at the driver, Justice goes on.
“But those buildings, and—three jobs?!”
“Oh, Justice, I’m sure they’ve by now realized their-” Peace takes a moment, choosing the next word carefully, “asymmetrical ways.” Justice nods and looks out the window. By now, the buildings and their harsh glares are dots in the rearview.
***
Under the accusation-filled glares the crowd flings her way, The Event Organizer begins to sweat through the hot pink of her designer pantsuit. They’ll want refunds if something doesn’t happen soon, something big. Some have completely abandoned position and now sit at the bar with everyone else, regarding their old comrades with contempt.
Crouched in front of the crowd (what’s left of it), who themselves are all crouched behind booths, The Event Organizer dons a weak smile and (again) says they (Peace and Justice) will be here any minute.
She has no way of knowing this, as neither Peace nor Justice have a phone to call and confirm, but this white lie was supposed to serve as extremely comforting, reassuring news. The crowd hardly acknowledges it.
Vultures, thinks The Event Organizer, the Facebook event page only says that Peace and Justice have been cordially INVITED as the guests of honor, not that they’ve CONFIRMED a scheduled appearance.
She stops for a moment.
Yeah, that’s good. That’s what I’ll say.
She notices she’s been pacing and stops and brings both shoulders back, tilts her chin slightly upwards before returning to a crouched position. Then, in her peripheral: a scuffle.
While The Event Organizer decided which wording sounded most empathetic, someone at the bar decided to finally tell the wack jobs crouched in the corner that Peace and Justice aren’t coming. They’re never coming.
“Whywouldey?” The man swung back and forth in his barstool while addressing them, making unfocused eye contact with the partygoers, hands gesturing around the room. “Loogatisplace.”
Smiles vanished. Cellphone footage would later confirm it was Gretta who, while crouched, threw a bottled IPA at his head, hit him square in the temple, and sent him tumbling off the barstool.
Covered in the security monitor’s whitish-blue, behind a two-way mirror, Gretta will lean over the stainless-steel table in the police station’s interview room, cupping her face in both palms.
“I’ll tell you why I did it,” she will sigh, “I just-I just really wanted to have this one thing, ya know? I’m a mom, a wife, I work all day. Like everyone else there, I just wanted to see Peace and Justice. Just one time. I know it’s a big wish, since no one’s seen either of ‘em in so long we forgot they were even here, but still—and to have that jerk rub it in my face, I don’t know—” sobs. She’d later be charged with inciting a riot and, worst of all, property damage under Tex. Penal Code Ann. § 28.03 for what happened after she threw the beer bottle.
***
When Peace and Justice finally get there, after many detours and wrong addresses, potholes and things of the like, they tip the Uber driver and walk up the pub’s stairs. Sounds bleed from behind the door’s tattered wood.
Crashes. Yelling. Each glances at the other with expressions that say “What can we do? We’ve come all this way.” Justice reaches out, twists the knob.
Peace ducks just in time to avoid a rather small man who has been used as a projectile. The man sails out the pub, bounces on one of the lower steps and flops to a halt on the sidewalk, unconscious.
Inside, fights between people in party hats and people not in party hats have broken out all over the place. Chairs fly from one end of the room to the other and crash into faces/walls. Bodies lie crumpled on the floor.
A woman, drenched in sweat, quickly paces back and forth in a hot pink pantsuit.
“No refunds!” she screams on an eternal loop. The room is too much of a violent blur for anyone to notice: shattered shot glasses etc. etc.
“This can’t possibly be where we belong,” gasps Peace.
“Perhaps we’ve gotten the wrong city,” wonders Justice.
“Or country,” mutters Peace.
“Or political-economic system,” grumbles Justice.
“I’m reminded of why we left this place so long ago,” sighs Peace.
They’re on the sidewalk, waving down the Uber before the bar’s door can swing shut. The passenger window rolls down as the driver pulls beside them.
“-and it’s a cynical allegory at that!” he hollers.
“Will you just please take us to the airport?” asks Peace, both eyes rolled as they climb into the car’s chipped paint.
“Please?” begs Justice, closing the door behind them.
***
Nobody has seen or heard from Peace or Justice since then. It is rumored they maintain a permanent residence among the Sentinelese people, in the Bay of Bengal, protected with arrows and spears.
