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Short Fiction ~ Dr. Dianne Bown-Wilson Mama died swimming in the sea at the age of eighty-six. ‘Oh,’ strangers say, raising their eyebrows. ‘How did that come about?’ They imply I should have been able to prevent it, but they didn’t know my Mama. Truth be told, I’m proud she met her end that way. Fourteen years ago, with my father gone, she moved to a village in Cornwall where she eased herself into local customs and squared up to the ways of the sea. Mama made friends as quickly as rustling up pancakes. They’re not traits she’s passed on to me. Mama was fond of swimming. Fond, because she didn’t believe in extremes like adored or passionate; she was always low-key. She demonstrated her fondness by swimming in the sea every morning, 365 days a year. Back when she started, swimming was just something people did, an everyday activity of choice. Recently, it’s been rebranded ‘Wild Swimming’ with social media powering its popularity - not that Mama cared a jot about that. ‘I’m not going over Niagara in a barrel,’ she’d say. ‘I can’t see why it’s wild.’ Exasperated by her nonchalance, I needed to drive the message home. Online research revealed a list of recommended accessories that was astonishing even to me: Essential Kit for Wild Swimming Swimsuit or swimming wetsuit Old trainers or similar footwear Safety Tow Float Goggles and silicon swim cap Towel/s Dry bag for wet kit Warm clothing layers and changing robe, gloves, and bobble hat Drinking water for hydration, plus a flask of something hot Snacks to counter a sugar dip First aid kit for bumps and scrapes Headtorch for early/late expeditions Map, compass, mobile phone I printed it off, and predictably, she laughed: ‘Heavens - it’s only swimming. If I had to bother with all of that, I’d never leave the house!’ Soon after, Mama died from a heart attack minutes after entering the sea. The medics said nothing would have saved her; it was an excellent way for an old lady to go. I miss Mama’s confident nonchalance. These days, I’ve far too much time to dwell on how my life has gone wrong and other turnings I should have taken. Soon after her death, a coup-de-foudre at forty-seven (something I’d never foreseen) left me reeling and all at sea. ‘What should I do?’ I asked the ghost of Mama, hoping for the voice of sense. ‘Do what feels right; follow your heart; this may never come your way again.’ So I wore his ring, started planning the wedding, and consulted experts about what brides must do. Then, as list after list became more complex (Essential Kit for Weddings), I floundered, flailed, and out of my depth, my soul struggled and joy drained away. It’s only marriage, I thought, taking Mama’s approach – it shouldn’t be so hard! And in that spirit, I steeled myself, waded in, and persuaded my man to elope. Looking back, I understand I should have exercised more caution. The human heart is more treacherous than the sea. ~  Dr. Dianne Bown-Wilson is a short story writer who grew up in New Zealand and now lives surrounded by stunning scenery in Dartmoor National Park in Devon, UK. Her work has won prizes in numerous international competitions and has been included in anthologies. Her passion is for character-led tales exploring the extraordinariness of ordinary people.
She has published two collections of her successful stories: Instructions for Living and Other Stories, and Degrees of Exposure. Visit her website https://diannebownwilson.uk/
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Short Fiction ~ Fiona Dignan The scene is startlingly familiar to you. A family outing. Suitcases piled on the pavement outside the semi-detached suburban house. What did they choose to pack? Did they consider the weather where they were going or do the usual thing of taking the just in case array of woolly jumpers and garish cotton t-shirts? The girl has packed a small stuffed unicorn whose colour reminds you of cotton candy. It emerges from the top of her rucksack, its glittery gold horn a sudden thrill against the pavement’s grey screed. The family are bedecked in their travelling gear; mum laden with pillows and snacks and the two boys’ backpacks