Announcements & Online Pieces

-Lucretia Stanhope

Katie nestled between library shelves, cradling a bakery box like a precious egg from Miss Withering’s upstairs collection. Dim light from the Tiffany lamp cast dancing shadows on the cardboard. The sweet scent of cake mingled with the stale air of old paper and pungent incense.

With a red-tipped nail, Katie carefully peeled off the sticker. The slight ripping sound broke the library’s silence. White cream cheese icing kissed the air with its sugary breath, whispering “Eat me.”

Showing less restraint than Alice would have in Wonderland, Katie removed the extra large slice, letting the box drop to her feet with a muffled thud. She smashed a bite against the roof of her mouth. The velvety icing melted into the rich, moist chocolate cake. Flavors mingled in a symphony of sweetness. She swallowed with the unchewed eagerness of a child.

A soft moan escaped her lips as she opened her mouth to shovel in the next bite.

Miss Withering’s black cat Peggy darted past, her sleek fur brushing against Katie’s leg before jumping onto the nearby shelf.

Katie gasped.

Cake lodged in her throat.

She stood, patting her chest as she forced the swallow.

Peggy pawed at one of the cracked and faded old leather books, sending it hurtling toward the floor.

Katie helplessly watched the book tumble end over end, crashing onto the hardwood with a resonant thud that echoed throughout the room. She glanced toward the ceiling, holding her breath while straining to hear Miss Withering’s bell.

The last bite of cake mocked Katie from her palm, its sugary scent still tantalizing her nose.

“Nasty creature,” Katie muttered while swatting at Peggy.

Peggy slinked out of reach, stopping to hiss before disappearing around the corner.

After finishing the last bite, Katie gathered the incriminating bakery box and left the book to pick up once she could clean her sticky fingers. Not that Miss Withering would stroll the library any time soon. Not ever, if Katie had any say in the matter.

The intricate carpet, thick and ancient, muffled her steps as she ambled down the hall toward the kitchen to prepare their official dinner.

Eyes in the portraits of the home’s previous caretakers seemed to follow her every move. Their gazes were cold and judgmental as if they had somehow witnessed her sneaking back to the kitchen to gorge on pizza after the old bat went to bed.

“The pictures will be the first to go after the house is mine,” she muttered.

Peggy zipped by, a blur of fur, wiggling between Katie’s legs.

Katie fell, catching herself with her hands. Pain lanced up her arm. The braided rug scraped off the skin on her palm, leaving it raw and stinging.

“You!” She glared at the cat.

From day one, Peggy had been hissing, tripping her, and tearing up her things. It was as if the cat knew that if the will hadn’t stipulated that she kept her, she’d be gone before the pictures.

In the kitchen, Katie pulled out the sanctioned meal, preparing two plates. One for her to shuffle food around on and one for Miss Withering.

The smell of boiled vegetables and bland chicken broth filled the room, turning her stomach. There was no doubt the mandatory diet she agreed to when she signed on as Miss Withering’s live-in aid and servant was healthy and probably why the old thing was pushing ninety, but it was nasty.

In her second year, when Katie found out she was the sole inheritor, she was glad she had put up with all the eccentric rules. At least to the old woman’s face. She could shuffle a bit of kale into her mouth for a multimillion-dollar estate.

She sprinkled something extra into Miss Withering’s soup, the fine powder dissolving quickly.

As Katie loaded the tray, Peggy jumped onto the counter, her eyes gleaming with malice.

Katie hissed at the cat. “You can’t save her. And then it’s to the pound with you. I hope the people who adopt you are jerks.”

Mindful of the nasty cat, Katie navigated the stairs.

Shadows clung to the corners. The wooden steps creaked beneath her weight.

It wouldn’t take many more meals, she thought. Once Katie decided to add her special seasoning, no amount of vegetables would keep that old ticker ticking. Though Miss Withering had lasted longer than Katie anticipated.

That was probably good. Since she’d been bedridden, the doctor had made several visits, commenting each time that he didn’t give her much longer and how surprised he was at her longevity. Lingering as long as she had cast less suspicion on Katie, but her patience was wearing thin.

As she reached the top of the stairs, a gust of wind rattled the windows, making the house seem as if it were alive, watching her with a malevolent interest. The draft carried the faint scent of decay, a reminder of the old woman’s imminent departure.

Katie couldn’t help but smile. Soon, it would all be hers.

With the tray balanced on her arm, Katie rapped on the doorframe, the cold wood under her knuckles a stark contrast to the warm, suffocating air inside the room.

Miss Withering peered toward Katie as if she hadn’t been waiting and listening to her every step. Heaps of pillows surrounded Miss Withering, appearing as if they were attempting to devour her slight frame.

The room smelled of a nauseating blend of stale air and medicine that clung to everything.

A breath rattled through Miss Withering’s chest, followed by a cough that sounded like dry leaves being crushed underfoot. “Come in.” The words were weaker today, barely more than a whisper.

Katie crossed to the bed, placing the tray on the dresser. The clink of porcelain against the tray echoed in the silence, a blunt reminder of the fragile life that lingered in the room. Miss Withering watched her with the heavy attentiveness reserved for fusty governesses, her eyes sharp and probing.

“How are you feeling today?” Katie asked as she pulled the chair over. Moving the chair was more of a habit now that Miss Withering wasn’t leaving the bed. The wood creaked under her weight.

“I’m sure it won’t sadden you that this is our last meal.” Miss Withering’s hand trembled as she smoothed her shirt. The fabric rustled like dry parchment.

Changing her from nightshirt into a housedress was also more for routine’s sake. “Let’s not be morbid. Dr. Hindemith says your stubbornness could see you to a hundred. I’ll bake your birthday cake myself.”

Miss Withering ate the bite of soup Katie offered. The silver spoon trembled as it approached her lips, releasing a wisp of steam that carried the faint scent of chicken broth. “No cake, dear. You know we must take care of these bodies we’re gifted.”

Yes, mustn’t forget, cake is the devil’s food. She thought of the delicious cake she had indulged in earlier, its sweetness lingering on her tongue. Katie filled the spoon again, her smile masking the impatience gnawing at her insides.

After eating the remainder of her soup in silence, Miss Withering closed her eyes. “Bring me Peggy. It’s time.”

“Do you want me to call the doctor? Are you feeling unwell?” Katie left the dish on the tray and returned to her side. The floorboards creaked under her feet.

“Bring me Peggy.” Miss Withering cracked an eye. “Leave the tray. You’ve done enough.”

Was that an accusation? Did the old bat know Katie was hastening her departure? “I’ll try. She’s not exactly fond of me.” Katie didn’t have to tell her that. Miss Withering knew her cat hated Katie. Hell, the little black devil cat hated Miss Withering too. Probably because she fed her some all-natural disgusting-smelling kibbles.

“Bring her to me.” Miss Withering’s demand held an authority that commanded obedience, even under its trembling strain.

The room grew colder. Shadows lengthened as if responding to the old woman’s will.

Katie hesitated.

Miss Withering turned away, dismissing her.

In the silence of the hall, Katie listened for sounds that might give away Peggy’s location. It wasn’t going to be easy. The slinky demon had no problems sneaking up on her.

The manor made its usual whispers as it settled and readjusted itself. Once it was Katie’s, there would be television and music masking the ghostly sounds. If she stayed. Depending on what she could get for the place, she might be able to afford a nice warm island of her very own where she’d let her staff eat whatever the hell they wanted while she sipped colorful drinks.

Cat first.

The hallway stretched endlessly in both directions. Thankfully, apart from Miss Withering’s room, all the doors were shut and off-limits.

She made her way to the stairs, glad Miss Withering was so private because the entire third floor was sealed as well. Peggy wasn’t in the hall, which meant she had to be on the bottom level.

At the bottom of the stairs, she closed the door.

“Make sure you keep doors closed.” Miss Withering’s instructions from day one so many years ago echoed in the silent hall.

Katie smiled when she glimpsed movement in the library. A faint light from inside struggled against the shadows. Katie hurried inside, closing the door behind her.

“Peggy?” She altered her voice to one she might have used if she liked the cat and added, “It’s time for your nasty kibbles.”

A soft hiss responded from the shadows.

She turned toward the sound.

Black streaked between the shelves.

Katie raced toward her.

Peggy crouched low, glaring at her with eyes that burned with malice.

“Come here, sweetie,” she coaxed, stepping closer.

Peggy’s ears flattened against her skull. She let out a low growl.

