"A Bug in the Design" by Simon A. Smith

My older brother, Jacob, announced at age eleven that he only desired two things in life. Harmony and affection. At twelve, he devised a meditation schedule that involved silent contemplation for one hour followed by another of “human embrasure.” He erected an elaborate tower of pillows and blankets, stacking them until the structure reached the top of his shoulders. Wiggling inside the fortress, he’d press tight to the walls, absorbing its downy clutches like a prolonged hug. The only thing visible above the padding was the top of Jacob’s head. His eyes fluttered. Somewhere beneath the puffy barriers, muffled cooing could be heard. While his theories were understandable, if not ingenious, the practice left us concerned and disturbed. Nobody knew how to approach him about it.

Last month, Jacob turned twenty-four. He still lives at home but leaves daily to visit the outdoor exercise stations at the local park where he trains himself to walk backward across balance beams and lie flat atop the monkey bars without flinching. On the way home, he asks strangers if they’d like to come over and join him for lunch. He told me that he offers to cook them whatever they want, and still nobody has ever accepted his invitation. This confuses and wounds him, which makes me feel like crawling into a giant hole and covering it with dirt.

A few days ago, Jacob noticed that our kitchen table was leaning to one side. He pulled a book of matches from the junk drawer and wedged it under one of the legs. When it continued wobbling, he added some napkins. He dragged it a couple feet to the left, thinking the floor had grown crooked. When it still teetered, he went mad. He taped a pin cushion to the bottom of one post, then sawed the bottom off another on the opposite side. He kept calling us in to show us his handiwork but then turning us away at the last second, realizing he still had more tinkering to do. He cursed and slapped himself. All night long we heard hammering and chiseling followed by anguished moans.

Yesterday, he hollered for us to come quick! He’d found the perfect solution, some mixture of locational stability and affixed materials for equilibrium. We rushed to the kitchen door, ready to fling it open in celebration, but something blocked our entrance. Jacob had slid the table against the frame for support.

“Come in!” he yelled. “You’ll be so proud!”

“We can’t,” Dad said. “You’ll have to move the table.”

“Impossible. It’s perfect. Wait until you see,” Jacob said. “You’ll love it.”

It went on like this, rattling and ramming the door for an unbearable amount of time. After several exhausting minutes, we gave up. Dad stepped back and slumped against the wall, sliding down to the carpet. I sat next to him.

  “I’m sure it’s incredible,” Dad said, “we can see it in our minds. Tell him," he whispered, elbowing my arm.

  “Yes,” I said, “I see it. It’s really something.”

  “You guys are coming, right?” Jacob said. “Guys?” 

 “It's incredible,” Dad said again. “That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s it...”

We closed our eyes. Dad grabbed my hand. Together, we took deep, shuddering breaths.

Simon A. Smith is a Chicago teacher and writer. His stories have appeared in many journals and media outlets, including Hobart, Whiskey Island, Chicago Public Radio, and NewCity. He is the author of two novels, Son of Soothsayer, and Wellton County Hunters. He lives in Rogers Park with his wife and son.

"On Family Vacation in Mallorca" by Gabrielle Nigmond

Content warning: drug addiction, domestic abuse

The end looked like this: The hotel was a converted monastery with a bathtub sitting in the middle. Our five-year-old son, Valentino, looked ethereal with the afternoon sun dancing across his red hair as he bathed. The warm summer air drifted smells of empanada shops and the Latin chants of afternoon service through the open windows. Valentino had set Old Lion, his trusted lovie, on a chair facing the bathtub.

“This is how you wash your body like a big boy, Old Lion.” His slippery hands dropped the soap and belly laughs erupted while I sat on the floor gazing at my little boy in the way mothers do.

“Valentino, it’s time to get dressed for dinner,” I said, and Valentino shot up out of the tub, excited for his favorite, octopus tapas. I chuckled at his enthusiasm and the toddler belly still holding strong despite his age. Eating exotic cuisine was a favorite pastime during our family travels. Valentino was a brave eater for a little squirt, probably because his father cut small bites and shared whatever he was eating. We were ready in a record five minutes for dinner.

A voice from the bed. “Give me a minute.” Rob needed to get high before leaving. His mood had been teetering towards unkind, the way it did when the drug supply dwindled.

“That’s fine, we will meet you in the lobby.” I was adept at hiding my husband’s drug problem.

“No, I’ll just be a second.” Rob’s voice was insistent.

“Rob. No.” I grabbed Valentino’s hand, his fingers still pruned from the bath. “Come on sweetheart, let’s explore the lobby while Daddy gets ready.”

Within a second my husband tossed me into a wall. My shoulder and head smacked with a loud thud and I collapsed on the ground seeing black spots.

“Mommy! Are you okay?” Valentino shrieked. His small hand glided over my shoulder, inspecting it for any visible damage. Then rubbed my head where he thought it hit the wall, the way mothers do.

Gabrielle Nigmond is a graduate of the University of Virginia and a creative writing MFA student at Virginia Commonwealth University. When not writing, Gabrielle can be found in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains with her two boys.

