Electric Rather Issue 03 by Barbi Moroz

Electric Rather

Issue 03

December 2013

A Literary Magazine

Electric Rather is a fledgling literary magazine with a vibrant spirit. We publish original poetry, prose, art, and photography. We publish new and innovative writers that challenge the boundaries of what is considered “good art.” We seek raw, intense, and emotional pieces that give us hope for the future of literature and art. Electric Rather may be a small magazine now, but we have big dreams. We’re passionate about this magazine and want to see it grow. Our goal is to spread fantastic unknown literature and art wherever possible. We’ve sacrificed our free time to bring this amazing issue to the world, and we’re immensely proud of it. This issue features poetry by Mitchell Grabois, Danny P. Barbare, April Salzano, Troy Baillargeon, Valentina Cano, Gary Beck, Corey Mesler, Holly day, Ashley Boswell, A.J. Huffman, Christoph De Bellsterhamm, Harry Calhoun, Rich Boucher, and John Grey; fiction by Nikki Rae, Rocky Moroz, and John Haydak; a play by William Martin; art by Laura grant, Alicia Mackleer, Christoph De Bellsterhamm, Troy Baillargeon, and Cole McCarty; and comics by Rebecca Callaghan and Saul LaRouxgerstien’El. Please visit electricrather.tumblr.com for more information about our wonderful contributors. Submissions are always welcome. Please email them to electricrather@gmail.com. If you wish to contact us, you can also use this email. Visit our website at electricrather.tumblr.com or look us up on duotrope.com. Thank you for reading!

Letter from the Editor

I created this magazine because I have a passion for literature and art. As a young writer, I know how difficult it can be to publish your work. I hope that this magazine will give inexperienced writers and artists the confidence they need to keep submitting, and to keep creating original art. As an editor, I’m careful to retain the integrity of each piece so that the author’s intention is never altered. I spent a lot of time meticulously tweaking each piece, and I’m very proud of the results. The pieces in this magazine are unique and vivid expressions of love, angst, alienation, and humor. I hope that this magazine is as visually and intellectually pleasing to you as it is to me. We are proud to have original comic art in this issue, a comedic play by William Martin, and a short story by The Sunshine Series author, Nikki Rae, which in edition to wonderful poems, fiction, and art, add to the diversity of our magazine. I’m also excited to publish a short story my father wrote in 1989. This is our longest issue yet and I hope you enjoy the unique voices we’ve carefully chosen.

-Barbi Moroz

Table of contents Poetry Mitchell Grabois: “Kelp” ................................................................................................... P. 1 Danny P. Barbare: “A Winding Mountain” ...................................................................... P. 4 Christoph De Bellsterhamm: “Man, Iridescent” ............................................................. P. 5 Troy Baillargeon: “Untitled” .............................................................................................. P. 8 Valentina Cano: “Palm Reading” ...................................................................................... P. 10 Gary Beck: “Thermodynamics” ........................................................................................ P. 11 Corey Mesler: “Burying Fly” ............................................................................................. P. 14 Holly Day: “Disintegration” ............................................................................................. P. 15 Danny P. Barbare: “The War on My Belly” ...................................................................... P. 17 Ashley Boswell: “California” .............................................................................................P. 19 A.J. Huffman: “Intersecting Planes of Concern” .............................................................P. 22 April Salzano: “I Will Die Smoking” ................................................................................P. 24 Harry Calhoun: “Loud, Bright, Crashing Things” ..........................................................P. 26 Rich Boucher: “The Dark Is Afraid of You” ....................................................................P. 27 John Grey: “Flaming” ........................................................................................................P. 29

Fiction Rocky Moroz: “Ode to a Hacker” ......................................................................................P. 33 John Haydak: “Burners” .....................................................................................................P. 35 Nikki Rae: “Caged - Part 1” ...............................................................................................P. 45

Plays A Comedic Play by William Martin: “Dine and Die in D Minor” ...................................................................P. 37

Photography and Art Alicia Mackleer ............................................................................................P. 2, 12, 14, 21, 28 Laura Grant: “Such Great Heights” and “Kaleidoscope” .........................P. 3, 9, 16 John Markowski ............................................................................................P. 7 Troy Baillargeon ............................................................................................P. 18 Christoph De Bellsterhamm: “xandexar” ...................................................P. 23 Cole McCarty .................................................................................................P. 30 Cover design by Barbi Moroz and Troy Baillargeon. Graphic design and all other photography by Barbi Moroz.