Katie reached out a tentative hand.

Claws flashed.

Pain seared through Katie’s wrist. Deep, bloody scratches appeared.

“Dammit,” she said, hissing, pulling her hand back and cradling it against her chest.

Peggy darted past, disappearing behind a shelf with a swish of her dark tail.

Katie bit her lip. Tears of pain and frustration welled in her eyes, but she pressed on. She couldn’t return empty-handed. Not when she was this close. One misstep and the will could be changed.

Beside Katie’s favorite reading nook, Peggy perched on a high shelf, staring down at her with a mix of defiance and fear.

“I don’t have time for this.” She grabbed a chair and dragged it over to the shelf. She climbed up and reached out, more determined this time.

Peggy hissed and swiped at her.

She dodged the claws and grabbed the cat firmly by the scruff of her neck.

Peggy writhed and yowled, her claws raking against Katie’s arms, leaving trails of blood in their wake.

Katie gritted her teeth and held on tight, despite the pain. She stepped down from the chair, struggling to keep a grip on the furious creature. As she exited the room, she closed the door behind her.

“Almost there,” she murmured, her voice shaking as much as her hands. She hurried down the hall, Peggy still fighting her every step of the way. She shouldered open the stairwell door and quickly shut it again, closing off all the escape routes.

Peggy yowled and writhed. Her hind claws managed to scratch Katie’s stomach through her shirt.

Katie tightened her grip on Peggy’s scruff. “Even if you get away, you’re pinned within the stairs and upper hall, beast.”

As if the cat could understand what she was saying, she stilled. The yowls changed to whines.

By the time she reached her mistress’s room, Katie’s arms were a mess of scratches and blood, and her face was pale with pain and exhaustion.

Miss Withering’s eyes brightened at the sight of Peggy.

“You got her,” the old woman whispered. A weak smile spread across her face, reaching her eyes with a spark of amusement.

“Yes, ma’am,” Katie replied, her voice barely more than a whisper. She set Peggy down on the bed.

Miss Withering rested a hand on the cat. “Imathal. Pervictus. Allimetrum.”

Katie stepped back, cradling her injured arms, and watched as the old woman pet the cat’s fur while muttering the same gibberish over and over. It was finally happening. Miss Withering was stroking out.

Peggy crawled up, nuzzling Miss Withering’s face in a never-before-seen show of affection.

Katie contemplated when she should call the doctor or 911. If it were a stroke, they could save her if Katie called too soon. She held her breath.

Miss Withering stopped murmuring. Her hand dropped.

Katie’s gut knotted.

Peggy turned toward her.

Was she purring?

Katie let out her breath and laughed. “I’m happy too, Peggy. Cake for everyone.” She laughed again.

Miss Withering’s eyes shot open. “Help me.”

Katie backed away, shaking her head.

The cat turned and hissed at Miss Withering.

“I’m Peggy,” Miss Withering said. She convulsed. When she stilled, she added, “Kill the cat.”

Katie’s attention ricocheted from the cat to the old woman in the bed.

“Witch.” The old woman gasped and rattled. “Kill it.”

The cat glared at Katie.

Was she smiling?

“I can’t.” Katie swallowed a knot of bile. Old people went insane when they died. Even if the cat was a witch, she wasn’t forfeiting her inheritance to kill it.

Miss Withering’s eyes went blank. She stilled.

This time she didn’t move again.

It didn’t take long after Katie called 911 and the doctor for them to arrive and declare Miss Withering dead.

Katie did her best impression of someone who gave a shit until everyone left her alone to mourn. While she debated how long she should wait to call the attorney about whatever she needed to do to get the ball rolling, she ordered pizza and cake.

In the kitchen, she made a bowl of tuna for Peggy.

“Here kitty, kitty,” she called. “Witchy little kitty.”

Peggy strolled in and rubbed against her legs.

Katie reached down to pet her.

Peggy gnashed into her finger.

“Imathal. Pervictus. Allimetrum.” The words echoed from everywhere and nowhere.

Gray ringed the edges of Katie’s vision. She dropped, her knees crashing onto the tiles before her face slammed into it, knocking her out.

“There, there, Katie,” a sweet young voice whispered.

Katie blinked her eyes open.

A hand stroked her back.

Katie glanced up at herself. “Am I dead?” Her question came out as a soft meow.

“Of course not. I’m not the murderer. You are. Poor Peggy. Don’t feel too bad. She had it coming. Killed an old lady, too.” The woman who looked just like Katie, even with fresh cuts from the day’s mishap, set a bowl of nasty kibble on the floor. “No tuna for you, dear. You know we must take care of these bodies we’re gifted. You must be especially careful with mine, being on its fifth life and all.”

Katie hissed understanding why Peggy was such a nuisance. This would be the witch’s last life if she had to murder every housekeeper that crossed the threshold.

The witch smiled at her as she dumped the pizza and cake in the trash. “I am truly grateful for your help. Unlike my littermates, I don’t really have a heart for murder, aside from a few mice and crickets. Thankfully, homicidal greed seems to be part of the human condition.”

LUCRETIA STANHOPE, a neurodiverse, relentlessly optimistic chronic illness warrior with less grace than determination, navigates her crone stage in a quaint Midwest town surrounded by cornfields. Amidst enduring medical trials that could rival horror stories, her pen never rests. When not lost in the wonderful lands of her imagination, she finds solace in doting on her three chihuahuas and her endlessly patient husband.

–Sherry Shahan

Ginia and Vitti meet each night in the mangled milieu of glass, steel, and concrete that was once museums, libraries, couture shops, and bowling greens. Endless debris unfurls around them like hot tar. Rust grows where nothing else will.

Vitti plays guitar. Ginia paints using the old-world technique of fresco. Tons of plaster litters the ground, so no problem there. Vitti watches Ginia—shy and vulnerable, though clothed in brilliance—as she separates areas on a scrap of plaster with a piece of metal. She sketches skirted girls in satin with cherry lips, hailed by cupids, flouncing across fertile fields and swelling seas, bucolic places they’ll never see or smell.

“Tell me what you think?” Ginia asks.

“It’s your best work yet—so organic and alive.”

Ginia lulls her love with tales of paintbrushes woven from her hair and tints mixed from blood and tears. Other fluids, transformed into vibrant pigments. Her precious rat Michelangelo perches on her shoulder, his long pink tail skimming the hollow between her breasts. Vitti has to look away.

 “I tried State-sanctioned art,” Ginia says with a lazy stroke, adding carmine to an otherwise colorless world. “We were forced to replicate the work of unimaginative men from archaic books. Mine were exact copies of course, garnering great approval and favor, but I was lifeless inside. Neutered. I once suckled my own breast as a way of calling myself back from nothingness.”

Vitti gasps a little. “It’s up to us to create light.” The only things worth saying are what she’s feeling. It’s sometimes so simple.

“Do you believe we have mothers other than those in the lab?” Ginia asks. “I once dreamed of being scooped from the hollow belly of a wailing woman.”

 “I’ve had similar dreams.” Vitti’s voice trembles.

“The State only wants us to know what they want us to know.” Ginia pauses as if falling into the center of the universe. “Imagine Michelangelo, years spent lying on his back painting a ceiling. So long ago, yet his images tell the story of creation and the fall of humanity. Did you know he wrote sonnets?”

Vitti marvels at the way great thoughts seep from Ginia’s mind. The cosmos dropped the perfect lover in her junk pile. They have the same thoughts at the same time. Like all star-crossed romances.

Vitti wonders if being in love means you’re a little bit crazy. If allowing yourself to feel, like the State says, is the definition of madness. But then, only they hear birds chirping in Greek and King Edward VII uttering curses from burnt rubble.

Luxurious nights pass in secrecy near the opening of a subterranean unit with glass and steel life-pods where gas is pumped in to eradicate memories of how their ancestors expressed themselves. Strangely enough, some things are erased, others replaced.

“Elder Abraham showed me a book well-hidden,” Ginia says. “I touched pictures of walnuts and pomegranates, a sheaf of corn, a bowl of jubilee grapes. Is it possible that such marvels still exist?”

 Vitti stares at the curve of Ginia’s neck. Perfect, unflawed. She sweeps her beloved’s cheek with the back of her fingers. Ginia blushes as if brushed by a ripe apricot.

“I was once so hungry and without a stitch of clothing. I thought of chickens but stole a capon instead. Was I mad?” Ginia asks. “Or was it a dream?”