"The Last Night You Went Outside" by Wendy BooydeGraaff

You’ve always been a sleepwalker. I’d wake nights, the moon shining on our bed, on the rumpled indent where you were when I closed my eyes and leaned my head on your shoulder. At first, I’d get up, find you brushing your teeth in the kitchen, or packing a plastic bag in the living room: books, candles, playing card packets breaking through the thin grocery store logo. I’d discovered if I said anything, you’d grow agitated, you’d shake and become stiff in your refusal. Once, you hit me across the forehead when your arms swung wildly to grab back the wastebasket you were drinking from. The purple-yellow bruise from the watch you wore lasted days. I bought that cakey makeup to cover it up, though the social worker still came to our place, asked me uncomfortable questions. Why hasn’t he come back now, when I need him?

I began to ignore your nighttime travels. I’d lock my desk and hide the key. Everything else you’d put back in place when you awoke at noon. There’d be a few hours of normalcy in the evening and then we’d accidentally fall asleep. I’d stay in bed, sleep through whatever it was you did—you’d never remember, you were asleep. The rift between us grew. You were always leaving. You didn’t mean to, you said. How could I blame you, you said. How could I not? I said. You left. You kept leaving. Subconscious leaving is worse than physical. You didn’t understand me and I didn’t understand you.

The full moon came again, woke me up. How had I not heard the dead bolt unlock, the creak the door makes after the suction sound upon opening. I stood in the shadowed doorway, you stood in the beam on the sidewalk, looking down, fiddling. Then you lifted your arms straight up. I didn’t see how or where you went. You were gone. The beam was gone. I walked to the spot I had last seen you, crunched something under my feet. Your watch, the face splintered with embedded sidewalk grit. I carried it to our room, put it on the nightstand where it had never been because it was always on your arm. I slept on my side of the bed, expecting you back by morning, but the watch stayed there in its new place, as did you.

Wendy BooydeGraaff's short fiction, poems, and essays have been included in Stanchion, Slag Glass City, CutLeaf, Ninth Letter online, and elsewhere. Born and raised in Ontario, Canada, she now lives in Michigan, United States.

"Wink" by Charlotte Maya

Content warning: sexual assault

To the gentleman who winked at me as he was walking down the aisle of a Boeing 737 looking for his seat:

I was 14 the first time I thought I understood – and then actually understood – a guy’s wink. A freshman in high school, I initially felt flattered that a senior had asked me out. After dinner, I thought our date was over. I expected him to drop me off. He had other plans; he turned down my street but continued driving past my house without slowing even slightly. Then Brent winked at me. Your wink floats me into that same nauseating vertigo I felt as I saw the safety of home retreating behind me with the seatbelt holding me firmly in the passenger seat of his old VW van, and later as I stood over the bathroom sink, desperately trying to brush the taste of him off my tongue. Your wink presses against my thigh like the fingerprint bruises left by a college boyfriend. Your wink clicks like the office door Dr. Jones locked behind me when I had brought him the edited version of the cardiology research he would submit to the Journal of the American Medical Association for publication. Your wink squeezes my ass like the wandering hand of the professional who had represented my husband and me in a real estate transaction. Initially, I doubted myself. I thought, That did not just happen. He squeezed again. My husband was standing just a few feet away.

Think about this: if this plane – center aisle with three seats on each side – were full entirely of women, everyone you see gazing out from a window seat has been sexually assaulted. No, wait. Imagine instead that the women in every aisle seat are the sexual assault survivors. They stare at you, not smiling, as you make your way to the back of the plane. Their eyes are wide open. Don’t you dare blink or look down at your shoes or above their heads to find a seat number or an empty overhead bin. Look into their eyes of every shape and color and imagine what they’ve gone through to get here.

I recently met a woman, a sexual assault survivor herself, whose mother had been raped and then murdered. She told me she decided never to have children, because she knows that she could never protect a daughter from rape. This seems to me to be a completely rational decision in a world of men who wink.

Charlotte Maya is the author of Sushi Tuesdays: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and Family Resilience (Post Hill Press, 2023). She has published essays on grief, loss, suicide, and hope in the New York Times (Modern Love and Tiny Love Stories), Hippocampus Magazine, Brevity Blog, and Writers' Digest. Charlotte earned a B.A. in English literature from Rice University and a J.D. from UCLA. She lives in Southern California with her husband and enjoys hiking in the local foothills and downward-dogging with her so-called hunting dog.

"Casio 1301 MTA-4000" by Agniv Sarkar

Last night I was locked in my father’s watch,
hidden away in a dark drawer,
counting blind.
The timer started to roll over as soon as
its hands began to approach the hour.

I woke up from the dream,
sickly sweat under the watch.
It was scared of its half-truths,
from analog to digital,
from form to function.

Once, time slipped from my grasp,
but still it clung to me.
The watch was old and it kept
the old time, so it felt heavy on the hand.
Without it, the lightness felt dizzying,
the time lost.

As soon as I could, I reclaimed the time
I aimed to make it mine.
And those who saw it paused.
Gave it more than a seconds thought (the watch knew),
and it had moved on from being my father’s.

Agniv Sarkar is a student of mathematics and philosophy, leaving high school early to further these pursuits. He found poetry through philosophy and found the intersection of the two able to create the most beautiful artwork.

"Sunset Feathers" by Katie McHugh

The setting sun, iridescent gold, flaunts its tail like a peacock, and we, like peahens, bow our heads in praise. Choose me, we plead with wide eyes and pale feathers. Come back tomorrow.

But the sky grows darker still, and soon, the day is an echo of birdsong on the horizon, lost in the spinning of the world.

Katie McHugh is a writer from Long Island, NY. She is the recipient of Boston University's Florence Engel Randall Award.