“It really is lovely here,” chirps Peace as they walk hand-in-hand along white-sanded shores. Justice beams with a smile.
Sometimes, when debating if they should return, Peace and Justice discuss the things they saw on the way to the pub. A father lifting his son high overhead, their laughter soaring through the air. Someone stepping into traffic to scoop up a lost puppy. A protest against the far right. They discuss the possibilities these things hold.
Michael Zendejas studies for a fiction MFA at UMass Amherst. He’s a 2022 winner of the James W. Foley Memorial Prize, and teaches classes on fiction and poetry via GrubStreet. Follow him @mikeafff
I think you were, once.
I think I was, once.
You’ve found love alive,
But I’ve been deprived.
Once upon a time I could love you,
Once upon a time I could love myself too
I am nobody. I have a twitter, but my handle is out of mind right now.
Carson Lake always reflected the sky, like evidence of a condition. When it opened in 1950, the lake was a healthy, clear cerulean. Crowds of people were spread out across the beach’s white sands. Patrons used the wet sand to build sandcastles or mold body casts around one another.
A black boy named Darrell Rodgers went missing in July of 1968. He was found two days later, hanging from a nearby tree in the forest next to Carson Beach. People rioted in Midtown later that night. Storefronts crumbled in the heat of merciless flames. Dark colored faces chanted Dr. King’s name.
In 1971, the three white men acquitted of Darrell’s murder were scattered across the beach’s shores. Their throats were ripped open by unknown blades. The city closed the beach down indefinitely after another rebellion ravaged Midtown. Twenty people were injured on that night. Three more bodies had to be buried.
The city unlocked and tore down the chain link fences in 1979. Officials believed the trouble had passed. When swimming season started, light skinned groups huddled together on the beach like snow banks on a mountain’s peak. Darker denizens turned their backs to them, though they always looked over their own shoulders with 1968’s fire in their eyes. A silence swept over the beach.
A sixteen-year-old girl was raped at the beach in 1981 and they never found the culprit. When asked about what the assailant looked like, the girl only mentioned shadows, shapes and grunts.
Another carcass floated across the lake in May of 1986. On the day it was discovered, the waters were a dreary grey. The sky reflected its condition, blanketed by sullen grey clouds. Shortly after the body was drawn from the water, it began to rain. The city closed the lake for good.
Gabriel Mambo is a substitute teacher living in Jackson Heights, New York. He’s previously been published in Red Fez. His Twitter is @GabeMambo and Instagram is @gabrielmambo
Hawthorn bound his hostage in their chair, physically mimicking the bonds holding the dazed denizen of Pulp at the Pump Inc. in its corporate clutches. Earlier at the bar, St John’s Wort and Faerie tinctures leaked into libation had allowed the eco terrorist to use this hapless drone to gain entry to their wasp’s nest.
The workers knew they labored for evil. Why else seek a state of stupor after hours? Nudging the numbness sought for succor had been almost too simple. It reminded Hawthorn of himself, before he’d been Hawthorn.
Mind and soul chained to a desk grown cancerously from a bloated business body. Devoted through selfish apathy to stripping the Earth of its breath, so they could crush bark and branch into liquid engine movement. No leap without a fall, no progress without injury. Humans simply could not get the hang of harmony. It had taken a moment just like this to free him. Let him dance wild with the Good Folk, living for the first time.
Bert, name engraved on his plastic keycard, watched his hoodie wearing jailor with bleary contentedness, silent with the help of duct tape and sedative. Hawthorn had timed the dosage so any minute the woozy worker would return from Haze Mountain. He’d need the blind pawn aware shortly.
A ceramic shell filled to hold a sympathetically linked sample of the Earth was placed between captor and captive. The hiss of solid soil signaled the ritual had begun. Cubicles stretched hollow and empty around them, skulls in a field of manufactured bone. What better place to plant the next seed of resistance? He did so, a small man placing a small pip into a small pot in a massive hostile world.
His past self recalled the term hostile work environment, and he smiled under the scarf hiding his identity. Human Resources would have done well to branch out.
