The Day We Met

by danny licht

I still remember the day we met. It was Tuesday, and we got along well.

I remember when we found it. We were on Abbott Kinney because you said that’s what interesting people do, though we weren’t really doing anything. We sat down on a bench and while we were talking it sat down beside me. It was wearing a sundress and it smiled. It said, Hi I’m Tuesday.

We started to talk right away. It said, Do you use Old Spice? and I said, Yeah, and it said, I love Old Spice. It smiled and blushed. I said, You wanna hang out with us today? We’re not really doing anything. Totally, it said.

I remember our bike ride, the three of us struggling on a rented tandem. I remember it telling us too late, hours later, that it had never ridden a bike before. I could’ve taught you, I said. It’s ok, it said.

I remember our lunch on the boardwalk. Tuesday said it liked the sound of the waves. I also like the sound of the waves, I said, and its eyes widened; it was gripped by my sensitivity, and it looked down at its feet; it pretended to try to hide its smile. You then agreed with us — you too liked the sound of the waves — but you were too late. This love between it and me had already been made, and this love was made for two.

I remember when we waved goodbye to you as we walked down the boardwalk, it and me hand in hand. I remember kissing it on the cheek for the first time and I remember the way its giggle made me feel. I remember asking it what it wanted to do and it said it didn’t care.

I remember walking on the sand for a little until it pulled from my grip and started to jog lightly like people do in ads. It turned around with a free smile and flowing hair and it told me to come on.

I followed it down the beach and into the shallow ocean. The tips of its dress dampened and I flung off my shirt and shoes and waded after it. I took it back in my arms and I said, Tuesday, I think I love you, and the violins crescendoed and we kissed and I felt good.

I remember when we walked to a gelato place after dinner, and I remember that while we were eating gelato it told me it couldn’t stay with me. I said, What do you mean you can’t stay with me? It pulled its hand out from mine and said, You won’t understand. I said, Of course I don’t understand! I love you! Tuesday swallowed and said, I’m sorry. I said, At least spend one night with me — please. It looked down at its melting gelato and, hesitantly, it let out a sad smile and it raised its eyes and locked them in mine and it said, I need you to let me go.

When I woke up the next morning, Tuesday was gone.

A Better Place

by sarah navin

Charles Turner, a highly respected astronaut, suffers a stroke at the age of 55 and promptly dies on the cold, polished floor of his home. Charles remains sprawled and alone for only a few hours before his wife comes home and collapses next to him in a heap of grief.

Unable to cope with the notion of her husband’s remains being confined to the earth, Turner’s widow pursues a different course of action concerning Charles’ funeral. Mrs. Turner wants Mr. Turner to be sent into space.

Yes, she understands the implications. Yes, sir, she is aware of the cost. She would like him to be fully intact and dressed nicely. Charles will be in eternal orbit, right? Can they do that? Yes, she’s sure. It’s what Charles would want.

Charles Turner’s limp carcass is slipped limb-by-limb into the last suit he’ll ever wear. He has been embalmed. Mrs. Turner thinks her husband looks like the wax model of an excellent man. His eyelids are glued shut. Why is he wearing a corsage? Take off the corsage, please.

Charles is ceremoniously launched into space while his widow blots her swollen, sad eyes with a tissue. His fellow astronauts watch from a safe and respectful distance. Within minutes, the coffin has penetrated the atmosphere and is gliding through zero-gravity.

“God bless his soul.”

The coffin does not enter an orbit as Mrs. Turner had thought. It hurtles slowly toward a distant planet that closely resembles Earth. Several years pass before Charles enters the gravitational pull of this planet and begins his descent to its surface.

The planet is not only habitable, but populated; its natural state has been domesticated and its citizens have achieved society. The planet itself is nearly a biological duplicate of Earth. The human race is a predictable species; where humans dwell, there will be theism. There will be communication and a concept of normality. Self-awareness is unavoidable.