Comic Art Rebecca Callaghan ..............................................................................................................P. 20 Saul LaRouxgerstien’El .......................................................................................................P. 31

Kelp Mitchell Grabois I wanted to ingest full-grown trees as easily as eating stalks of broccoli, I wanted their limbs to lie across my brain, their twigs to rest in the gray furrows, I wanted their hairy roots to burrow down my spine and in that way I would become a fully realized human

but circumstances dictated that I run away from home at fifteen and go to sea, be a lonesome traveler for the Merchant Marine, no woman to love, no man, no trees anywhere in sight,

only kelp, with its broad flat leaves and air-filled bulbs holding the orange and brown assemblage above the ocean floor I could not take kelp into my soul as I could have done with terrestrial trees my brain and kelp incompatible and though I believed I was born to go to sea,

water smoothed my cortex like a potterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hands on clay, wiped away cognitive ability I was forced to return home, report back to high school, my few friends asked where Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d been I went to the beach, I said I felt like surfing they accepted that as a reasonable explanation

Alicia Mackleer

Laura Grant

Such Great Heights

A Winding Mountain Danny P. Barbare Following the road, as quick as a curve, my eyes are steady.

Man, Iridescent Christoph De Bellsterhamm The wall, father time the target of the rain, living breathing throwing shards of metal into the mouth of the unborn kings laughing at the loss of color in the eyes shouting devils betwixt the trees and concrete where is our cherub the small creature of hope with wings the flying creature with floating, eluminating rings around his rose-colored face Before the night sky, deaf, leaf burning sinister cenacles very much like the ones before them and before them, talking into the dirt like scared mindless lymphocytes too oblivious to know when to protect the original, whom birthed the tiny miracles without a second conscious thought Much like the sea I adore that very sea and the things that inevitably protrude from its beaches unexplainable miniature crockets carved by the two handed man, the one-eyed man, the now unnoticed kin, child, Man

John Markowski and Barbi Moroz

Troy Baillargeon

Kaleidoscope Laura Grant

Palm Reading Valentina Cano

The line slashing her palm in two shouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t waver. It should be a measure of years of uninterrupted breathing and brushing of teeth. There should be no need to gather timeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s puckered edges and sew them into clumsy patchwork. Hoping seams will hold another minute. With luck, another hour.

Thermodynamics Gary Beck Motion creates ambiguities, determines destinations, maintaining application of energy seeking expansion, contraction, indifferent to human needs for conservation.

Alicia Mackleer

Burying Fly Corey Mesler The earth with which we covered her (and the poem laid on her chest like a lily) was black, black. Yet, as we filled the emptiness (that can never be filled) we saw itâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; in the broken roots and fervid pitchâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; things unpleasant and alive.

Disintegration Holly day

To prevent my arm from falling, a staff holds my hand up, a truss binds my shoulder. The cloak covers my distress like wallpaper over a cracked foundation, a thin, necessary veneer to show I am closer to alive than dead. To prevent my mouth from sagging, I have wrapped wire around the top and bottom hedge of broken teeth. I can taste the sharpness of tin with each swallow, practice smiling politely with closed lips and bloody gums.

Laura Grant

The War on my Belly Danny P. Barbare

Shoe pounding like a drum, fighting my belly. A war of blue sky and clouds, up the hills and through the valleys,

a battle as long and sweet as my breath, like summer honeysuckles â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;til cold as winter, like death.

Troy Baillargeon

California Ashley Boswell I. A golden strand of hair is on the pillow and the alarm nearby, but off she snores softly and then mumbles something about. . . “ritual. . . .” II. . . .A TV announcer is adjusting his mic and. . . California splits off from the U.S. This event is told as an earthquake. This event is God’s excuse for “a new new world,” as reason for exploration; a civilization evolves based on this need –

III. Years later, when discovered, California looks a lot like Easter Island with porn and health food kiosks. The announcer is long dead and a new announcer is in his place. . . IV. The new announcement: “We don’t need Him. We don’t need His religion. . . We’re God now. . . .”