Words were needed. The Good Neighbors would hear, be drawn to the living tissue waiting to be birthed. They would feel the foe, revenge rushing their approach to eagerly enact threefold their traumas. Bert, still separate, was slowly sobering. Giddy bliss was sloughing off of the surface of his fear, it was nearly time to reveal what organism he occupied.
Crouching over the cauldron of loam, Hawthorn whispered,
“Come in the stillness,
Come in the night,
Come to bring wrath,
Come with delight”
The dark dust swirled as the seed passed on the poem. Tiny voices tinkled like broken glass laughing on the limits of his senses. He’d need to be swift, Bert would not have long.
Hawthorn approached his hostage, who had begun to struggle. Bert pulled against the zip ties holding him to the desk he’d once willingly fused himself to. The fight echoed in the air, and Hawthorn seized on it, fingers slipping around the ephemeral sensation as had been shown to him. As had been done to his past persona.
Knowing knots wove intricate webs, the struggle was tied to the seedling, and Bert was bound one more time. His fevered need to escape was redirected, as Hawthorn placed photo after photo on the desktop before him. The duct tape kept him from a reply as dignified as his suit, but enough words had been spoken aloud in Hawthorn’s opinion.
Green shoots pushed their way out of the surface of the altar-pot as Bert’s eyes took in the images of devastation before him. Each revelation took hold in his mind as roots spread in the sod. Sprite families fled metal mouths as their homes were chewed to chips. Pixies ground under treads and left lifeless as the land they’d loved. Centuries of tradition transformed into a trip to Cancun, or worse more machines to consume the natural world.
The pottery popped as Bert’s bubble burst, and Hawthorn could see in the man’s eyes that he was no longer bound to malice. He released his new ally fully as they watched with growing awe the tree that matched Hawthorn’s namesake take root in the office. It continued to grow, echoing the ire and resolve in the new recruit.
Within seconds it reached the ceiling, trunk tearing through filmy barriers. Partitions of the stagnant hive of industry were flung aside to make way for new life with gargantuan groans. Branches reached and scraped, defying the space and reclaiming it. The sound of joyous rebellion reverberated around them, and in their hearts.
The weight of wood became unbearable, the floor collapsing completely. Branches surged and the sharp nettles accompanying the massive plant swelled into swords.
Perhaps a few more words would be ok, Hawthorn conceded.
“Time to run.” he explained, and demonstrated the concept with celerity.
The two of them ran down halls designed by madmen determined to direct the course of humanity towards predictable compliance. Past the breakroom broken with snacks flying, down stairs uprooted from below, they sprinted through the lobby Hawthorn had entered so easily earlier.
Everywhere small shapes slipped and scurried along the tree, encouraging with words and pushing the growth by hand. Red hats and leafy clothes, slim bodies and sharp bloody teeth swarmed the growing maelstrom of bark and leaf. Mouths of magic and flesh wreaked revenge for their homes taken by metal monsters, happily ignoring the humans who had brought them.
Outside, Hawthorn slowed, and turned in the parking lot, tapping Bert and bringing him about. Before them the tree rose, shrugging off the trappings of big business. Roots churned the ground as a giant’s toes wriggling in sand. It reached fifty feet, then a hundred, only satisfied when not a brick or pinprick of plastic persisted.
Pulp at the Pump’s main headquarters was no more. Bert stood stunned, and Hawthorn hovered patiently.
“What happens now?” Bert finally ventured, eyes still stuck on the Good Folk celebrating in a dance circle at the base of the gigantic growth.
Hawthorn smiled, removing his scarf to reveal it fully. “Other organization branches will remove the remaining remnants, incinerating the insidious Internet infection to mirror their material dismantling”
He knew that wasn’t the answer anticipated, but Bert needed to ask the right questions.
“Other branches. Wow.” Bert shook his head and chuckled at Hawthorn. “I mean what happens to me. I’m pretty sure I can’t go back. Not after what I just saw.”
“Would you want to, knowing what you know?”
“No. I guess I wouldn’t. At least I know the rumors have been true. Nature really is sick of our shit.”
As police sirens swarmed, Hawthorn placed a bowl on the ground, completing the ritual with an offering of cream.
“Time to go, Calathea.” He said, straightening up, and making his way to a moving patch of midnight residing between roots. The Good Folk frolicked in the ruins, entirely ignoring the eco terrorist as he passed. Fae glutted on glee at Goliath felled and reborn as flora.