When Charles enters the stratosphere in his titanium coffin, he is headed straight for a Sunday barbecue. A picket-fenced neighborhood community on the face of this foreign planet is enjoying a relaxing lunch after their usual church service.

A combination of chance and inevitability has given birth to a world nearly identical to ours, and Charles’ lifeless body is speeding toward it.

The “alien” citizens are flipping burgers and smoothing disposable tablecloths. Small otherworldly children are laughing and chasing one another across well-kept lawns. Though their language – among other things – differs from any on Earth, these organisms are indistinguishable from their interplanetary counterparts.

Someone’s wife opens a screen door and calls out a question of some sort. A man in a collared shirt responds with his mouth full. An object functioning much like a radio emits pleasantly repetitive sound waves.

Hardly a moment later, a silver crate shoots down from the clouds and lodges itself in the street several meters away, splitting the pavement open.

The resulting crash is almost deafening. Chaos ensues. People begin rushing their children inside, into basements, into closets, anywhere that seems safe. What could this unidentified object be? Is it an attack? War must be imminent.

Meanwhile, back on planet Earth, Widow Turner is calmly answering the occasional question about her late husband. She smiles glumly and assures her conversational partner that “he’s in a better place now.”

Hours pass before the alien victims of happenstance grow brave enough to venture outside their homes. When they do, they are greeted by the molten casket. Its lid, once welded on, has torn away to reveal the charred corpse of Charles Turner. Women scream and faint. Men feign courage in order to perform closer inspection. Certain children, having succumbed to their curiosity and tiptoed to the windows, are utterly scarred by the scene and will remain so for years to come. The coffin has destroyed most of the road, caused severe damage to nearby homes, and horrified everyone within earshot. The long-term consequences will be even more upsetting as the news of this event spreads and the search for answers begins.

Half-melted on the top of the titanium crate is an engraving. In a language these beings do not understand, it reads “Rest In Peace / Charles M. Turner / Explorer of Worlds”

Explorer of worlds indeed. These creatures will never recover.

Princess

by liam brooks

I must be God, because I command angels. They enter, long white wings flowing, heeding my every call. I am at least a princess, for even adults do as I say. They bring me food and drink, read to me, hold me tight when I ask. I don’t know if I want to be a princess, because all princesses do during the day is sit around and tell others to go on adventures. Except for the ones in the tales the adults read to me, the ones with princesses that escape castle dungeons and meet strapping young men. I don’t want to meet a strapping young man. I want to be a scientist. I want to study animals and explore the stars and own a spaceship and a microscope.

For my birthday two years ago the one I’m supposed to call Mommy gave me a diary. To write in every day, she told me, baring her teeth and crinkling her eyes. It’ll help. I didn’t need help. The lines were too small to fit the letters in, so I used two. I filled the first diary in fifteen days with 9,453 words. After that the woman started buying me larger ones, bricks of paper with textured covers. I filled my second diary with 23,743 words in twenty days. The next one fit 24,162. I never had enough room.

The others teased me about it when I was in school. Are you a girl? they would ask, giggling. Why are you wearing that white coat? Why do you have wheels?  I’m not a girl. And I don’t want the wheels, even if they have electricity in them. I like electricity.

Four days ago was my birthday again, and I got another diary with a black cover. I don’t like black. Princesses don’t have black things. But I bared my teeth and crinkled my eyes like she always does and said I loved it and she held me tight. I like to open each new diary and run my nose along the binding. It smells different. Nothing else smells in my house of angels. It’s always bright and white and clean and odorless.

Yesterday the angels weren’t smiling. Yesterday my head started hurting again, hurting the way they said it would never hurt again. Yesterday I wrote in my diary.

The kids at the school called me names. Retard, they whispered. Cripple. But I’m not a retard. I’m not a cripple. I’m a princess. I have two eyes and two ears and two hands and two feet and ten fingernails and ten toenails and 47 chromosomes.