 “Are you hungry now?”

 “Ravenous.”

Vitti lifts the top half of her neoprene wetsuit and unwinds her nutrition tube. She licks the end, shuddering as it swells, and gently inserts it through a tear in Ginia’s uniform. Vitti is gentle, working the tube into her navel clamp, allowing her own life juices to flow into her love, all without spies or regret.

 Ginia moans as the tube pulses and releases bursts of pleasure. “It’s too dangerous to keep meeting here,” she says, her eyelids fluttering. “We must find a place that is ours alone.”

---

Ginia grinds plaster and mixes pigment in preparation for their journey. “Being together is like soaring with butterflies,” she says. “Our hearts will always remain free.”

Vitti tunes her guitar to Ginia’s breath. Then she stands for a moment, uncertain. There’s so much to do. What will they need?

Her movements are uneasy as she gathers essentials: antiseptic swabs to clean her nutrition tube and a tarnished brass box of fire-stick matches she unearthed, worth a fortune on the black market. A corroded hubcap becomes a second seat on her bicycle. Her guitar, strapped on the back fender.

When it’s time to set off, Vitti slips her shorty wetsuit over Ginia’s tattered uniform. Nothing but rags, nothing left to barter with.

 “If only . . .” Ginia pauses.

Vitti understands completely. No one can be wholly beautiful in State-issued shoes. Guaranteed ugly for life. She steps from her combat boots. “Wear these.”

Ginia smiles, lovely as a cellulose rose.

Vitti puts on her non-skid rubber booties.

Ginia laughs. “You look like a victim of pyrotechnics.”

“I’m properly dressed for the occasion.” Vitti simpers. “Best to blend into the inky night.”

They travel under a moonless sky. No stars. No asteroids. Only dust particles and chemical pollutants extending into other galaxies. Vitti chokes the handlebars and beats the pedals with her rubber booties. Then she laughs.

Ginia hugs her sturdy waist and coos to Michelangelo perched on her shoulder.

They pass a billboard with enormous words: ‘Fear Books! Paintings! Music! Poetry! Thinkers!’

Vitti immerses herself in a new theory, letting it expand from conjecture to verity. What if State-professed enemies are imaginary? Who would know in a world where truth is a lifeless reflection of the few in power?

 “Can we really survive on our own?” Ginia whispers in her ear. “Find a place far from wicked men who are sleepless?”

Vitti inhales Ginia’s breath, so sweet—often it’s the little things. “A wish is waiting for us on the wind.”

No one had ever been so in-tune with her, not even her Petri-parents. Sure, they’ll miss her as she misses them. No doubt they’ll spawn a clone from her DNA but without the passionate gene.

Vitti’s diagnosis had come in Institutional Day Care when her brain rejected the requisite digital-chip. A month of interface examinations revealed a hypersensitivity to touch and affection. Her QR tattoo scans “loving, generous, independent, courageous.”

Vitti stares into the raven night, alert to danger. She blinks against the hum of drones and hovercrafts, praying the bike’s metal frame will protect them from thermal sensors. The State sanctioned unspeakable torture for those who flee: Displayed in glass cubicles, brushed with milk and honey while insects dine.

It’s cold and getting colder.

They pass burnt-out trees along the banks of an ancient waterway. Bodies impaled on spikes, dried and shriveled. Their garments rotted off. What’s left of a large horned animal, its legs sticking out stiff and straight. The stench, long gone.

A dusky sky turns its face away in shame.

Ginia sobs. “What could they have done?”

 “Dared to think. Dared to love. There are infinitely more punishments than wrong-doings.”

In a different time, they would have found a way to bury the remains.

Another day, here and gone.

---

On the seventh day of their trek, Vitti and Ginia settle in the bowels of a toppled theme

park in a moat where the head of a decapitated Alice in Wonderland lolls in a cracked teacup. They

stow away during the day, foraging at night for anything useful—hauling off smashed and broken bits

of this and that.

A miniature castle door becomes their front gate. They plant a plastic palm, add a one-legged garden flamingo. Scraps of wire mesh are woven into a dome-type roof to protect them from winged spies.

Vitti digs a waste pit.

Ginia chips grime from a plastic bench. “Look! It’s Beauty Pie Pink.”

Vitti rushes over to kiss her. “The perfect settee.”

They sit on the settee, stretching their arms over the filigree back, laughing as if rolling in a field of clover.

“Do you see the yellow butterflies?” Ginia asks.

“Yes, my love, and I hear the buzz of bees.”

They were in tune to the tides in their bodies, the highs and lows.

Michelangelo eliminates marauding rats, pulverizing bones, devouring fatty organs with pulsing veins. Ginia soaks and tans the hides, stitches them together, and fabricates something she calls a rag rug.

They rummage around, uncovering a sealed case of deep-fried Mars Bars which somehow survived their expiration date.

“Caramel.” Vitti cries. “Corn syrup!”

“Monosodium Glutamate!” Ginia presses her lips to Vitti’s sweet mouth, Vitti loses herself in a primeval memory of vanilla and orange blossoms.

“Ours is the Happiest Place on Earth,” Ginia says.

Even wearing a wetsuit, Vitti feels sticky leakage from her tube. She picks up her guitar, arranging words in an elaborate language.

Ginia works pigment into wet plaster, languishing over her latest fresco, Vitti’s Song. Michelangelo nibbles her bare foot.

Vitti shoos him away. “Your toe,” she says, “it’s bleeding.”

“Red! Quick! Fetch a receptacle!”

Soon the trees in Vitti’s Song bloom scarlet.

Vitti never hungered for her more.

---

Early one morning, Ginia weeps over something she can’t explain. Vitti believes her tears are opalescent from the absorption of fluids through the feeding tube. Ginia must have taken in too many nutrients, Vitti reasons, because Ginia’s breasts are overflowing with the same milky substance.

Ginia fashions a tent-like dress for herself. “Rock-a-bye, baby, on the treetop.”

Vitti doesn’t know if it’s a song or a poem or how she knows the next line. It seems to sprout from an ancient spring. “When the wind blows the cradle will rock.”

Summer heat rages and violent winds consume the crumbling ruins, sweeping away Ginia’s last morsel of plaster. She weeps and wails, her tears raining on seething thermals.

Vitti curves a splintered wooden stake into a bow. She braids twine, knots it over the ends, and pulls it taut. Another stake becomes an arrow with a razor-sharp point. Ginia fashions an over-the-shoulder sheath from rat hides.

 Together they repair a broken handcart. “I’ll gather enough plaster to last forever after,” Vitti says.

 “When we’re together I’m rarely afraid.” Ginia’s smile gathers her in. “Stay with me in this moment and the next.”

“Oh, my cherished. You’ll be much safer here.”

Ginia rubs the round of her belly. “We share a past, things only we know. Things only we can talk about, together.”

Vitti shoulders her sheath and places the bow in the cart. “Your heart travels with me.”

She stumbles, feeling a nervous twitch, and pushes the cart into a twilight of strange colors. It’s as if someone sprayed everything gunmetal grey. She thinks about her life with Ginia—how Ginia creates art from nothing, knowing no one but her will see it. Just as she shapes songs, knowing no one but Ginia will ever hear.

She frets over Ginia’s swelling belly, fearing it may be an invasive growth. Instead of looking for plaster she should whisk her love underground to a clinic. But that would mean turning themselves in to the State.

Vitti presses on beneath black and yellow smoke, a steady rolling haze that creeps across the horizon. The wheels on the cart leave ruts in an expanse of Stygian ash. Dead bugs crush underfoot.

Clouds peel back but don’t reveal the next form.

On her own she feels like a pirate, reckless, circumventing danger. She steps in something squishy and refuses to look down. Something is behind her, its hot breath mists on her neck—but when she turns, alarmed, there’s nothing. She leans into the haunting wind, pretending it’s a song. There’s plenty of nothing in every direction.

It’s impossible to know how far she’s gone. She grows weary, retracing her path to avoid sinkholes, and stops near a pyramid of broken asphalt where a mischief of rats groom themselves. Their fiendish eyes are ghastly. All wear gilded collars.

“Domesticated!”

The implications leave her breathless. Pets? Spies? Carriers of poison? Impossible to know.

A mangy rat skulks forward, barring its fulvous teeth, strings of drool quivering. Vitti grips her bow, retrieves the arrow, and fires. The winged shaft rips into hide and flesh, taking the rodent by surprise.