Calathea, as he was now known to nature, followed Hawthorn into Faerie. He noticed his thoughts had begun to mimic Hawthorn’s habits. It didn’t deter him, his new beginning beckoned. He passed into Faerie, and joined the fight.
Liam Burke is an independent spec fic writer. You can find his full body of work at ssjliam.square.site. Twitter: @ssjliamp
When I’m drugged home you order me upstairs to the shower. I scrub, vigorously scrub. Vicariously, you inspect it separate from me, observe it circle the drain through the hair and slide between the holes. I wrench the washcloth, squeeze the grease, the scent persists. It transports me back beyond me to the primal, mystic us. Washed, I hush into bed avoiding repercussion. You’ll submit consequence later. I’ll pay. For you pulled your object out of the chaos and I constructed meaning subordinate to it. Then you slip under and love me and tangled we become one
Dave Nash enjoys the city on rainy Mondays and waking up to instant coffee everyday. He reads fiction submissions at Five South Magazine and writes stories found in places like Bivouac Magazine.
Your wellington boots stomp me to the root,
your daughter’s eager palms squish my neck and bounce me happily,
as you squat down with a newborn; pale-faced bundled in your arms,
his milky breath sweet as the scent of spring
Vibrant laughter echoes through my petals,
if I could speak I wouldn’t have to
I hear a click and there we are,
captured by your husband’s eye.
Stilled forever;
frozen in time.
Sponges (phylum Porifera) are important members
of benthic ecosystems worldwide
We have spent our entire lives studying these creatures because
we find them fascinating Hopefully we can convince you
to feel the same
The environmental factors driving expression of
heat-shock protein genes under constant temperature
have yet to be investigated
In fact we have investigated them
for seventeen years now
Here, at last, is our breakthrough
We hypothesized that
We believed more in this than
in any higher power,
organization,
act of kindness,
mother’s cooking
For the first time, we present
Behold!
We have cracked the code
to the “what if?”
that is finished lurking
in corners of our dreams
is no longer tattooed
on the undersides of our eyelids
Due to experimental limitations
Day forty-six
in the field and the typhoon
just passed through
Fixing the exclusion cages and
a great white gets too curious
return to the boat, wait it out
a storm rolls in
six cages left
two days until departure
we called it
Packed up the gear
back to the lodging
takeout pizza, banal television,
staring blankly at the ceiling above the cots
conjuring the graph without those six data points
Due to suboptimal sampling conditions
Second field season, colder
day than usual, mesophotic
dive, Ben
lost his weight pouches the day before, replaces
from the save-a-dive kit, they slide around
as he dives, it’s a quick dive, down and up,
it’ll be okay,
tangled in kelp,
weights come off,
Ben shoots up
never dives again.
& what data point is worth the boat ride back
with his body on board
& the Zoom call home to report it
& the visitation by his family
& the knowledge of
all that could have been done
Bump him up the authors list?
to honour him?
I’d rather never publish again
if it would undo that day
&
really
what is the point of any of this
Future work should investigate
We are tired
and of finite time
here is our wish list
things we’d love to know
but have no time for
help yourself
we are here
to talk, spitball, scheme
really there is no greater joy
than collaboration
Andrews et al. (2001) showed that
Brian Andrews is a gift
to sponge science
and I would die for him
Remember, Brian
when we met at the conference in Dublin
post-talk beers but our rental bikes got stolen
running in the downpour
back to the hotel in the middle
of the night but got lost and
ended up on this crazy
middle-ages Stonehenge-looking outcrop?
Felt like a teenager again
stupid shit with the kids down the street
& anyways Brian’s work
is unparalleled
innovative, cutting-edge
& the work he puts in
for his students and colleagues
selfless, kind, too good for academia
papers works of art
he deserves the world
I will cite him until
the day I die
The authors declare no conflicts of interest
Only that we are so deeply
enamored by this phylum that sometimes
it is hard to think straight about other matters
but thankfully
our colleagues & loved ones ground us
Acknowledgements
the funding agencies, sure, but also
the undergrads (menial work)
the significant others (driving, cooking, networking, flight-booking, carpentry, company)
the co-PIs (last-minute emails with far too much feedback to act on in time)
the facilities and IT people (keeping everything running)
the safety officers (safety, & a million other non-safety-related tasks)
the collaborators, inspirers, science communicators, long-dead storied naturalists of old,
Aristotle (they weren’t plants, dude!),
& there is only one lead author but really, this is the
serendipitous aligning of hundreds of stories
stories that came before &
stories that are sure to follow
Keenan Guillas studies sea sponge behaviour in California and writes in his free time. He is on Twitter and Instagram as @keenanguillas.