crammed with comics, electronics and crosswords to combat the spooling boredom of the journey. You consider if kids these days still play I-spy and remember your own children’s invention of the rainbow car game. Spot a red one, then an orange one, yellow etc. Indigo always caught them out and you remember the silence as their eyes scanned motorways for the elusive deep purple. The colour memory forces you to re-look at the bruise on the girl’s temple where she fell. You kneel as though in devotion, khaki touching the pavement, but you are prayer barren these days. You close her unceasing eyes. Her skin has a sheen to it, like softened butter and the scent of ammonia stings your nostrils. You trace the stench to the younger boy’s crotch; the splashed patch of dampness looks pathetic. “We need to move Oleksiy, there’s nothing we can do here,” your commander tells you. You hate your futility. What is the point of wearing this uniform if all you can do is bear witness to a seven-year-old boy pissing himself as a shell splits his family apart with steel spite? It is then you hear the mewling and consider the cage by the older boy’s right arm. It is not a detail you noticed before; your attention fixed by the obvious outrage. “Sir, there’s something in here,” you say as you peer inside the criss-cross of metal at the cage’s entrance. Huddled against a blue towel you see the tiny ginger kitten, pawing and whimpering. Unharmed. You remove your gloves and stick your hand in to grasp the little creature who wriggles with a surprising force in your grip. A squawk emerges from its red mouth; a clot of pure primal sound bursting across a smouldering landscape. You wonder if the children called out for their mother as they bled against the broken concrete. The creature is almost weightless, and you know the warmth of its fragile body cannot stand as a hope against the blasphemy of the three dead children sprawled in front of you. Yet as the striped tail twists around your war-stained fingers, you feel the racing dum-de-dum of its still-beating heart. In your hands you cradle a featherweight salvage of grace. ~  Fiona Dignan started writing during lockdown to cope with the chaos of home-schooling her four children. Her work has been published in various anthologies and magazines including Mslexia, Pop Shot and WestWord. She has won the London Society Poetry Prize (2023), The Plaza Prize for Sudden Fiction (2023) and the Farnham Flash Fiction competition (2024). She has been listed for the Bath Short Story Prize and the London Independent Story Prize. In 2023 she was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
Short Fiction ~ Chris Cottom 'You’re up early. Not painting today?’ ‘Lecturing. If it’s Monday, Michelle, it must be Monet.’ ‘Look, before she comes down, I told Kayleigh I’d talk to you.’ ‘Or maybe Manet.’ ‘She’s asked us something.’ ‘Mondrian if I’m feeling abstracted. Any porridge?’ ‘She’s asked if Nick can stay the night.’ ‘When?’ ‘Just sometimes.’ ‘In the spare room?’ ‘In her room.’ ‘So they’re at it, are they?’ ‘She’s seventeen, Bertram. So, yes, I imagine they are.’ ‘Haven’t you had a mummy-daughter chat?’ ‘Why me? What about a daddy-daughter one?’ ‘Better coming from you.’ ‘She won’t discuss it. You know what she’s like.’ ‘What’s he like, this boy? Nick Nack Paddy Whack.’ ‘Why don’t you talk to him and find out? He’s round here often enough.’ ‘What do you reckon?’ ‘He’s a polite kid. And she’ll definitely be sensible about … you know …’ ‘I’m not very keen.’ ‘You’d rather they do it in the woods or somewhere?’ ‘I’m sure the woods see a lot more action than this house.’ ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ ‘This house is a sex-free zone.’ ‘And who’s fault is that?’ ‘You’re the one in iron-plated undies.’ ‘You’re the one who couldn’t keep it in his trousers. Again!’ ‘Because you were acting like a crabby old cow.’ ‘What did you just say?’ ‘Like you are now!’ ‘Right! Here’s your porridge!’ ‘Yikes! You trying to kill me, you bitch?’ ‘Eat it off the floor, for all I care.’ ~ ‘Home by eleven, Kayleigh. You’ve got school tomorrow.’ ‘Actually Mum, I’ve been at college for the last year, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ ‘Listen, about … Nick staying over–’ ‘Forget it. We’ve split up.’ ‘You’re kidding! Why?’ ‘None of your business. Why are you and Dad splitting up?’ ‘Well I’m sorry, anyway. So who’s picking you up now?’ ‘Just this guy.’ ‘Well you need to do that button up.’ ‘Fashion expert, are you?’ ‘You’re showing far too much.’ ‘Oh yeah? You’re just a dinosaur.’ ‘And where’s he taking you?’ ‘Dunno. For a drink.’ ‘You’re not actually allowed to drink in pubs yet, you know.’ ‘Yeah, that’s useful advice, coming from this family.’ ‘He’d better be a safe driver.’ ‘I’ll find out, won’t I? Bye.’ ‘Aren’t you asking him in?’ ‘Yeah. “Come and meet my mum. She’s practising to be a prison officer. The grumpy one all the prisoners hate.”’ ~ ‘Right Bertram, we need to decide who takes what.’ ‘I need a glass of wine to do this.’ ‘Bit early, isn’t it?’ ‘Actually Michelle, the point about splitting up is that you get to nag somebody else and I get to have a drink at eleven in the morning if I want to.’ ‘It’s only five to.’ ‘Thank you Miss Nitty Picky. Let’s hope your next husband appreciates you timetabling everything.’ ‘Huh! Don’t imagine I want another–’ ‘Friday fishfingers; Sunday no-sex-thank-you; a blue moon so I might get a blowjob, but probably not.’ ‘Who’s fault is that? You sticking your–’ ‘After you instigated a marital ice-age–’ ‘SHUT UP, WILL YOU?’ ‘Let’s get this over with.’ ‘Which sofa do you want?’ ‘Why should I care? They’re both the same. Red and lumpy.’ ‘Except Carrington was sick on one of them, remember?’ ‘Okay, I’ll have the cat-sick one, providing I get the coffee maker.’ ‘That was a present from my mum.’ ‘Actually she gave it to both of us.’ ‘But she’s my mum.’ ‘But you prefer instant.’ ‘Maybe I’ve developed a taste for something dark and continental.’ ‘Ha! The exotic tastes of the girl from Oadby!’ ‘Didn’t notice you complaining. So, what about this picture?’ ‘Indian ink and pastel. My early years.’ ‘No stretch marks in those days. You did it after that walk along the canal. The Regent’s Canal, all the way to Limehouse.’ ‘No we didn’t. We went the other way, to Paddington.’ ‘I’m telling you we–’ ‘I remember it very well. And the sitting. You could barely keep still, frantic for it.’ ‘Huh! More like frozen frigid. That studio was like the Artic.’ ‘Anyway, I’ll be taking it.’ ‘Surprised you want it.’ ‘One of my better ones. Nine out of ten.’ ‘What about the model?’ ‘Hmm. Four, five.’ ‘Thanks Bertram.’ ‘Maybe a six.’ ‘You bastard!’ ‘Hey! What’re you–’ ‘Shhh …’ ‘Which sofa is this? Yours or mine?’ ‘Wrong to split them up, really, don’t you think?’ ~ ‘Kayleigh, listen. Dad and I are going away for a weekend.’ ‘You never go away.’ ‘We are now. We need you to be in charge and look after Carrington’. ‘Who’s eaten all the chocolate biscuits? Sorry, I’m going out.’ ‘I haven’t told you which weekend.’ ‘I always go out at the weekend. Unless I’m babysitting over the road.’ ‘And make sure your brother eats something other than pizza. The one after next.’ ‘I don’t want to be stuck here all weekend.’ ‘We’ll give you a bit of money.’ ‘Can’t you wait ’til I’ve passed my test?’ ‘We’ve booked everything: the train, the hotel.’ ‘Unless …’ ‘Stop fingering all those biscuits.’ ‘Could Nick stay?’ ‘I thought you weren’t seeing him any more.’ ‘Well maybe I am.’ ‘You said he–’ ‘It was all a misunderstanding.’ ‘Fifty quid.’ ‘But I’m never speaking to that cow Catriona again in my life.’ ‘Fifty quid and Nick can stay.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Just your boyfriend. No one else.’ ‘He’s not my boyfriend again yet. Well, I suppose he is. What about Dad?’ ‘He’s fine about it. Just don’t get pregnant.’ ‘Mum! Fuck’s sake!’ ‘Talk like that and I’ll change my mind.’ ‘No you won’t.’ ‘Try me.’ ‘You’ve booked everything, remember?’ ‘Are you going to eat that Hobnob, or just scratch your nose with it? Don’t you want to know where we’re going?’ ‘Like, I’m so interested. Okay, where’re you going?’ ‘We’re going for a walk.’ ‘A walk?’ ‘We’re going to walk along a canal. In London.’ ‘Uh?’ ‘The Regent’s Canal.’ ‘You and Dad?’ ‘Yup … Hey, what’s this?’ ‘Just feel like giving you a hug, Mum … that’s all.’ ~ 