She recovers her arrow watching one rat assault another. Bones are exposed, pulled and twisted outward like great wings. The head of the attacker disappears as feasting moves to the bowels.

The sky continues to move too fast to settle into a single shape.

Further on, Vitti exhumes a chunk of moldy stucco—a thrilling moment since Ginia doesn’t have that shade of green. She leverages it into the cart and visualizes Gina’s impish glee.

Vitti feels the hardening ridge of her nutrition tube which had been tucked back between the folds of her buttock cheeks. Juice bursts like guava seeds with microscopic tails.

The windstorm dies as the day’s last light shakes a dusty haze.

Closer to the moat, an unfamiliar scent assaults her. Sweet and salty. But not unpleasant. The fragrance lulls her, pulling her the rest of the way home.

Vitti rushes inside the compound to find Ginia, lovely in reclining nakedness, a primitive

portrait. Her hair is knotted up like the petrified bird’s nest they discovered early in their journey. “Ginia!”

Her beloved smiles, cradling a writhing bundle.

Their daughter lets out a wail, a cacophony of hope and promise. Life is full of astonishing and wondrous surprises.

Vitti kneels beside her nearest and dearests and serenades them in song. Michelangelo hunches by the gate, ichor staining his whiskers.

SHERRY SHAHAN is a teal-haired septuagenarian who writes in a small beach town in California. Her stories live in Hippocampus, Critical Read, december, F(r)iction, Progenitor, Antitheses, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts and has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize in Poetry. 

-Jeremy Stelzner

THE SUN IS STILL SLEEPING when Billy’s rooster Hal crows out the morning alarm. Billy knows what that means. Time to get to work. He wipes the sleep boogers from his eyes and slides on his Superman slippers. Sparkplug, his golden retriever, is still snoring away at the foot of his bed. She’s a good old dog so Billy lets her sleep in.

He slowly opens the squeaky screen door, careful not to wake his parents who were still nuzzled under heavy blankets in their giant bed. Zipping up his jacket, he straps the Velcro on his muddy work boots and pops on his wool cap.

The briskness of the morning air forces him to pull his cap down over his ears. He stands on the front porch with a pretend cigarette between his fingers, blowing smoke rings with his breath, pretending to be big. After his smoke break, Billy leaps off the porch, arms outstretched, eager to fly away. But he doesn’t fly away. Instead, his feet crunch on the frosted dew of the grass when he lands. Shaking his head in defeat, he breathes in the rich metallic aroma of freshly tilled earth and remembers there’s work to do.

He skips down the path toward Sadie’s stall. She’s the seven-year-old cow who shares Billy’s birthday. They’ve grown quite fond of their early morning chats.

On his way down to Sadie, he makes sure to say good morning to everyone on the farm.

“Good morning, Wilber!” he shouts, waving wildly at the pig pen.

Wilber oinks back in acknowledgment, a smile on his piggy face.

Billy scoots past the barn to the tune of a mighty “neigh” coming from their colt Mesquite’s stall.

“Good morning, Mesquite. How ’bout a ride later?” Billy asks, blowing into his cold hands.

“Neigh.”

“Me too, buddy. Can’t wait.”

Billy keeps bouncing along. But the faster he goes, the more his jeans slide down his tush. After taking a closer look, he realizes he forgot his belt. So, he rolls the top of his pants and hoists them up as far as they’ll go. His tailoring is interrupted by the familiar cluck, cluck, clucking coming from an old friend.

Mr. Cluckers! That chicken is the loudest of all the animals on the farm. That’s why Billy loves him best. Never afraid to speak his mind, that one. There’s no spot on the 300-acre property where you can escape his merry clucking.

“Good morning, Mr. Cluckers!” Billy hollers out.

Mr. Cluckers clucks back while strutting down to the pond for a sip of water and some chitchat with Hal the rooster and the Honkers, a family of six geese that lounge around in the pond for hours on end each morning.

There’s a magic to this place. Daddy, who’s worked this land all his life, he doesn’t see it anymore. But for Billy, it’s real. There’s magic in every animal, every bale of hay, every blade of grass. Some children dream of becoming astronauts, ballerinas, or firefighters. Billy dreams only of staying on this landwith all his animal friends, forever.

When he arrives at Sadie’s stall, the orange sun creeps over the horizon, painting the cotton candy–colored morning sky in purples and pinks and thawing Billy’s cold red fingertips. Sadie greets Billy with an excitable blink. She’s a good cow—a good friend. Billy sits on the stool beside her each morning and she lends him an attentive ear. He blows into his hands again before taking hold of her udders.

“Well, Sadie, I’ll tell you it was a strange party. For some reason everyone was dressed in black. Uncle Jim played sad songs on his fiddle, Cousin Leila was looking at old pictures in the den, and Aunt Marge cooked for everyone. You know how Aunt Marge can cook, I don’t have to tell you. There was so much food—those crunchy corn fritters, buttered green beans, hot biscuits with gravy, fried turkey legs, and mac and cheese. It was all so yummy that people couldn’t stop crying. Momma took a bite of the mac and cheese and whispered to me, ‘O boy, that Marge is a mac and cheese magician.’ I’m not sure, though. Aunt Marge doesn’t wear a funny hat and only has a little hair on her chin, not one of those real magician beards,” Billy explains, swapping a full pail of Sadie’s frothy milk for an empty one.

“Moooo.”

“That’s what I thought! But Momma said Marge isn’t really a magician. Momma said she was just being socratic.”

“Moooo.”

“I knew you’d understand, Sadie.”

Billy stops milking. He steps over to Sadie’s front, looks into her large, trusting eyes, touches his forehead to hers, and says, “Thanks for the milk, girl. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He takes his time hefting the metal pails back to the farmhouse, but no matter how hard he tries, Billy always spills a little milk with each step. It’s because he gets distracted. There’s so much to look at out there, and Billy can get lost inside his mind when imagining everything he’s missing when he’s forced to return to the human world. He imagines Sadie in a ballgown hosting fancy parties like Aunt Marge. He imagines Mr. Cluckers telling jokes in a suit blazer with rolled-up sleeves like a stand-up comedian and Wilber playing the fiddle while the Honkers dance an Irish jig.

Billy takes off his dirty boots on the front porch so as not to upset Momma. He sneaks back inside, removes his coat, and hangs it on his assigned hook so as not to upset Daddy. He warms his hands near the radiator in the foyer and listens. The house is quiet. He likes it this way. In the quiet he can hear all the stories in his mind. The one about the flying horse that almost touched the sun. The one about Morris the Bat who lives at the top of the big maple tree by the barn. The one about the small town that was invaded by an army of angry dragons and the boy who fought them off. Most of all, he loves the story of the Hulks, a family of Giants that live among humans. Being so little, he finds excitement in things that are big.

Creeping up the stairs, Billy nudges open the door to his parent’s room. He tiptoes toward the bed and slides under the warm blankets between his folks. The rumble of Daddy’s familiar snores like the ancient engine of their rusted Ford. Without even opening their eyes, his parents instinctively move toward him, snuggling him up and planting fresh morning kisses on his chubby cheeks. In this house, in this bed, with these people, there’s no safer place in the world.

A little later, he’s sitting on the front porch again, this time with Daddy. He towers over Billy with strong shoulders and a thick brown beard, a little gray at the ends. Sometimes, Momma and her friends talk about real men. Billy isn’t sure what a real man is but he knows his Daddy is one. When Daddy yawns, Billy yawns. When Daddy stretches, Billy stretches. When Daddy sips hot coffee out of a coffee mug, Billy sips hot cocoa out of a coffee mug. He pretends to be big, like the Hulks. Like Daddy.

“Man, I needed this,” Billy says with a little cough.

“Needed what, son?” Daddy asks, wrapping his robe more tightly around himself.

“Coffee. It’s gonna be a long day. Know what I mean?”

Daddy laughs, “Oh, I see. That’s coffee in your cup, is it?”

“It sure is. You know how I get when I skip my morning Joe,” Billy says.

“You shouldn’t be so quick to get big,” Daddy says while messing Billy’s long, rusty hair. “You finish your chores?”

“I fed Mesquite, Mr. Cluckers, and the rest of the chickens, and I milked Sadie just like you said.”

“That’s a good boy, Billy. What about Wilber?”

Billy’s legs shake. His toes tap on the wooden porch planks. It’s an involuntary response that kicks in when he gets nervous. Looking down at the top of his boots, he confesses, “Eesh. I’m sorry, Daddy. I forgot.”