Today the angels moved me to a different room in my castle. This one is louder. It has little boxes with electricity in them that beep and flash red lights. I don’t like the machines. They are ugly and mean and unroyal. They hug me too tight and prick my fingers and shout at me if I move my head. I no longer like electricity.

Today my head aches and my muscles are sore. The angels aren’t smiling yet. They don’t think I’m a princess. Maybe they think I’m a retard or whisper that I’m a cripple. But I’m a princess, and I’m God, and I don’t think I’m going to run out of room in my diary.

Perennials

by aaron robertson

It is strange sometimes to think of the way

one body outlives another. Each of us,

awakening to our own silence, our

ineptitude of form, cast into the same

body of light, swimming towards

the same darkness. And of how we are

so gently to sway, ivory magnolias

in descent upon the wind,

spinning above the earth until

we touch it and, infinitely falling,

obscuring the sun with the fleece

of our undoing.

Nocturne I: Firemaker on the Thames

by aaron robertson

See the young fireholder,

the way he smiles when

the pyre bristles beneath his chin,

collapsing into the bareness

of his palms until, when he releases it,

the flames mellow to the roiling

black of the sky. And how, there,

the fire blooms into color, melts into

the holocaustic recess of a lonesome

eve before again the air is hushed.

The way he kneels on the small boat set

like a beacon upon the river, on whose

surface the Battersea Bridge tilts

and recoils and the flamelight

sheers from one into many,

sinking away from the moon

to the rustic landside quells,

to the broken boatyards.

The fireholder blows from his

hands the charcoal powder and

the air ignites, the dark arrow

of its body to spiral toward the yet

peaceful void. This time, the flares disperse

and drift in violent hues and

the firemaker, he looks to us,

as if to say, It is the brief unknowing,

the warm breath before you are,

It is that slender passage

leading towards evermore.

Callum Clitherow & The Calculable Scenario of the Loose Leaves

by robert katz

The first they saw of us was the sunny beetle.

Its heart stopped, the carapace burst open and my mother and I stepped out of the insect’s entrails, backs straight and heads high.

I shut the door and wrenched open the trunk, slipping out my charcoal suitcase and locking up the compartment once more.

Behind the beetle’s face, my father, his eyes sunken in bemused weariness, counted paper bills to hand to the man with one hand kneading the steering wheel. In a moment, he stood alongside us.

“Now, this feels great,” he breathed with relief.

I nodded and gulped down a scoop of chilled morning air. Fresher than anything I’d ever remembered.

“Aunt Maya should be just down the path. See the big one?”

I whisked around, hair fluttering in my face. If someone was filming, they’d have loved that. You can do a lot in the editing room, but it must be wonderful when the actors give you the effects.

Down a wide cobblestone path, behind proud foliage and greenery, towered the Cadenza — a cream construction, literally swollen with generations of history. The wind blew toward it.

“The one taller than anything else for the next mile? The big-ass mansion that we   could fit fifty of our house in and still have enough space for a swimming pool?”

“Oh, you found it.”

My parents were just as confident as they were when we agreed to this excursion, and I saw nature’s beauty approve of their plan. Lemon sunlight ricocheted off Dad’s hazel eyes and and went to flooding Mom’s green irises.

“It’s gorgeous, I’ll tell you that,” my father observed.

He was too right. In summer’s glow, this town was an object of nature’s soft gaze.  Grass bounded in every direction for as far as eyes could show, glistening emeralds beneath our feet. Lordly pines swayed dreamily, letting the sunlight cascade through networks of spindly fingers casting clumsy shadow puppets.

And there was so much space. No steel cages or concrete boxes littering the landscape, fighting to block each other’s presence out. No such grays and “meh’s,” yet no more garish hues and “yuck’s.” No stretches of rainbow insects, scuttling to and ‘fro in incalculable hurries and at dizzying speeds. The real bugs, with fragile shells and pumping blood, lazed on branches and hovered without destination. This was the world as it might actually have been.