Rebecca Callaghan

Alicia Mackleer

Intersecting Planes of concern A.J. Huffman A blink (I think) is the problem to the solution of time plus salt minus thought devoid of (not divided by) skin. Maybe sin should be squared. (The little two not the shape.) In the interest of chemistry. Never geometry. I failed that function when my slipper broke. Glass. All over the classroom. Illustrating my point: the silent irony of unshed blood. Brilliant isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t it? Plath would be proud. If she could configure the dimensional ramifications of her death. (Though there are a few who believe she did.) What a blustering cluster fuck that would cause. Over cocktails. Hereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s to the ghost, the bard and the muse. The only equation that never comes up false.

Christoph De Bellsterhamm

xandexar

I will die smoking April salzano

Not from smoking, but during my first cigarette of the day, a morning burst of nicotine filling tired lungs. Long before the cancer eats my cells, turns them black with poison, I will inhale, exhale; a process as automatic as breathing. Daybreak will find me slumped over in wicker chair, staring into woods in search of forest creatures to inspire me; coffee cup shattered, cold brew staining cement.

Loud, Bright, Crashing Things Harry Calhoun Recycling, as its name suggests, is better past tense. Getting the bottles there is a loud, crashing ordeal. I love seeing you naked in the morning, but bright lights almost make me scream. So do I pillow my eyes against the light and lose sight of you? Should we wait, then, to make love in dark bars? No loud, bright, crashing things, but too many people for our puritan tastes. Letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wait for privacy. I like you when youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re soft and warm at night and your hair tickles my nose when I snuggle into your shoulder, that tease and tickle, the only conflict I need from you then or ever. So often we wake in the morning and you knowing my hatred of noise and blare, generously keep quiet and cuddled, silent, darkly sighing a poem into the breath of the day.

The Dark is Afraid of you Rich Boucher The lamp is on the table by the far end of the couch, which is up against the wall, right underneath the painting of the posturing matador with a bone-white face. The lamp is in the dark, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not real until you turn the light on; the couch is also in the dark and is, ergo, also not real. The haunting painting and the grimacing matador in that haunting painting are in the dark, as well, and are therefore only a theoretical painting and only a theoretical matador. Until you turn the light on. The light switch for this room is in the off position, and is therefore also in the dark, and is therefore also not real.

Which means there is no way for you to make light happen in this room. You are afraid of the dark. The dark might be dark blue, but you are still afraid of it. You could go from the lighted hallway into the room that contains darkness; you could risk your life and just feel around in the room for that light switch you believe in. Strike the match within you, light up the chambers of your heart like tabernacles in candlelight. Give the dark a reason to be afraid of you.

Alicia Mackleer

Flaming John Grey You found me down by the stream. I just had to get away moments before you just had to get away. Our house was full of people. I sat on the bank, head against willow trunk, pulling out grass stalks, thinking of nothing. You looked back occasionally, prayed your getaway wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be noticed by that quagmire of friends and relatives. We could hear them well enough, clicking glasses, flushing toilets, chattering and buzzing. My house was no longer mine. The stream was where I lived. You sat beside me. With an arm around your shoulders, I bore you across that threshold. It was your birthday, a cake, a refrigerator full of booze, the caterers of course, the enemy in your kitchen. You were only a moment older but, overrun with strangers, our home aged appreciably. We made love there like we were teenagers. An even better kind of birthday the one that propels you backwards. Our moans mixed with distant hubbub.

We gained a child that day though we didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know it then. The current, I expect, despite its slowness, was very much aware. Later we rejoined our guests as, with song and drunkenness, they struggled to stake that day into the ground. You blew out the candles, but not your flame.