Daddy places his large hands on Billy’s back, “It’s alright. Feed them now and then you can run off and play. I’ve got a lot of work to do before the big dinner tonight.”

“Big dinner?”

“Momma’s birthday dinner, remember?”

Billy slaps his palm to his forehead.

“I’m gonna cook up something special for her. You wanna help?”

“I sure do!”

“Well, run along then.”

And that’s exactly what Billy does. He runs along. First, he finishes his chores. Then he heads over to Mesquite’s stall and brushes his hair. He feeds Mesquite a couple of carrots and tacks him up for their morning ride.

It’s only a short trip down to the creek, and Billy likes to take it slow so that Sparkplug can tag along, prancing beside them. He’s cautious when riding Mesquite alone because he’s so little and Mesquite is so big. But that’s why he loves him so.

When they reach the creek, Billy ties up Mesquite and throws stones in the water for a while. He stares at the ripples through the water, imagining that each one opens a magical portal into another world. But the ripples don’t last long. They’re magical for only the briefest of moments, and then, just like that, they’re gone.

The stones are driving Sparkplug crazy. When they hit the water, she runs right up to the creek’s edge in pursuit, gets scared, and then scampers back to Billy. Over and over again, Billy throws those stones, and over and over again, Sparkplug gets spooked by the splashes. Billy giggles. But the amusement is fleeting. It’s quickly replaced by guilt.

“I didn’t mean to make fun of you, Sparky.” That’s his nickname for Sparkplug. “I’m sorry, girl. I’ll stop throwing the stones.”

 Billy lies down on the wet grass. The creek waters burble, passing over stones that had slept undisturbed since before Billy’s great-great-grandfather took up this land over a hundred years ago. To pass the time, he tells Mesquite a story about when the Hulks had a town dance that shook the whole world. The moral of the story, he says, is never to invite a giant to a hoedown. Mesquite doesn’t get it.

Mr. Cluckers appears from behind a tree and struts up to Billy. He pecks the boy lightly on his belly.

“Mr. Cluckers! What are you doing all the way down here?” he asks.

“Cluck, cluck.”

“You don’t say? Well, how about a story? It’s about a whole town of giants that decide to have a town dance…,” he begins.

Billy retells the story exactly the way he told it to Mesquite.

“And that’s why you never invite a giant to a hoedown!”

“Cluck, cluck, cluck.”

“See Mesquite, Mr. Cluckers gets it!”

Billy can smell that it’s almost lunchtime. He decides to walk Mesquite back to keep an eye on Mr. Cluckers. He doesn’t want the little fella to get lost on the way home. The four friends return to the barn, Billy, Mesquite, Sparkplug, and Mr. Cluckers taking up the rear. On the way, he gives his pals a little history lesson on the farm like he’s one of those tour guides with the funny hats at the state park.

“We have close to 300 acres of land on the Drake Farm.”

“Cluck.”

“That’s right, Mr. Cluckers, it is a lot of space. You all have your homes, and then there’s our house and the pond, and the creek, and the barn. You know Daddy grew up here? He says he hopes that one day my kids will grow up here too.”

After a quick lunch, Billy plays around in his tree house for a bit. It’s not anything fancy, but the tree house is a perfect spot to hide out for a while and read a comic book or play with his Star Wars action figures. He decides to draw a picture of his Halloween costume for Momma. Billy and Mr. Cluckers are planning on going as R2D2 and C3PO. He spends about an hour in there, skipping from dream to dream, imagining endless afternoons of blanket fort battles, jungle gym castles, and cardboard spaceship rocket launches. But all that dreaming makes him sleepy. He dozes off with a half-dozen stubby crayons resting on his tummy.

---

A little while later, Sadie’s mooing and Mesquite’s neighing stir Billy from his snooze. Then the Honkers, honking and dancing around the base of the tree, fully wake him up. How did I sleep through all that action?

Billy rushes inside the house and washes up. Something smells good. Something smells really good. He pokes his head into the kitchen and finds Daddy working. Billy sneaks in, settles behind the kitchen island, and watches him for a while. He likes to spy on his folks doing grown-up things like reading the newspaper, paying the bills, and dancing with each other when they don’t think anyone’s watching.

He spies on Daddy dicing vegetables like a man possessed. Daddy slides his knife back and forth with metronomical precision. Every single carrot, onion, and stalk of celery is cut to a uniform size. Daddy moves the knife along the wooden butcher block, pushing the diced veggies over to a little pile off on the side before beginning the action again.

“Whoa,” Billy says, cupping his hands over his mouth.

He’s revealed his location. Spinning his head around, Daddy looks at Billy while continuing to dice.

“You’re not even looking, Daddy!” Billy yells, a look of shock on his face. “Can I try?”

“You’re too small, Billy.”

“Please,” he begs.

“You’ve got to spend some time learnin’ before doin’. You want to learn?”

Billy nods.

“Okay then,” Daddy says, grinning.

Daddy puts the knife down and wipes his hands on a dishtowel that he slings over his shoulder. He picks up Billy with ease. The boy’s small arms instinctively wrap themselves around his neck. A reward for good fathering. He plops Billy down on a stool by the kitchen island for a better view.

The lesson begins.

“Now, if you want to dice and chop real fast like me, you need to start with a sharp knife. Here’s how you do it.”

Daddy removes the sharpening rod from his knife block. It’s long and round and shiny. He takes his chef knife and slides the blade down the steel rod. Slish. Slish. Slish. The sound gives Billy the chills.

A cast iron pan smokes on the cooktop. Billy watches Daddy add a splash of olive oil to the pan. Then he tosses in the diced vegetables he’s been working on. Carrots, celery, onions, garlic, and rosemary—all picked from the garden. They sizzle when they hit the pan.

“You smell that, son?”

Billy nods. He does smell that.

“But Daddy, it doesn’t smell like onion. It doesn’t smell like garlic, either. Or celery. Or carrots.”

“They’re all cooking together. They smell better that way. They taste better that way, too.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You remember when Father Attaway was preaching about the choir last week?”

Billy shrugs his shoulders.

“Father Attaway was talking about why the church choir doesn’t have only one singer. He joked that Marie Williams would be mighty fine to listen to on her own but that the songs can only reach God if we all sing together.”

“I remember now.”

“All those single smells become so much more when you add them to other single smells. The more you add, the richer the flavors.”

“It sure smells yummy.”

“It sure does.” Daddy shuts the heat to the pan and lights another.

A naked chicken rests on a cutting board beside the stove. Daddy sprinkles salt and pepper over the top and tosses the remaining grains into the sink with the bloodied feathers and gizzard. He rubs the bird with melted butter, gliding his slimy hands over each crevice.

Then, Daddy pulls two large T-bone steaks from the refrigerator. He had hoped to find Wagyu–style beef from the farmer’s market over in St. Jerome, knowing the marbled fat of those cattle makes for a milkier texture.

“What are those?”

“Those are T-bones. They’re steaks, son. You like steak.”

“I do? What’s steak again?”

“Steak comes from cows, like Sadie.”

“That’s Sadie?” Billy shrieks. He tenses up, his toes tap wildly.

Daddy chuckles. “No. Of course not. These from the Parker’s farm down in Arthur’s Junction.”

Billy relaxes before asking, “What’s next, dad?”

Daddy removes a mixing bowl and a package of bacon from the refrigerator before retreating to his cutting board. “Now we make the stuffing. Want to help?”

Billy doesn’t need to say anything. The eager look in his eyes gives him away.

“Ok—this bowl has the veggies we’ve been cooking. There’s onions and carrots and celery,” Daddy says, walking over with a steaming bowl.

“It’s making steam.”

“That’s because the vegetables just came off the stove. They’re hot.”

Billy knows Daddy is wrong. When he went outside to feed Sadie this morning, his breath made steam, and it was cold. Not hot. But Billy lets that one slide because Momma always said that Daddy doesn’t like to be wrong.

“Now it’s your turn. Put all those veggies into this big bowl of mashed cornbread.”

Billy offers a little salute and begins his mission.

Daddy moves back to the cutting board and dices up some bacon. He pours some oil into a big pan and waits for it to heat up. Once he hears a crackle, he tosses in the diced chunks of bacon.

“That smells yummy too. What’s that in the pan?”

“It’s bacon, son.”

“Oh, I love bacon!”

“I know you do,” Daddy says, stirring up the chunks of frying bacon.

“What’s bacon, again?”