Stepping down the path, our exploding clops against the stones sent waves of percussion through the chipper ambience of the natural world. With our being there, we lived out parts in the grand composition of reality. Free from the hectic intricacies of the “real” world, one realizes one’s significance in everything.

As we walked, it seemed to me as though the pines had started growing old, leaves fading in color faster and faster. With each trunk we passed, their wood grew paler and less vibrant, as though they drank milk, not water, through their roots.

The grass drifted into pastel, then water color, then it seemed, just the barest hue of emerald, like a stain. The bugs were nearly outlines, buzzing in a baby blue sky.

And if you looked up at Cadenza, you’d see exactly where the world’s palette had gone.

As though diluted with magical water, the rich reds, oranges, yellows, greens, blues, indigos and violets drained into the pure canvas-like walls of Cadenza, showing in faint, alternating shades of the rainbow. In one moment, the walls shone the gold leaves of October and in another, they were the calm sea under moonlight.

The closer we drew, I saw, the stronger these colors appeared and the fainter the real world became.

Boom! Swish! Whoosh!

In organic crescendos, the walls grew more and more vibrant, until every detail of the mansion bloomed into impeccable tact. The gaping chimney echoing each peep and audible moment into the atmosphere, forever, to be trapped by ozone in the back of the world’s mind, like a whisper one hears and becomes excited to know the meaning of, but nobody else seems to have heard. The shimmering, stained windows, their frames curved exquisitely, shone back light in full beams. The balcony on the third floor, with its ornate, golden railings that ran parallel in five bars, was a unifying bow, tying the whole dreamy rainbow orchestra into one cohesive sound.

The colors popped and banged and kerpowed into a force more intimidating than fireworks, a light show powered by special effects fiercer than those of any billion-dollar Hollywood extravaganza or sold-out concert playing to millions. It blew those out of the water, and it played to just three summer-dressed, unsuspecting souls from California.

At last, fuses in our heads crackling, we stood beyond the ivory gate, whittled finely into three clefs. My father tugged at the C-clef, an ideal handle, and the gate drifted open as we soared further toward the multicolored sun.

My mind fizzled and cracked, my brain sloshed about, coated in Pop Rocks. I bit down to hold together my skull, but I felt it chip apart no matter what I tried. How had the most perfect beauty in all the world deformed so radically, how did nature’s glossy green veneer decay so unpredictably, the paint eroding like the carbon of a once-prideful sabretooth cat? It turned against me, a storm caught in a beautiful plugged vase.

We had to walk faster. Pick up the pace!

We trudged through the tunnel of light along the cobblestone bridge up to a sturdy door, a slab of rich, dark chocolate, marked down the right side with a vertical white crease.

Close by the ripple, a wooden knob of the same materials as the rest of the door, and a closely-rounded, perfect lump of wood, a neat, white, little button embedded at the surface. Its simplicity, its sheer lack of audacious splendor and explosive flamboyance, drew me toward it as a moth to a lamp or an otaku to a pillowcase.

And as my pupils contracted into optimal breadth, the tunnel vision was all in my mind — a telescope into the next two years of my life.

And through the lens, I saw a finger reach to push a neat, white, little button.

“Aubrey!”

“Yes?” Dad replied.

“Where’s that canvas shopping bag?” my mother queried.

“In my suitcase.”

“Did you two finish the snacks?”

“Yeah, emptied it out.”

Mom acquiesced.

Take two:

And through the lens, I saw a finger reach to push a neat, white, little button.

Wait, one minute, Reed!”

The lights had long ago stopped flashing. The strobe was dead. The rave was dispersed. We should have been done. I wanted to run home. All the way back to California.

“Yes,” my mother had to respond, to my irritation.

“What do you think this is?” Aubrey gestured across the door. “Chocolate? Like, a dark chocolate?”