Chris Cottom once lived next door to JRR Tolkien. He’s packed Christmas hampers in a Harrods basement, sold airtime for Radio Luxembourg, and served a twelve-year stretch as an insurance copywriter. He liked the writing job best. Short Fiction ~ Heather Haigh Of course, James got here first. Tube—taxi—done. I had to fight the traffic snarl, kamikaze flies bulleting my windscreen, radio dipping out like a crappy phone connection, and the CD player dead. 'How's the shop going?' he asked, when I arrived, while he peered into Gran's silverware cabinet. 'Getting by. The Witchery was always more for love than money.' James tilted his head. 'Car music system still playing up?' I let him tinker, while I started on Gran's bookcase. Familiar spines sat sagging, wrinkled and cracked. The Elves and the Shoemaker's pages had curled yellow. James could rummage through the rest—the storybooks were mine. He was back in no time, swooping on the treasures around me. 'Music system, A-OK.' 'Thanks.' I finished penning my name on the selection I'd put aside for myself, making sure ANNA was visible from every angle, in thick black marker. We'd packed six boxes when James suggested a break. 'Let's sit in the shade by the old tree. I put R Whites in the fridge. It's not Grans, but ....' The bench still sat beside the hollow oak. It felt wrong sitting in Gran's seat—the spot she always settled in while James and I crept inside that tree. Once inside, we'd sip tangy, cloudy lemonade while elven music tinkled all around us, and a million stars glittered above our heads—way up inside Gran's magic oak. I glanced at the dark hole in the trunk, then down at my drink. 'I thought it was real, you know.' I could taste again great lumpen sobs from when we were children. James had tugged aside the fairy lights and softly draped fabric. He'd pulled the music box, wrapped in a burlap sack, from its hidden nook. He had to know why Gran checked the tree for trolls before we crept in, our breaths held in unison. 'Sorry,' he said. 'Was always nosey. Needed to know how things worked.' 'Well, your pragmatism serves you well. Congratulations on the promotion.' James half-smiled, half-grimaced, like there was something I didn't quite get. 'Wait there. I nosied in the freezer earlier.' The bilberry pies were warm from Gran's microwave. As buttery pastry melted in my mouth, melding with the sweet fruity filling, it brought back the smells of Gran's kitchen. It brought back Gran. Tears trickled, then ran feely, then finally dredged out big fat salty dollops I'd long since swallowed, snail-slimy snot, and an ache so deep it was bigger than me. 'Guess we'd better clear out the tree,' I said at last, gulping breaths between words. James squeezed my hand. I squeezed back. James crawled in and handed me lights and fabric, foil stars on tangled strings, a pair of emerald green cushions—worn and damp. Finally the music box. Faded blue paint. A fairy whose wand trailed sparkling dust. I prised the lid open and found a note, rolled up tight, dampened only at the edges. Grandma's neat handwriting, from when her hands were strong and steady. Magic is real. It's the love in your hearts. # 'I made you this.' James handed over a CD. We exchanged a hug. 'For driving. The music box might be nice in your shop—ambience.' 'Thanks again. We should get together sometime.' It wasn't the right note, but nothing was. I started the engine and slipped the CD in. The music box lay silent in the passenger seat. James was waving. Even before I pocketed my tissue, before I clicked the seatbelt around me, before I eased off the handbrake, Gran's music, Gran's magic, was swelling around me—filling the car—filling my head—growing bigger and bigger and bigger. As big as that bloody ache. I cut the ignition and hurled myself back out of the car and into my brother's arms. This time, I held him, and held him, and held him. ~  Heather Haigh is a disabled working-class writer from Yorkshire. Published by Oxford Flash Fiction, Fictive Dream, The Phare, Timberline Review and others, she took first prize in micro contests with Globe Soup and New Writers, and was runner-up in both The Quiet Man Dave Prize For Non-Fiction and The Kay Snow Award For Fiction.