cole McCarty and Barbi Moroz

Saul LaRouxgerstien’El

Ode to a hacker Rocky Moroz - August 24, 1989 Eerily the clock chimes twelve. It’s midnight—the bewitching hour. The wife, the kids, they’re all fast asleep in their warm, cozy beds. As my bloodshot eyes rove over my computer desk, I spy discarded wrappers and cans from junk food long since eaten. Once again, the urge strikes me and I find myself scurrying towards the kitchen. Once more I find myself searching the cabinets for something—anything—that would have absolutely no nutritional value. As all hope slowly begins to fade, I discover the corner of a blue and white box partially hidden by a package of Nabisco Shredded Wheat. “Shredded Wheat”, I laugh to myself, “of course it’s good for you. Anything that tastes like a broiled Brillo pad has to have some redeeming quality.” My hopes begin to soar as I delicately pull the blue and white box towards me. Letters start to become visible: first a “T”, then an “A”, quickly followed by “S”,” T”, and “Y.” Greedily I steal the box from the cabinet and its hiding place. My prayers have been answered—it’s a Tastykake Coconut Cream Pie! With a mischievous smile spreading across my lips, I turn and trod triumphantly back to my waiting computer. As yet another program begins to load, I gently remove the wrapper from my prize. My nostrils whiffed the slight smell of coconuts, mixed with the freshly baked goodness of the delicious, golden brown crust. My mouth begins to salivate as I move the pie closer, closer, and closer. From a distance, the novice would surely confuse a Tastykake with the much less desirable McDonald’s apple pie. Being similar in shape and appearance it takes a trained eye to determine which is which. But I, being a true hacker, have learned to distinguish between these two at no less than a hundred paces. While the Mickey D’s pie has a hard, ugly deformed crust with bubbles popping up all over the place, the Tastykake crust is, as I’ve said, golden brown, smooth, soft, and appetizing with corners that are ever so slightly burned. From the outside this is truly a work of art. Inspector #12 surely deserves a raise. No longer can I wait. Gingerly I take my first and most satisfying bite. The rich, creamy filling floods my mouth with a taste that is indescribably good. Its sweet, delicious flavor compels my every thought, demands all of my attention be paid to the situation at hand. I take bite after bite, savoring my fattening delicacy, until—alas—my pie is gone. But, all is not lost, suddenly I begin to feel a warm inner glow building inside my body; a feeling that can only be equated to a junk food high. It gives me the strength needed to continue about my work. Temporarily thus sustained, I turn and begin typing again. Eerily, the clock chimes two. The wife, the kids, they’re all fast asleep in their warm, cozy beds. As my blood shot eyes rove around my computer desk, I spy discarded wrappers and cans from junk food long since eaten. I believe I saw a leftover pizza in the fridge...

Burners John Haydak The hardwood, walled room wreaked of something neither rudimentally good nor bad, but rather something merely existing, there and nothing more. Stubborn to the wandering stares of its captives, the formality of the spaces between its vertical panels provided some rigidity to the natural design of the swirling grain patterns, soft and begging for discipline. The floor, though, had either never been leveled or had mutated drastically as the building had settled and tended to slope toward the party wall, the cinderblock interior of which made this particular section of hardwood panel skin literally colder and metaphorically more lifeless than the others, leeching warmth from my chest as I leaned awkwardly against it, feeding energy to its dense bowels to be instantly digested, dissipated and forgotten. I began to ponder entropy and chaos theory, all in a split-second of knowing nothing, and only so for a moment. My mind flippantly raced to replace scientific thought with a cascade of memories of science classes past, of myself hurriedly scribbling notes with some chewed-down pencil onto scraps of paper that would frequently become progressively more riddled with puncture wounds from the blunt and filthy carvings into the desktop underneath. At least, I saw them that way then. Mostly, I wondered if disorder pointed not to a means to an end of things, but rather to some beginning, to some harmony everything was working toward collectively and unconsciously, to some perfect union between style, space, and soul. I wondered if my body heat, still being emitted unwillingly in miniscule pieces of my greater energy, might be doing so purposefully as to coalesce again at some later point in time and then return to me, maybe to add that extra spark to a fire’s ignition that burns me alive or saves me from hypothermia. Perhaps that time was now, I decided, that this particular energy would leave me for good and render my philosophies effectively moot and late for its own discussion. Yet, for all the disdain and discomfort I was feeling as the wall sapped my warmth completely, I couldn’t help but paint the inside of my eyelids with some utopian vision of hell, invitingly sweltering, arms of flames whipping artistically in a beautifully unchoreographed synchronicity. So, for as desperate my thoughts had become, I had found the antidote in something as simple as a promising vision of hell. How about that for optimism? And for as cold as the cinderblock made the fake oak panels feel, it was still demonizing, but pleasant compared to the dull metal chill resonating through my body from the pistol barrel sticking in my neck. “Talk!” A poor request this was, as it was something I hardly ever did anymore, something I felt increasingly unwilling and uncomfortable doing, especially to a complete stranger. My frugal tongue. “I don’t know what you, you’re after, but it’s not me,” I choked out. Do you know that feeling you get when you near the crest of an untrusted roller coaster and your heart drops out from under you? Or when a longtime lover reminds you of an old flame stopping by earlier that day? Mine was exactly opposite for a second as I felt that cold, steel pressure lifted from the crevice of my right collarbone in a tidal wave of deserved relief. And as the endorphins in my brain aligned with my basest nerves, they began working their second shift ahead of time, firing off excuses for why I should be worried more now. And before the butt of my assailant’s gun’s handle cracked against my skull, the rush of heat you might get from a successful screaming plunge or the recognition of a love to be found true coursed across my body.