“Bacon comes from pigs, like Wilbur.”

“That’s Wilbur?” Billy shrieks.

Daddy laughs and says, “No. Of course not, Billy. I got this pork from the Jones Farm down in Weston.”

Picking a piece of crisp bacon from the pan, Daddy pops it into his mouth. It’s crunchy and salty and oily. He gives a second little piece to Sparkplug who’s waiting obediently by his leg for pieces of anything to fall on the floor.

Daddy removes the bacon bits, placing them into the mixing bowl with the mushed-up cornbread and Billy’s veggies. Then he shoves a couple of heaping handfuls of the stuffing deep inside the chicken’s empty cavity. Earlier that day while Billy was napping, Daddy emptied the organs from the inside of the bird. He had thought about using them in a soup stock but instead chose to toss them into the trash.

“What are you doing now?”

“I’m stuffing the bird, son.”

“That’s a bird? Like Big Bird?” Billy shrieks.

“No, son, not like Big Bird,” Daddy says, flipping the burner back on to reheat the bacon fat. He ties the legs of the chicken together and seals up the cavity.

Seeing a look of concern spread on Billy’s face, Daddy takes a large mason jar of milk from the fridge and pours Billy a glass. The familiar taste of Sadie’s milk eases the boy’s frantic mind.

Taking another big sip, he wipes a milk mustache off his lip with his shirt sleeve and watches Daddy place the chicken into the skillet. Little splatters of oil splash out onto the stove, the counters, and the walls.

“All right now, Billy. That’s enough for today’s lesson. Finish your milk and then run out to help Momma with the table.”

Outside, Momma is tying down a red gingham tablecloth. Her hands were as soft as an angel’s pillow with fresh red polish painted on the nails of her delicate fingers. She clips the tablecloth on the picnic table so it won’t blow away. The family eats out by the giantoak tree almost every night if the weather is agreeable. The wind picks up and Momma has to scramble to gather the corner of the tablecloth that has blown free. She notices the leaves on the trees have started to turn. Greens have gone to reds and oranges and ambers. Momma buttons up her jacket. She thinks it’s almost the time of year to move dinner indoors.

Billy helps with the placemats and the silverware. He runs back and forth to the farmhouse with Sparkplug chasing close behind. He drops off the ketchup and grabs a tennis ball. Sparkplug sits like a good dog, waiting for Billy to launch it into the thick of the corn fields. He heaves it away. After the dog disappears in pursuit, Billy heads back into the house for more items. He brings out the soft butter, warm biscuits, and a large pitcher of sweet tea. After dropping off every item at the table, he tosses another tennis ball into the field for Sparkplug to chase. The dog is exhausted by the time the table is finally set, panting wildly underneath the picnic table.

The sun starts to set and Billy’s world turns crimson. Momma lights a couple of candles and ruffles Billy’s shaggy hair.

“You have a good day?” she asks.

“The best.”

Daddy appears from the farmhouse like an apparition. He’s carrying a large tray with a half-dozen-or-so serving dishes balanced atop. First, he sets down the chicken, then a bowl of mashed potatoes, then the steaks, then a plate of green beans so buttery they glisten in the dying sunlight.

Momma, Daddy, and Billy tuck their napkins into their shirt collars and adjust their cutlery. Momma pours him some tea.

He grabs his glass and prepares to chug it down.

“Billy Aaron Drake, are you forgetting something?” Daddy asks.

“No, sir.”

“Grace,” Daddy commands with Sparkplug huddling by his leg.

“Right. Sorry,” Billy says clearing his throat and straightening his posture. “Heavenly Father, bless us and these Thy gifts which we receive from Thy bountiful goodness through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.”

Daddy doles out the Lord’s bountiful goodness and rubs his hands together before digging in.

Momma’s the type to keep everything on her plate separate. The vegetables, the beef, and the potatoes have their own separate space. Even the gravy is only permitted within the potato sector. Billy often wonders what would happen to Momma should a loose pea wind up in her stuffing. Would she disappear?

Daddy’s a mess—he mixes all the elements of the meal with his fork. He flops the potatoes over the beef and folds the green beans into the slop. Then he pours a heaping serving of gravy over all of it. Daddy takes a deep breath, smelling it all, and then looks across the table at Billy who mirrors Daddy’s actions. He forks up the creamy mashed potatoes, a couple of green beans, and a tiny piece of steak that his mother cut for him. He tastes the salt, chives, beef, butter, and cream, all of it deliciously intermingled like his own personal dinnertime choir.

Daddy slices into the bird with the sharpest knife Billy’s ever seen. The blade is so sharp that it looks like it could cut through the crust of the earth. But it doesn’t. Instead, it slides between the leg and breast joints—through the skin, the flesh, and the sinew. Then, after splitting the bird open, Daddy dishes out the stuffing.

Momma takes her first bite and the sauce drips off her chin onto her plate. She sops it up with a piece of her biscuit and smiles.

Daddy takes hold of a drumstick and rips off all the meat with a single bite. He slurps, smacks, crunches, and chews before sending a reciprocal smile back at Momma. Billy’s happy because they’re happy.

But something’s not right.

The farm is strangely silent. He listens closely. He can hear Sadie mooing softly in her paddock. He takes another bite of the beef, listening closely as he chews. He can hear Mesquite walking laps in his barn stall. He swishes down the steak with a sip of sweet tea and listens closely. There they are, his friends, the Honkers, the whole family leaving the pond after a long day of swimming. He can hear them honking up the hill, preparing to curl up by the hay bales and hunker down for the night. He feels relieved for a moment.

But something’s still not right.

“Can I be excused from the table, please?” he asks.

“If you want some of Momma’s apple pie, you’re gonna need to have some chicken.”

“Ok, Daddy.”

Daddy uses his hand and rips off the other drumstick. He passes it over to Billy. When Billy takes a bite, the crispy skin gets stuck in his teeth.

He chews apprehensively, still scanning over the farm for what’s amiss.

As soon as he swallows, he places the absence. His toes begin to tap wildly on the grass. A look of dread overtakes his face.

“Daddy?” he asks quietly.

“Yes, son,” Daddy mumbles. His hands greasy with chicken fat, he sucks the remaining meat off the bone.

“Where’s Mr. Cluckers?”

JEREMY STELZNER’s stories have appeared in the 2024 Coolest American Stories anthology, the 2023 Stories that Need to Be Told collection, Across the Margin magazine, Half and One magazine, The Jewish Literary Journal, the Hare’s Paw Literary Journal, and The After Happy Hour Journal of Literature and Art. He teaches literature and journalism in Maryland and is currently enrolled in the Creative Writing program at the Harvard Extension School.  You can reach him by e-mail at [email protected], contact him on X/Twitter @jeremystelzner, and find him on Instagram @jeremy_stelzner1. His website is at https://www.jastelzner.com.

Appeared in rainy weather days volume 1, July 2024

-Kate Lunn-Pigula

“TOO REGIONAL” SAID MY FEEDBACK. “Can’t take her seriously because her voice is so annoying.”

My line manager put the piece of paper down. It’s not like I didn’t know that I have a high-pitched voice and, when teaching, can go a bit “unconfident.” I could see them all looking at me, then some of them look at each other. Then they’d start talking. I suspected some of it had to do with the Brum accent too. Once voted “worst accent in the country.” This was a Russell Group university, after all.

Somebody once said that I sound like a Birmingham version of that annoying actress in “Singin’ in the Rain.”

“So,” said my line manager, her voice was a sonorous Southern breeze. I tried to laugh it off. What could I do about my voice? She looked sheepish. “Elocution lessons might be an idea?”

She phrased it like that… “an idea?” She went up at the end, meaning that she didn’t feel confident in what she was saying. But at least it’s a quick fix. Send them to a teacher and it sounds like we’re listening to the students.

 “I didn’t think they still had elocution teachers,” I said.

“Oh, they do!” She was more enthusiastic now. I felt like Eliza in My Fair Lady. Cor blimey, Mrs.! She was happier because I hadn’t outright rejected the idea. We were in her office. I would feel more comfortable in mine but Elaine told me that she does this as a power play. She has her books all lined up on the bookcase. Nobody else’s. I don’t know how she learns anything new if the only person she reads, at least here, is herself. But no matter.

“I can give you some details of the person who gives them, right here in town!” Sunlight burst through a gap in the blinds beside her head. No quiet summer for me then, researching what I had actually been employed to do. I had to relearn how to speak. “I’m so glad you’re open to the idea,” she said.