Reed peered down the sights of her spectacles into the warm shades of the oak slab. The cut of the door was masterful, smooth to touch. Surely it was a portal to another, greater world. I longed to slip through the white cracks, out from which peered the future back into my eyes.

And then I saw my eyes.

My mother leaned over to press the doorbell and how was it that easy? Why couldn’t I have done it that quickly?

A screech bleared through the door, tearing through the fabric of sound and scraping across our auditory canals. Given the objective, undeniable unpleasantness of the tone, it was easily identifiable as that given off by an alto saxophone.

My ears rang and throbbed like tuning forks. Were my cochleas broken? Did I have a shattered stapes? How could anyone play so goddamn loudly?

The door swung open (how did it not smack me in the head?).

Standing in the doorway was a tall man, cured and leathered with age — possibly in his late sixties. He was decked in comfortable maroon slacks and a tan shirt, collar popped. The shirt was tucked, but his wardrobe seemed calm and unpretentious, not engineered to impress the big city family that would be taking lodging with him for the next month. He stood in brown leather shoes and simple black stockings. Bungeeing off a strap around his neck, quite naturally, was a gleaming white alto saxophone. That damn saxophone.

The aged man cried in tempered surprise. “If it isn’t the Kibitzer family!”

“If it isn’t the offender, Mister Morris Byrne,” my father mused, while my mother embraced the saxophonist.

“Morris, how are you?” my mother asked, evidently regressing to youthful, girlish elation. “You’ve never played better!”

“I’ve never played worse, too,” Mr. Byrne chuckled. He exchanged a confident handshake with my father. “Aubrey, great seeing you again.”

“Always the deepest pleasure,” Dad replied.

As my head fell back to Earth, I noticed a remarkable handsomeness in Mr. Byrne’s face. Wrinkles had naturally crept along, conquering and marking territory about his striking, brown eyes and his wide grin, but what lay underneath the age was clearly quite handsome, and lent him a bit of the regality supported by Cadenza and betrayed by his raiments. In tandem, those wrinkles further emphasized the impressiveness of the man’s visage, as one knew by them that it had not been achieved by man and scalpel, but by nature and flesh.

He looked to me.

“And the little one!” he cried facetiously. At the time I was sixteen and about five foot five, five foot six. I stood taller than Mom, but she held seniority over me, so “little one” I was.

I reached my hand out and he gripped it in his and we shook.

“I believe Maya is quite thrilled for this moment,” Morris chimed. “Please,” he beckoned, “nuestro casa es su casa.”

And we followed him right in and the door swung back.

Cadenza’s foyer could have contained an entire condominium and a pool table. Carved out of the 18th century, it carried generations of additions and modifications and had likely been hollowed out to accommodate an expensive future. One could only wonder how punitive the unfurnished room had made its visitors feel.

The walls were painted a suitable royal blue, quite luxurious and likely recent. Ornately carved figurines, actual-sized, of instruments lined the sides of the foyer, each one a unique representation. Violas, basses, cellos, mandolins, and other necked creations stood in increasing height parallel to the row of trombones, sousaphones, oboes, bassoons and so on. All were solid and unplayable, but they’re still the realest fakes I’ve ever seen.

The apex of craftsmanship tied together the room’s intimidating symmetry; adorning the wall across from the door, flanked by two great staircases, was an immense portrait. Within its silver frames, the great Atlantic winds shook an emerald martini under a blueberry sky. The winds seemed to dance about the real centerpiece of the room and perhaps the entire manor. It was a baton. Thin and likely fragile, the rod towering out of the maelstrom was a pure ivory white, striking to the eye. At the tip, outreached to parting clouds, the baton was encrusted with a scarlet stone the shape of a fat crescent moon sitting on its rounded side.

“Cadenza is one hundred percent hand-crafted,” Morris said. “Each square inch of wood was given as a gift by the trees, wrapped by man. We live in neat harmony with all of nature.” He stopped by the portrait.