Dine and Die in D Minor William Martin Joe and Mary are sitting at the counter in a diner as the cook stands in the background listening to a radio. MARY Oh Joe, thank you for the lovely dinner. It’s so nice to get out of the house. Ever since my husband passed it seems like all I do is work, and take care of the kids. JOE Don’t mention it Mary. A fine dame like you deserves to be taken out to a fine American establishment like this every once in a while. MARY Well it’s nice to not have to cook for once. JOE Oh no Mary, as soon as you get home you should cook something. I don’t want you getting rusty. MARY Oh, how silly of me. I’ll just bake a roast and use it for sandwiches tomorrow. JOE Now that’s using the old noggin. RADIO We interrupt your program for an urgent news bulletin. previous claims of the Soviets harnessing the destructive force of the atom have been confirmed. The Kremlin has just announced to the world that they have successfully tested an atom bomb, thus taking away the U.S. advantage in the arms race. What horrors await us on the horizon of this red dawn? Only time will tell, but Secretary of Defense Robert Abercrombie would like to reassure the proud citizens of these United States not to panic, and that Uncle Sam has just begun to fight. We now return you to the program already in progress. MARY Golly, the Russians have an atomic bomb!? I sure do hope those crazy communists don’t attack us. It’s hard enough cleaning up after two kids, I don’t want to think about the mess an atomic bomb would make. JOE Ha ha, just like a woman. We’re on the brink of a nuclear war, and all you think about is house work. MARY Well last time I started to talk about politics you slapped the opinion right out of me.

JOE Damn straight. Crazy Fry cook walks up to the table and slams his hand on the counter. CRAZY FRY COOK GUY Dem commies been itchin’ for a war eva’ since we got rid a Hitler! Dagnabbit we shoulda waited a few months before we moved in on them crouts. Then we coulda’ wiped the reds and the crouts out at da same time! Mary is disturbed by the mans outburst, Joe is angry. JOE Excuse me sir, you are disturbing my lady friend. I must insist that you cease immediately! CRAZY FRY COOK GUY Well she should be disturbed. I’m a disturbin’ guy talkin’ ’bout a disturbin’ subject! JOE I’ve had just about enough of you crazy... fry cook... guy. What is your name anyway? CRAZY FRY COOK GUY My name is George Wellington the Third, but most folks just call me Crazy Fry Cook Guy. Joe pauses. JOE Fitting. A Frenchman walks in off the street and sits at the counter. FRENCH MAN Bonjour, I would like some of, how you say, American coffee. CRAZY FRY COOK GUY Just what I need, a lousy Frenchman. JOE CRAZY FRY COOK GUY

Don’t go starting more trouble while we’re in the middle of an argument! You can make fun of the smelly Frenchman when I’m finished with you! Why I aughta-

FRENCH MAN Ah, this must be, how you say, American conversation. Air raid sirens sound. Everybody looks around concerned. JOE What’s going on?

CRAZY FRY COOK GUY Air raid sirens? The Reds, they’re attackin’! An explosion shakes the foundation of the diner. Everyone is anxiously looking around. MARY Joe, I’m scared! FRENCH MAN French-a-dee french french french! Crazy Fry cook Guy looks at the French man. CRAZY FRY COOK GUY What in the sam hill are ya yammerin’ on about? FRENCH MAN MARY CRAZY FRY COOK GUY JOE CRAZY FRY COOK GUY

Sorry, I revert back to native tongue when frightened. What’s going on? Them commies finally did it. Did what? They nuked us.

JOE That’s crazy. CRAZY FRY COOK GUY Is it? Dem Commies finally catch up to us in da arms race and we just so happened to get attacked? JOE We don’t know that we’re being attacked. FRENCH MAN Dis man is right. We shouldn’t jump to conclusion. CRAZY FRY COOK GUY Shut it Frenchy. You’re probably a commie spy straight from Moscow. FRENCH MAN But I’m French. CRAZY FRY COOK GUY French, I-talian, Russian, all I hear is commie, commie, commie. Mary tugs at Joe’s arm. MARY Joe, I need to get home. My kids are home alone with the baby sitter. I don’t want to pay her over-time!