I wondered why they’d even bothered hiring me in the first place if they thought I couldn’t speak properly, but it was a school with a lot of men from privileged backgrounds. Perhaps I was a diversity hire.

“What else are the students saying about me?”

“Oh! Set texts are fine. Just, you know…”

“My voice,” I said. The thing that I made a career on, that was my way of expressing myself, wasn’t serious enough for posh students. I felt like crying. I had never felt smaller. The “you can’t take her seriously” really got to me most. I felt like I knew which student it was too. That asshole in my first-year seminar, smirking, reminding me of a boy I had a crush on in school who would never have given me the time of day. At least he works in a supermarket now, I thought, this first-year will probably get a third and will be running the country in ten years.

“Your voice, yes! That’s the only thing. Everything else, you’ve been wonderful!”

I nodded. She gave me the name and number of an elocution person as if I had no access to Google. She chatted away and I tuned out. Then I realised that she’d asked me a question.

“Do you want Sandra to book it, or you can do it yourself?” Sandra was her PA. She resented doing anything that wasn’t for the woman she worked for and I didn’t want her to know I was taking these lessons. She would laugh at me.

“No, I’ll do it!” I said.

“Ok, well make sure you don’t forget! Term one will be here before you know it!” She smiled too widely. I imagined her talking with her head. They had been to a couple of my final lectures of the year. I thought just to see another lecturer, a peer thing. But I could feel them all laughing at me, laughing at my accent. Mark, the head of the school, saying they didn’t know why they hired me, saying I was unprofessional.

And they had to listen to these students now. Since they started paying nine grand a year, their complaints were taken far too seriously. They were coddled. I felt a sudden stab of hatred for that year-one boy. I bet he was having a wonderful summer even though he failed my class. Maybe his dad was very rich and the complaint had been fast-tracked.

I realised I had been walking around the empty—apart from a few staff—campus. I only had a vague idea of where I was. The campus was full of trees and hills. I was somewhere near various halls, I knew that much. I would never venture here in term-time. But as I walked around, I realised I very much preferred the place without students. It was beautiful, a really pretty campus. Green, quiet, old buildings mixed with new. A lake and a culture centre. Where would I go from here? Back to my cupboard-shaped office, back to phone an elocution teacher who could teach me how to speak proper.

I got back to my office and the sun was glaring in now, so I closed the blinds. It was a lot darker. I took out a mirror from my bag and wiped the mascara from under my eyes. Only a little. I didn’t know if it was from sweating or crying, I had been pretty out of it.

I googled “elocution lessons.” I found ones who would promise to “reduce” my accent right here in the university. I found students saying they could do so. Students I could teach, teaching me how to speak. What an awful world this is. They don’t have any expertise—and when did first-years get so cocky?! They are probably Southern and think they can tell me how I’m supposed to talk.

I shut my laptop’s lid in disgust and grabbed my handbag. I was going home for the day. I wasn’t here to be insulted like that. I would apply for different jobs before I’d stoop to something that humiliating. They were nicer to me in the Poly, I thought. But were they? Amelia used to wrinkle her nose up at me whenever I spoke up in meetings. I stopped going. But funnily, when I was doing my PhD, I never noticed class warfare like this. Perhaps I was too in love with my subject to pick up on it. Maybe I was too scared to notice other people’s reactions to my voice. Maybe I even used a different voice then.

The elocution lessons had been nagging at me all week. What if she was right? I had been avoiding her because she wanted me to book them. This was the way the world was going. It wasn’t what you said but how you said it. The children had been so used to presentation that when faced with someone who doesn’t care about it like me, they aren’t used to it and they can’t cope.

I had two choices—get mad or get these lessons they said they would pay for. I certainly wasn’t going to pay for them.

I googled the lessons again. Their punctuation was sporadic. “First lesson Free!” Natalie was cheapest, a student here who had probably gone home for the summer. Lawrence was expensive. Well, I thought, if they’re paying, what do I care? If it got stupid people off my back, what did I care? I sent an e-mail. I didn’t want them judging my accent before I could meet them. And I went on with my day.

When I was growing up, everybody talked like me. As I went to uni, less and less people did, and in academia, fellow working-class people would band with me at conferences. I hadn’t been made to feel so subhuman before, however. I was sure that wasn’t the school’s intention, but I knew it was some of these scummy kids’ intentions. My family already thought I talked really posh. Not posh enough, apparently.

To my surprise, Lawrence e-mailed back almost straight away. I hadn’t caught it. I only saw later that I e-mailed at 14:37 and he replied back at 14:53. He said “Yes am available right away! Going to Malta in July but apart from that, not as many students at this time of the year, unfortunately!” He went on to list his dates. I didn’t care that he was going to Malta. Was he actually lonely?

I tried to imagine a day in the life of an elocution teacher. I felt like how people in my family feel when they ask me what it is all day when I’m not teaching. They understood the teaching part. They did not understand the research. “Aren’t the Vikings researched enough already?” Uncle Sid had asked last time. I had smiled and shaken my head, and he’d asked me when I was going to get married.

I was still in my office, hiding away. I wanted to enjoy the sun outside, but I’d rather stay by myself. I am better by myself. Maybe it was time to take leave and write a book.

I told him that I was free on Friday. It was only Tuesday. I didn’t want him to be too eager.

“Sounds great!” he replied six minutes later. I looked at my paperweight Mjølner on my desk. A postgraduate student had bought it for me, sort of as a joke. I told him I had a problem with the Thor movies, and this one was a gift that said “Disney” on it. I lifted the hammer. “Heh, I am strong,” I said, as I often did. But then I heard myself talk. I heard my voice, like I used to when I came back to uni after a Christmas break. The accent was wrong, guttural. I desperately didn’t want to be wrong. I could argue, and had, that accent didn’t affect the words you were saying. But ultimately, it must do. I could pick up the hammer, but I felt defeated.

I wanted to hear my alien voice again. “Won’t have to think about it ’til Friday, though.” It went down in the wrong places. It went down a lot. I didn’t say a lot else for the rest of the day. When Jacob asked me if I wanted to go for a coffee, I went, enjoying the change of scenery, but I let him talk. Jacob is a nice person, he’s interesting, but he doesn’t often notice if you don’t partake in a conversation. I let his words wash over me, something about Brexit, and I immersed myself in his upper-class lexicon. I sounded the words out in my head. Jacob went to Cambridge. He must have thought we’d had a good conversation because he said, “Thank you very much for cheering me up, Emily. Now, must get back to the research!” His accent was plummy, polite, Hugh Grant. Gosh.

I had felt a little lost ever since I came to university as an undergraduate. I never felt like I really fit in. Winifred wouldn’t ever dream that her suggestion to get elocution lessons would humiliate me so much. She wouldn’t understand. She didn’t feel the hot shame I felt in my first seminar when, broader than I am now, I said something that was wrong and some people laughed. They didn’t laugh when other people got things wrong. They were laughing at my voice, my way of speaking. I smoothed it over a bit then, copying others, but I thought I had got over that. And I thought my voice had mellowed. And it had.

All week, I heard other people’s voices more clearly than I ever had before. The vowel sounds their lips made. People I spoke to in real life, television I watched. The narrator of my audiobook was so posh, I was only listening to the words she was saying, not the depth behind them. I was so attuned to people’s voices by the time Friday limped around that I was struggling to comprehend much.

Winifred knew I had booked for Friday. Smiling, she popped over to my office a few hours before—which she never did.

“Remember to ask for a receipt so we can pay you back,” she said, still smiling. How was that possible? How was she still smiling as she was saying the words so perfectly? How was her life that easy?

I said that I would, only I thought the first one was free. I saw her, blonde bun, she was excited. She wanted a shiny new robot lecturer, one who spoke proper. One she could get to speak at Open Days. She asked Jacob to speak at Open Days, generally. Paul if Jacob rebelled, said he did too many. She was waiting for the improved me.

“Well, have a lovely weekend!” She finally left. I decided to limp off slowly to the lessons. Why wait around? They were in a house a short walk out of campus. I went for a coffee and walked to the house. I was half an hour early so I walked around the horseshoe-shaped road. There really wasn’t much to look at. One house had a hole in the roof. Another had a grey mattress on its lawn. The address I’d been given had a red door. I looked at it, and after making a decision to walk around some more, perhaps check out the newsagent I’d seen on the way, I saw a ruffling behind the red door. An old man came out. Grey hair, pale blue shirt, sweat patches showing when he waved to me. I thought, here was some old person concerned with neighbourhood watch. But this was Lawrence.