Find her at https://haigh19c.wixsite.com/heatherbooknook Short Fiction ~ Sarveswari Saikrishna Crinkle your eyes and stretch your lips to the farthest corner of your cheeks. It is easy. Do it before your mother gets anxious and your father becomes impatient. Do it before the man who has come to ‘see’ you finds it impertinent. At sixteen, it should not be hard to smile. But be aware. Too wide, it can turn into a sneer. Too inconspicuous, it can look sullen. So smile just enough, enough to carry that pleasant look on your face. Do it like how your mother taught you to, when you clear the table after your father and brother have eaten, as if you are looking forward to washing their dirty plates, as if you don’t mind eating the leftover rice that is too little to assuage your and your mother’s hunger. Do you remember when your mother said, “We are lucky. Many have to do with less than this,” you nodded vigorously to compliment your smile? Some actions associated with happiness make the smile look genuine. Also, that particular smile helped you to pretend that you did not see your mother scooping up much of what was left over in the pot and putting it on your plate. So smile and be grateful for the fact that you may have been dead the day you were born but for your mother. She had pleaded, “Just this one. I could do with a helping hand around the house.” Had she let the old hag, her mother-in-law, feed you oleander sap, just like she had fed your sisters born before you, you would have been ash that mixed with the crimson soil on which nothing but palm trees grow. Smile like when you helped your mother herd the goats, clean the pen, wash the clothes, and cook the meals that fill two and a half stomachs of a five-member family. If you want to let people know that you are really pleased, show some teeth while smiling. Like you did when the whole of Class III clapped for you when you scored the highest in maths. Smile like when you told your father about it. He had been unimpressed. “What use is maths for a girl?” he had said and shook his head, ‘If only your brother did this well in school.” You continued smiling then because you understood your father’s predicament and wanted to make him feel better. You knew the only reason you were in school was that the headmistress convinced your father that children who attended school would be given a free meal. So you went to school along with your brother though it came with a needless education. While smiling, exhibit considerable skill to hide your disappointment. The man who has come to ‘see’ you is judging you, assessing your ability to raise a kid, rein a buffalo, chase a wayward goat, and bear his weight on your thin frame. You have done it before. No! not having someone on top of you. But smiling through disappointment. Remember the time when you smiled through a sinking heart because it was agreed a ‘big’ girl need to be at home and learn to be a good wife? Remember how you smiled because, at that age, you did not even know what else to do? Please remember, don’t show expertise while you are smiling as if you had been smiling at men all your life. No good girl will smile at boys. In fact, no good girl will ever raise her head to meet anyone’s eyes, let alone smile. Your honour is directly related to the angle at which your neck is bent towards the ground. It is understandable that sometimes it might be beyond your control when a voice entices you to look up. There, you might have seen your brother’s friend, tall and brawny, laughing at a joke your brother just made. You might have felt your ears burn when he caught you looking at him. You might have even let a smile twitch on your lips when you were sure no one was looking. And if that boy ever caught you alone while going to fetch water, and told you that you had a beautiful smile, you might have had to restrain your heart from flipping around like a fish washed ashore. It is understandable that those were the days when a smile came quite easily, because it does when you fall in love, when dragonflies sit on your skin and water tastes like forest honey, when you think of him. But that is all in the past. Remember to forget love and smile through pain. You might have to do it as often as necessary when you are engaged to a man twice your age because he agrees to marry you without a dowry, because he wants a mother for his five-year-old son, because you are not expected to protest against your father because good girls listen to the man of the house, because your mother says you owe her this much for saving you from being killed. Then, it is understandable smiling won’t be easy at all. But you will have to. Try to smile when your husband touches you. Find solace in those words, words uttered aeons ago — You have a beautiful smile. Because you will have to smile, when you pick stones out of the rice carefully, milk the buffaloes, bathe, dress, and feed the child which can never be yours, and clean the house which, again, can never be yours. You will be reminded of that repeatedly by your husband. You will smile, not a novice anymore to it, but gently, resignedly every time your husband loses his temper, which is often, and shouts at you to wipe that silly smile out of your face. ~  Sarveswari Saikrishna is a short story writer and a Kolam Writer’s Workshop Alumnus. Her stories are published in Out Of Print, The Bombay Literary Magazine, USAWA , Gulmohur Quarterly, Meanpeppervine, and TMYS. She also has articles published in The Open Page, The Hindu, to her credit.