CRAZY FRY COOK GUY Ya can’t go out der! The radiation sickness will get chya’. That’s a bad death, a mighty painful death. JOE As much as it pains me to say this, I think he’s right. We shouldn’t leave until we know what’s going on. Joe looks over at Crazy Fry Cook Guy. JOE What happened to your radio? CRAZY FRY COOK GUY It were destroyed in the bombing. JOE We don’t know it was a bombing. CRAZY FRY COOK GUY What else could it a been? JOE An earthquake. CRAZY FRY COOK GUY When was the last time we got a earthquake round here? Joe prepares a retort but the French Man interrupts. FRENCH MAN Enough! We need to go find help. You must have phone yes? CRAZY FRY COOK GUY Not that it matters to you Frenchy, but I have one behind the counter. JOE

Then call somebody!

CRAZY FRY COOK GUY Who? JOE The police! CRAZY FRY COOK GUY Fine, fine if it’ll get chu’ to shut up. Crazy Fry Cook Guy picks up the phone and tries to make a call. CRAZY FRY COOK GUY Phone’s dead. JOE Jesus Christ. What do we do now?

A badly burned, hysterical man runs into the diner. BADLY BURNED MAN Help, somebody help me! The badly burned man stumbles over to the counter and collapses. Joe and the French man go over to help him. JOE OH my god. FRENCH MAN Frenchy french french. The French man and Joe help the burned man into a seat. The French man sits down next to the burned man while Joe tries to talk to him. JOE Are you okay, what’s going on out there? BADLY BURNED MAN Zombies. JOE

Zombies?

MARY Zombies, what are those? CRAZY FRY COOK GUY The walking dead. The recently deceased, which come back to feast on da flesh of the living. JOE That’s preposterous. Joe turns to the burned man. JOE Sir, are you sure that what you saw were truly the walking dead? BADLY BURNED MAN I know what I saw! I may have charred flesh in my eyes, horrible burns, large infected gashes all over my body, I’m a little delirious from the blood loss... what were we talking about again? Joe turns to the Crazy Fry Cook Guy to argue. As soon as he turns, the burned man falls over dead. JOE This man is badly hurt we need to go get help. CRAZY FRY COOK GUY Not with dem zombies out der! JOE There are no zombies! CRAZY FRY COOK GUY You heard the man! Dem commies are usin’ the undead fer der red agenda!

JOE What I heard were the delirious ramblings of a dying man. The French man gets up. FRENCH MAN Enough of dis! I will go for help. French Man walks out the door. Mary and the fry cook yell after him. MARY No! CRAZY FRY COOK GUY Don’t go Frenchy, You’ll be turned into one of the undead horde! At least wait fer dem American zombies! Eat brains for the red white n’ blue! FRENCH MAN Sacrébleu, my head! CRAZY FRY COOK GUY You hear that? Dem zombies always go for the brain first! JOE He probably just fell and hit his head. CRAZY FRY COOK GUY That’s what they want you to think. Zombies er’ mighty crafty. JOE There are no zombies! This is stupid, Mary, We’re leaving. MARY What about the zombies? JOE There are no- listen, the longer we wait here, the more you’re going to have to pay the babysitter. MARY Oh no! Joe and Mary walk toward the door. The crazy fry cook runs over to the counter and pulls out a shotgun. CRAZY FRY COOK GUY Ain’t nobody goin’ nowhere! Joe turns and is surprised to find the fry cook holding a gun. Mary hides behind Joe. JOE Whoa now, let’s not get carried away here. CRAZY FRY COOK GUY I’m not gonna let you become a commie zombie. If yer lookin’ to die, you’ll die an American. JOE Okay let’s just think about this for a second. CRAZY FRY COOK GUY And come back an American zombie.