SOURCE: Steinbeck, John. Cannery Row, Penguin Books, NY, NY: 1994, p.5. Karin Hedetniemi photographs and writes from Vancouver Island, Canada. Find her at AGoldenHour.com or Twitter @karinhedet.
Green spiders across the universe
Spin their webs to catch their dinner
Any stray space insectoid
Or leftovers tossed from flying ships
A black stallion gallops through
He snags his hoof, bows his head
The web stretches to entangle him
The steed snorts, his nostrils flare
Spiders chew their web, set him free
Grateful, the horse floats back to Earth.
Mona Mehas (she/her) writes about growing up poor, accumulating grief, and climate change. A retired, disabled teacher in Indiana, USA, she’s at her laptop. Follow on everywhere on linktr.ee/monaiv.
I fear that we will be reduced to “The Ones Who Got Away”. A “Glimpse of Us” in another’s eyes… A memory – a story with a bittersweet ending. I’m afraid it’s something unavoidable. I wish I could hold onto you – cling to you like the stars cling to the night sky; but even the sun will burn out some day, my love. Even the stars we see are only the echoes of their existence a billion light years away… One day, I will be reduced to a memory to you; and you a fond familiarity to love to me.
Dancing in the evening with a firepit behind us will forever be a fantasy. Visions of standing beside you while watching Provence’s sunset will be blurred in my mind. Your sweet kisses in a pastel pink café in London will be phantom touches… Perhaps you were right… All those ‘maybe’s and ‘what if’s and ‘could have been’s haunt me. They fill my heart with regret like lead and cause me to drag my feet, but they are a testament to what I could have been and done for you. They are the proof of my love for you, as foolish as it may seem. One day they will weigh less heavily on my shoulders, but my love, they will always be present.
I mourn the loss of your love already. Knowing in the back of my mind that I will likely amount to nothing but a fading warmth in your hands tears me apart. I wanted to keep you warm for as long as I could, my dearest. I care less about you loving me in return and more about you being loved by someone as you should…
“I get jealous
even when people
aren’t mine
because others
are reckless
with their hearts
and forget to
be kind.” – (Peppernell, “Pillow Thoughts”)
Yet despite my selfless words, I cannot deny that I’ve wanted you selfishly. I’ve thought of being greedy. I’ve thought of being reckless. Sometimes I barely hang on by a thread when jealousy or despair consume me. We have no real future, my dearest moonlight. You are a privilege, not a right… one that I believe I will lose eventually, but not without appreciation for later in life.
I wish things weren’t this way. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve thought about dropping the future I have here just for a present with you. The idea that someone will finally value me for what and who I truly am rather than what I can do or will do later on is something priceless and foreign to me. It’s alluring – the idea that I could ever be more to someone than a means to an end… I’m not a means to an end to you… am I? I suppose, even if I was, I’d be none the wiser.
Would it be foolish? To think that I could do something that would allow us to have a future together? Move away perhaps? Get my life together and join you? Promise you ‘eventually’? Promise you ‘forever’? To be truthful, I am far too jealous of your lovers having such large proportions of your romantic love, not even including him, who I have not forgotten that you two are truly soulmates. There are so many factors that stop me from doing something reckless…
So, forgive me, my first love. I apologize for only ever pining and mourning the loss of your love, hardly ever basking in it as I should have been. I apologize for the way I’ve begun to slowly pull my hand away from yours in attempts to brace myself for the fall. My first romantic heartbreak; how comical considering that you were never mine in the first place.
I apologize; I will be nothing more to you than a name on the long list of people who have left you behind.
Love,
Lylia
J.R. Barner is a writer, teacher, and musician living in Athens, Georgia. Reach out to jrbarner.tumblr.com or on Twitter @jrbarner2.
Unstamatic 