“Excuse me,” he said, of course he did, “are you Emily?” He sounded like an audiobook narrator.

“Yup, that’s me. I’m a little early.” I heard Birmingham surround me as I spoke. I saw a whisker of displeasure curl Lawrence’s upper lip. He flattened it into a smile.

“Come on in! There isn’t any point in you waiting around out here!” I wondered what such a well-spoken old man was doing living here. Maybe he didn’t live here. He was well-shaven and presented too, apart from the sweat stains. The day wasn’t as hot as it had been.

He showed me inside and asked if I wanted a drink. I shook my half-empty paper coffee cup at him. “I’m good, thank you.” He nodded and showed me to another room. Maybe I should have let somebody know the address I was going to. His house, if it was his house, had dark green walls, dark wood. Copies of paintings, presumably, coloured the walls. There were two navy chairs in his hallway, and he led me into another room. This room was much lighter. It had a huge window showing a beautiful back garden. It was so different from the room we’d just come through. I had felt like I was receiving a detention at school, but the sudden brightness of this room, with its beige floor and white walls, pale blue sofa and pale wood desk, put me slightly at ease.

“What a pretty garden,” I said, looking out of the window. A row of sunflowers was fastidious against a wooden fence. All tall. The lawn was immaculate.

“Thank you, Emily. I am rather proud of it.” Lawrence was a man who didn’t use contractions. He didn’t shorten any word. I wondered if he did that in his down time or only when he was at work.

He walked to his desk and gestured that I sit in the chair opposite. I complied. Why was I complying so much now? I never used to.

“So! You lecture at the university. And in Viking Studies. Well, that is marvellous!”

“Thank you,” I said. Bashful. Was he being condescending?

“But you mention that you want some help? It is usually the students who come to me, Emily, so let me know if I seem strange. I am used to teenagers.”

I nodded. He asked me what I wanted. I suddenly forgot how to articulate. “Well, I had some feedback from students saying that I didn’t speak…” I was slow, muddled. He looked patient. “…in a way that they were accustomed.”

“Students are more demanding than they once were,” he said generously.

I nodded.

“So, I hear Birmingham.” 

I nodded again.

He explained that I didn’t speak wrong, just that he wanted to neutralise various shades of the way I talked. That sounded okay.

“It doesn’t mean that it is wrong, it is just that people are better able to understand you if you strip your sounds down to their basic parts.”

I nodded again. I just wanted to nod and never talk again. His voice was sonorous. He had authority. I bet that shit from first year would respect this man, listen to him, even if he was sweating too much for this room. It wasn’t that hot today. I had a small green cardigan on. A dress.

But I couldn’t listen to him. This was about my speech after all. He lifted a book from his desk with a pale yellow post-it marking a page. It was the first chapter of Pride and Prejudice. He asked me to read to the end of the page.

I tried to get lost in the words but I felt self-conscious. He must have felt this because he said, “I know this is an odd situation, but please try to read as if I am not here. Please use the voice that you would use when talking with a friend.”

I started again, trying to ignore his presence. I was able to do it. I felt my guttural tones dropping deeper. I was doing it—this was my voice. My childhood was in my “must,” my “want,” my “wife.” The words I learned at university, my “chaise,” my “vexing,” and my “caprice” were closer to standard RP. The way I moved across a sentence was my history. I was listening to myself speak again and I was excited. I was excited to listen to what I was going to say. The way I pronounced words was mine. I smiled at the end of the first chapter.

“Shall I continue?” I asked, sounding more Brummie than I had when I had walked in. I felt born-again, in all honesty. A cloud had lifted.

“No, that’s quite enough for now,” he said. “As you will no doubt know, we have a lot to be getting on with.”

“I enjoyed it,” I said. “Thought I sounded pretty good.”

He nodded, pursed his lips. “We want what’s best for your students though, is that not so?”

I had had enough of his chastisement. But I wasn’t paying, so I wanted to see what he had to offer.

“Let’s start with ‘universally,’ ” he said. I was thrilled to be finally getting somewhere, to stop pussyfooting around. “You pronounce the word ‘You-nih-vur-sul-lee’ when it ought to be pronounced ‘You-na-ver-sa-lee.’ Now—”

“Why ought it?”

“Because it is Received Pronunciation, Emily.”

“Is that a legitimate reason?”

“Yes, now, back to it. We want to soften your accent, so we’ll need to bring your vowels to the front of your mouth, to your lips. Your accent places them further back, resulting in a ‘ugh’ sound.” At the “ugh” his mouth turned into a grimace and his shoulders hunched up, hinting at those sweat stains.

“What are you implying?”

“I am not implying a thing, Emily—I am simply doing what you asked me to do, that is, to soften your Birmingham accent. If you have a chip on your shoulder about your working-class upbringing, and you do not find my time valuable to you, I may question why you are here.”

“I am questioning why I’m here,” I said. My accent was as broad as it had been in a long time. I enjoyed it. I was luxuriating. My accent was me.

“You will find that you advance further in your career if you accept my help.”

“Maybe I don’t want to advance in such a prejudiced profession.”

“You’re being childish,” he said. Arms crossed. I had irritated teacher. Him getting me to read in the accent I grew up with had brought out the teenager in me.

“Are you going to take this—me—seriously?” he asked. His face had clouded. He must have a short fuse. You’d think a man like this would be patient. Perhaps nobody ever called his methods, his expertise into question. I had met many men like that. I looked out of the window at his manicured lawn and sunflowers. This wasn’t for me.

He got up. “Well, thank you for your time, Emily. I am sorry that this method isn’t for you. I think you may regret it but my door is always open.”

He actually thinks that he’s helping me.

I thanked him and I left through his dark hallway. He didn’t linger, speaking pleasantries on the door. He was false. His house didn’t add up. The red door shut abruptly behind me. At least I could tell Winifred that I went.

She came to see me on Monday morning. She gave a big preamble. She was excited about a shiny new academic, I could tell. She blathered in her perfect English. Then she asked, “So, how was your weekend?”

“I went to my parents’ house for the weekend.” Her face dropped.

“Oh… er… did you go to those elocution lessons on Friday?”

“Yes, it was quite an experience,” I said.

“But you sound worse.” It was out before she said it. I knew that was what she had been thinking. She actually clapped her hand to her mouth like cartoon teenagers do. She blushed. “I mean.” She tried to backpedal. “Not that it’s bad, it’s just—”

“It’s worse.” I didn’t smile. She made her excuses and she left. Good. She would avoid me out of total humiliation now for weeks. Maybe for the whole summer. I picked up my Thor hammer. It felt light. The weekend had been a pleasant one. I hadn’t thought about how I should speak, I just did. My mum said I’d been the happiest she’d seen in a while. “Bet you’re happy to be rid of those students,” she said. I said I was, not all of them. They asked how the people were in my university.

“Posh,” I said. They all laughed.

I opened my blinds and the light streamed in. Yellow sunlight and blue skies. It looked too good to be real. I printed off a paper I was editing and went outside to lie on the grass. I took my shoes off. I used to wander around with no shoes on when I was small, but after week one in halls, people said it was weird. So, I stopped doing it, even at home. Small things—cutting toast into triangles instead of rectangles. I was experimenting again.

I was lying on my front on the grass, not caring about stains, enjoying making an argument about something I knew a lot about when a shadow came over my paper. Jacob said hello.

“I saw you from my window and thought this looked like great fun!” he said. He had a stack of papers with him. “Too hot in there.” He was taking his shoes off.

“I didn’t think posh people took their shoes off,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” he asked. “Have you heard about Smith’s article, published in a few days. Load of shit.”

I laughed. His toes had scant dark hairs on them. He wiggled his feet.

“Ahhh, that’s much better!”

“Yeah, I heard about Smith’s article but I didn’t think he was serious about it.”

“Well, it is silly season,” said Jacob. And it was. We sat there, shoes and socks off, which was as wild a thing as either of us had done all year.

KATE LUNN-PIGULA has an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Nottingham. Her work has been published by Litro, Clover and White, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Idle Ink, The Honest Ulsterman, Other People’s Flowers, Bunbury Magazine, and Thresholds, amongst others. You can find her at her website at https://katelunnpigula.wordpress.com and on Instagram @katelunnpigula.

Appeared in rainy weather days volume 1, July 2024