JOE What? CRAZY FRY COOK GUY That’s right. American zombies, ours will eat twice as many brains and ride motorcycles! JOE You’re mad! CRAZY FRY COOK GUY Am I? I sit back here cookin’ fer a bunch a commie lovin’ liberals with their “women’s rights” and their “abortion”. All ya young people care about is yer fancy swing music and “world peace” but while you’re makin’ our country weak, the commies work on new zombie soldiers! That all changes today, once I kill you and feed you my voodoo gumbo. JOE Okay now, let’s not get out of hand here. Joe inches toward Crazy Fry Cook Guy. JOE We don’t want any trouble. CRAZY FRY COOK GUY Don’t come any closer or I’ll shoot! Joe leaps at Crazy Fry Cook Guy. The two wrestle around a bit when the shotgun goes off. Mary screams while Joe and Crazy Fry Cook Guy lay motionless on the floor. As Mary kneels down to inspect the carnage, Joe rolls over and gets up. MARY Ahhh, a zombie. JOE I’m not a zombie, you stupid whore! Joe slaps Mary across the face. Mary stands silent for a moment, then the two passionately embrace and kiss. MARY Oh Joe, what do we do now? JOE First, we go dismiss your babysitter. We don’t need to pay that lazy tramp another cent. Then we take on whatever awaits us in this new world together. Joe opens the door, and the two walk through it. As soon as they leave, the badly burned man gets up and brushes himself off. End

Caged Nikki Rae - Part 1 I heard the cat crying. It was right outside the front door. I stayed up half the night contemplating whether I should go outside. It was dark out there. But it was crying. Wailing. Begging for someone to come and help it. The wind howled past my windows, and I wanted to crawl under the blankets and hide there until morning, when it would be light out and I could see. Then I would help the poor, possibly injured animal. But I didn’t wait. *** Catching a bird isn’t so hard. Most people think that the actual act of grasping onto it is the hardest part. It’s difficult, without question. But half the battle is just picking the right one. You have to imagine trying to catch it before you even stick your hand inside. Will it be the blue parakeet with the black-tipped feathers? The grey dove? Or is the customer more of a canary or finch person? I’m not saying that you have to pick the slowest, or the nicest, or the easiest one. It’s just a feeling you get when you peer through those metal bars of the cage. After you figure that out, it’s pretty easy. It’s only a matter of mechanics from there. You have to know how to hold it, how to set it in a box when you let go, and how to avoid getting bitten. I knew all of this when we entered the enclosure where the birds were kept. I knew all of this and much more, but I was just starting there, so I let Devon, the girl I was shadowing, show me how to do it. I’ve known most of the information on birds—and a lot of other animals—since I was sixteen. I had a job back in Virginia. Then I had another before in California. Also in Nevada, Ohio, and where I had most recently moved from, Arizona. All of those jobs were at pet stores. Knowing animals is what I’m good at. It’s one of the only areas of my life where I feel like I am completely in control. I have the power to decide whether or not a person is fit to take this living creature home and care for it. Sometimes, I am the only thing standing in the way of making sure someone does not unintentionally harm, damage, or even kill another living being that cannot care for itself. I had just moved again. This time, to New York, where I was hired by PetLand Pets. The place was family owned, but they recently had to hire people outside of the family because their children were going off to college. I myself was twenty years old—college age—but I needed to save up enough money, and grow enough nerve to attend. I knew it was going to be rough when Devon rested her hand on the cage to the green parakeets, completely ignoring the one with the blues. Her light blond hair shone under the florescent lights overhead as she narrowed her eyes on her target. Her goal was to teach me by catching one first, and then she was going to let me try. “It’s important that you grab their heads between your index and middle knuckles,” Devon explained. “That way, it’s harder for them to bite you.” I smiled politely, already knowing that this is what to do when handling a bird, and I waited for her to demonstrate. After we were shut inside the closet-sized room, Devon opened the cage and shoved her hand inside, making the birds flap around wildly wherever her open palm hovered. Feathers flew up, a downier one landing in Devon’s bangs. Shelled seeds from their food bowl showered down onto the linoleum floor as they chirped and screamed and made a fuss. Finally, after she had exhausted one with a yellow head, bright green wings, and darker green-tipped feathers, it gave up. It tried hiding behind the water