“‘The Atlantic Tremolo,’ by Radcliffe Feist. An eternal reminder of our lovely town’s origins. Art sparked Orion and Radcliffe’s souls like kerosene. Perhaps your own heart is so flammable. Cantabile may just be your matchbook.”

We ascended the eastern staircase into the most imposing corridor I think I will have ever stood in. Lined with alternating candles and portraits, landscapes, abstracts, the pathway extended toward the edge of the stratosphere and threatened to scrape away the ozone layer. Horror pulled at the meetings of my lips and dragged them downward. I bit its fingers and it drew away.

“It takes a special kind of person to be able to look down the barrel of a gun and feel no anxiety,” Mr. Byrne mused. “It takes an even more special person to see everything but the barrel of the gun and not wish he or she only knew that barrel.

By each picture frame a door stood, each identical to the ones beside it. It should have been fair game for a typical hallway, but there was something terrible to this passage; it had the visual appearance of continuing on forever. Behind each door was a room, but was there enough room in physical space for these chambers to exist in? How could we let this mockery of physics continue to expand and exist before our eyes? Even now, I see the burrowing of invisible miners through the universe.

“Infinity is only theoretical, as our universe only masquerades as unending. A rubber glove, a balloon, a condom; they all are marketed as elastic, but have you ever seen a condom break? Everything has a breaking point, a maximum capacity.

“So, don’t be afraid of what’s not there. If you squint really well, you’ll see that there’s an exit down there. But we’re not going to it now and I suggest you take your time getting there. Just the first door on the right.”

We took the first door on the right.

We landed in a cozy living room with a hearth and a set of inviting settees and coffee table. A vibrant woman stood embraced by winding frames above the unlit fireplace, her posture rigid and upright as though a living lamppost. Draped in a jade mantua skirt, she was the crisp sea washing up the silvery foam of her white hair, which fell to her shoulders. Her skin, only visible above her collar, was island sand within a calm ocean of cloth and encompassed the two emerald puddles that were her eyes, seemingly from the same source as the seawater. Though the sand about her sparkling eyes and wry lips crinkled and the dunes of her cheeks were shallow, a shining humor shone through. I judged her the most intelligent woman I had ever seen.

The painted lady confidently wielded a paintbrush, its tip fringed with green and pointed at her own likeness in an act of self-awareness likely too radical to be dreamt of in her time. A china cup of tea on the coffee table behind her. The fireplace burned brightly in the foreground, scratching away at the shadows about it. Fire caught in the moment is inevitably brighter than it ought to be, yet it could not burn more intensely than this woman’s ocean flared.

“Radcliffe Feist,” Morris boomed, “otherwise known as your great-great-great-great-great” — he counted on his fingers — “grandmother! She is very old. Yet, age does not steal away her trophies.”

“I’ve heard of her,” I murmured, “but I’ve never seen her.”

“If she isn’t going into the textbooks any time soon, there is no reason to photocopy her. You’ll find, here in Cantabile, that people tend to hold what they value close to themselves. It’s a sheltered community, sure, but it’s always been one. Orion and Radcliffe sought refuge from their plagued world and dug a fantastic burrow.”

Hiss!

A door slipped open followed by a silver tray with six china cups, a cerulean ceramic pitcher and a full, miniature glass jar. The tray hovered in the slender hands of the awesomely graceful Maya Feist, my mother’s sister. Hers was an ostentatious wit, slathered in expense and relaxed refinement. Beauty pirouetted eternally within her and flowed like warm honey through her arteries. Wavy bubblegum hair stretched to her shoulders, at once startling and comforting, while steel eyes punctuated her suntanned face. She stood in a royal purple sundress, casually haughty, and adorned in necklaces, bracelets and rings that glistened as though struck by a invisible sunshine.