She lives in Chennai with her family and dreams of a day when she can write without interruptions. When she is not moonlighting as a copyeditor, she can be found actively imagining winning awards for stories she’s yet to write. Media handle links https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100010124764417 https://www.instagram.com/kaapi_write/ At 3,000 degrees Fahrenheit, sand finally melts into glass. Thus, he is used to the heat. He is used to the furnace, to waves of feverish air breaking rhythmically upon his cheeks, to standing before the inferno in its brick cloister, resisting l’appel du vide. “How’s it going?” She slips into the annex and drifts as close as she dares to the glowing glory hole. She is terrified of fire. They have yet to ever touch one another in the glow of the furnace, limbs sweaty and entwined, writhing amidst the blistering air that leaches from an annealer during the birth of molten glass. “It’s terrible,” he responds. “It’s shit.” The ground is littered with the detritus of his failure. Glass shards crunch under his feet; everything is covered with a fine dusting of silica. He grips the blowpipe and prepares to begin again, Sisyphus trudging up the hill. To blow glass is a practice in masochism, each success overshadowed by the sheer amount of loss first required to achieve it. “You have time,” she soothes. To blow glass is to break glass, destruction at the hands of the most infinitesimal of forces, the simple flap of a butterfly wing that creates a tempest across the sea. “They said they don’t need it until next week, right?” she continues. To blow glass is an act of bondage, servitude to the laws of physics, talent and willpower fading before the power of gravity and the curse of thermal stress. “I had it,” he laments, staring into the furnace without seeing its light. “Right up until the last second.” Only seventeen, his artwork has a maturity that speaks to decades’ worth of lived experience he has never actually enjoyed; a true savant, glassblowing is the only thing that quiets the static in his brain, an exhausting white noise born of neurodiversity and trauma, always working to extinguish his passion and dilute his joy. He is the youngest gaffer at the largest glassworks in Philadelphia; he is one of the few juvenile members of the USW. He was thrown this commission for Cirque de Soleil as a bone to accept the hot shop’s admittedly-lowball offer of employment, understaffed and overworked as they are providing props for this impending premiere, and he has never felt less confident in his own genius. The piece he is constructing for Dralion – Cirque’s new show about tension and balance and juxtaposition; about harmony between East and West and Man and Nature; about dragons and goddesses and the reigning princess of fire – will determine the course of his career. And his best attempt currently lies shattered at his shoes, having imploded upon itself like a neutron star moments before she entered. You’re better than this, his inner monologue pipes up. You should be better than this. She edges closer to his bench and lays her palm upon his shoulder. He rests his head upon her fingers, taking solace in her scent. “Thanks,” he whispers, exhaling properly for the first time in an hour. He lifts his eyes from the bench where the piece is beginning to take shape, a stiletto heel emerging from the amorphous globe of liquid glass. “I missed you.” They stay in repose for several seconds more, savoring the solitude, savoring their proximity. They are so seldom alone. He is suddenly intimately aware of the ticking clock, the minutes remaining until the studio fills back up and he is no longer alone. Only he has earned the privilege of privacy in the annex; only he seems to need solitude in order to create. At least, that was the case until she came into his life. Now, even as he craves isolation, he craves her company; now, he feels incomplete when she is not around. She kisses his forehead, then loses her nerve and scurries away from the furnace. “It’ll be fine,” she prophesies. “You’ve done harder things than this before.” He loses his temper then, something he often feels inclined to do in her presence for no reason he can discern, strange emotions simmering like magma behind his skull. It isn’t anger, per se; but it also isn’t that he isn’t angry with her, either. “It’s fucking Cirque du Soleil!” he yells. “Fine isn’t good enough.” The silence after his outburst is viscous like liquid. Then comes the bright tinkling of breaking glass, and the half-shaped glass slipper finally lies in a disarray of fragments upon the floor. Pathetic, his inner monologue comments. He lays down the blowpipe and runs his hands through his hair. The weight of secrecy suddenly seems like a lot. Blowing props for Cirque du Soleil suddenly seems like a lot. “I’m sorry,” he utters. “I don’t know why…” She chooses not to respond, then chooses not to take the hand he has extended. Desperate for comfort, he wants only to hear he does not deserve this pain; he wants only to believe her loyalty is unconditional. But she does not take his hand, and she does not quell his fears. Dimly, somewhere beyond the annex, a bell rings. A tide of chattering teenage voices rushes in. Lockers slam; laughter abounds. “You’ll get it done,” she repeats instead, heading for the door, for the complex microcosm of the High School for Creative Arts churning just outside. “I’ve got to go.” Frustrated, he rises to follow her. “Wait. I love…” She holds up a hand, stopping his advance. “Careful,” she warns, glancing towards the door, confirming the head of the art department has still yet to return. Then she walks out. He watches the A.P. English instructor leave. Adoration and adrenaline and anxiety and shame crystalize in his veins like fulgurite. He is a million tiny grains of sand and she is a lightning bolt; he is an element and she is fusion itself. He thinks about Dralion and balance and harmony; he thinks about suffering and art. Then he reaches into the crucible for more molten glass to try again. ~  Shannon Frost Greenstein (She/They) resides in Philadelphia with her family and cats. She is the author of “The Wendigo of Wall Street,” a novella with Emerge Literary Press, and “These Are a Few of My Least Favorite Things,” a full-length poetry collection from Really Serious Lit. Shannon is a former Ph.D. candidate in Continental Philosophy and a multi-time Pushcart Prize nominee. She is an avid fan of Nietzsche, ballet, Mount Everest, motherhood, the Hamilton soundtrack, and acquiring more cats. Follow Shannon at shannonfrostgreenstein.com or on Twitter and Bluesky at @ShannonFrostGre. Insta: @zarathustra_speaks
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