“Tea time!” she chimed. “Just in time.” She set the tray down on the coffee table by the unlit hearth and we hugged. I gave my hello.

“I’m giving her a mini-tour of Cadenza,” Morris said.

“I’m impressed,” I confided. “He’s so well-trained — and his clothes are so neat.”

“Well,” Maya grinned, “maybe one day you’ll learn my secret.”

Morris cracked a half-smile.

“Let me head back and brew a pot,” Maya said as she headed back behind the kitchen door.

“She’s a showy kind of gal,” Morris noted. “If a hissing kettle gives her a timely entrance, she’ll risk the impracticality of the return trips.” He swept his arm about the seat across from him as he reclined into the gold-threaded cushion. I reciprocated.

“Oh,” I realized dreamily, “where’s mom and dad?”

He looked expectantly at me.

Hesitation, then submission. “Uh, where are mom and dad?”

“Ah. Dropping off the bags in their room.”

“Er,” I hesitated again, straining for sensitivity, “aren’t you the house servant?”

“What, like a house elf? Like some kind of hobgoblin waddling through the manor, doing everyone’s dirty laundry and dishes and being paid crumpets for my backbreaking labor? Well, by bare definition, yes. But your lovely aunt and mother were taught at a young age to remain independent of their servants. Since the slavery days, the Feists haven’t hired more than a couple servants at a time and at this point, I’m the only one they need. Of course, it’s just Maya right now with all of Cadenza to herself, but I’m sure she wouldn’t need more than myself whenever she plans to raise the next generation. At the moment, we divide the work pretty evenly. We’re about the same as your average married couple with an age gap of about forty years.”

I liked that. It sounded dignified and I was never a fan of servitude.

Silence fell in between us and we picked up Maya’s lovely humming, a tune surely defined and grandiose in her head but amorphous and cute in the summer air. A light scribbling lay underneath the melody. What? A quill scratched against the timpanis of my skull.

I looked up. Morris caught my eyes in the ascent.

“Ah, yes,” he smiled, “that’s a friend of Maya’s. Soon to be a friend of yours, I’m sure. Bring him in here, tell him tea’s on.”

I pulled back my knees and slid my forearms from the cushioning. As I strode to the source of the geyser, goosebumps rose like burgeoning springs. My heart beat on its cage and started to sweat. I hadn’t expected this. Why was I intimidated? Maya would not intimidate me nor did the tall man with the screeching sax. I had not even laid eyes on this figure and it was already everything.

I stood in the doorway to a study. The scribbling stopped. The clapping of leather and cardboard heralded incoming footsteps. I meandered hesitantly past shelves of time-bound grimoires and tombs, taking in the musty spores of generations to spread hyphae through epithelium.

The muffled thumps of our feet flew against each other and kissed briefly. The beats were thicker, wider, heavier than mine.

Indexes along the shelves turned to rainbows, volume after volume of an encyclopedia written exclusively by a Roy Geronimo Biv.

The indexes, series by series, edition by edition, faded into plain worn gray. Between the petrified skins stood an amicable male figure clad in khaki trousers and mild pastel blue button-down, his thin-rimmed eyeglasses burrowed into kempt brown hair. Drifting eyes and a lazy smile beamed lackadaisically down at me, like a man convinced he’s in a waking dream.

“Hi,” I stammered. His head bounced on its neck.

“Maya didn’t tell me she was hiring child servants.”

“Huh? Maya–”

“Like,” he amended with slight haste, “like you’re calling me in for tea.” His left eyebrow intentionally drooped.

“Oh, yeah,” I said with a look of shabby, amused disapproval. I mean, I hope it looked like that.

“But you’re the kid staying over for the summer?”

“Yeah, for the next month.”

“Chill,” the young man decided. He looked younger than 30. Was he still in college? “Hey,” he remembered, putting out a dry hand and further stretching the corners of his mouth, “I’m Callum.”

“Sweet,” I smiled back. “I’m Mabel.”