bowl, sandwiching itself between glass and metal, but Devon caught it, her index and middle knuckles holding its head securely as she withdrew her hand. But she must have not had as good of a grip as she thought, because the animal whipped its head free, then promptly bit down on the skin between her fingers and would not let go. I was watching all of the birds since the beginning of my shift. I already knew that the green parakeets were for whatever reason, not as docile as the blue or white ones, but this particular bird was one of the nastiest. Well, nasty according to the human definition. It would push the other birds around, peck at ones that would try to clean it, stand on top of a toy and chirp loudly, claiming it as his and his alone. In animal terms, he was surviving. Creating a pecking order so he knew where he stood in his world of manufactured wood and plastic and glass. The bird began flapping wildly, screeching, and latching onto Devon’s skin hard enough to not let go, but not with enough pressure to draw blood. I always thought it was strange how they could still scream like that, even with their mouths full. It never failed to startle me, no matter how many times I had heard or seen it. To her credit, Devon was calm the entire time. “Ow,” she said as more of an afterthought than anything else. She took her free hand and grabbed onto the bird’s body, then she began to gently pull, only causing the bird to become angrier and latch on harder. This time, Devon was startled. “Ow,” she said louder, sucking in a breath and cursing under it all at once. I tried to get close enough to her without making any sudden movements that would spook the poor little guy further. When I was finally close enough to grab onto it with both of my hands, I reached up to the shrieking bird with the knuckles of my middle and index fingers. Carefully, I grasped onto the frightened thing, still attached to Devon, who was whispering to herself, “Ow, ow, ow, ow.” “Come on, birdie,” I said softly, not even talking to Devon or acknowledging the fact that she was probably in more pain than the animal was scared. The bird was my first priority. It had no say in who picked it, why it was being torn from its cage and being handled roughly with someone yelling at it. I used the trick I learned in Virginia three years ago: I puffed a quick breath of air into the bird’s face. I felt bad whenever I had to do that. It didn’t hurt, of course, just startled them enough to make them stop doing whatever they were doing. But I always felt like I had broken some form of potential trust between the bird and I. Blowing in its face made it question something long enough for whoever it was biting to get free, but I always wondered if its thought process went deeper than that. The second I blew into its face, the bird grew quiet, releasing Devon from its grip and into mine. The animal was silent now; it had calmed itself, but was still breathing heavily. “Whoa,” Devon said when she caught her breath. “I didn’t expect her to do that.” She held up her hand to me and I carefully tucked the bird into my chest. The mark the parakeet left was no worse than a cat scratch, but I understood why she got upset. It really, really hurts when they bite. “How did you know how to do that?” she asked, blowing on the skin between her fingers like it made the pain stop. “I don’t even know how to do that.” She laughed a little bit. “Any time one of them bit me, I’d just wait until they tired themselves out and let go.” I positioned the bird in my left hand as I used my right one to open the cage door again to set him inside. The other ones flapped around, then settled as the one we caught found a perch and sat quietly. Things would be different in there from now on. “I know how to do a lot of things with animals,” I answered. “I’ve been at pet stores for a long time, I guess.” Then I added, “And it’s a him, not a her.” “Well shit,” she said, then laughed again as she opened the main door to the enclosure, locking it after I followed her out.

The smell of stale hamster bedding hit us in the face when we walked back into the main part of the store, but I was sure I was the only one who smelled it. Devon was probably used to it by now. At that moment, a man walked in who I had expected by now. He was in his mid-thirties, tall with brown eyes and nearly shoulder length dirty blond hair that he usually wore in a ponytail. I had only been at Petland for about a week, but he would come in the same time every few days, look around, ask some questions, then leave. I hadn’t gotten to interact with him yet, and I really wanted to. I thought he was the type of person who wanted a pet, but just didn’t know which one was right for him. “Okay,” Devon said as the man walked to the wall of aquariums, crossing his arms over his chest and studying them. “Why don’t you take care of this guy, and I’ll shadow you for a change?” “I think I can do that,” I agreed instantly. I was usually nervous when I was put on the spot, but when it came to animals, I knew what I was doing. I walked up to him with the usual, How are you? Can I help you with anything? Opening line. He turned to me like he was surprised I was talking to him. “I need an animal,” he answered. His voice was soft, and his lips were naturally upturned in the corners so it looked like he was on the verge of smiling when he wasn’t. I also noticed that he had a slight accent but I couldn’t place it. Devon got him to answer that question for me, not that I would have asked. “Where are you from?” He inclined his head toward her fractionally, like she was interrupting our conversation. But he was polite when he answered. “Moscow.” And this time he did smile, for a second. “Wow,” Devon said like it was the most interesting fact. “Like Russia, Moscow?” He nodded. “That would be the one.” I was already becoming uncomfortable with how the conversation was turning more into a casual one than one about animals, so I tried to shift it. “So what kind of animal were you looking for?” I asked. “I do not know,” he said, his attention fully on me now. That was his only answer. I thought this was odd, but I didn’t let it throw me off. “So are you shopping for yourself, or is it for someone else?” “It is for a friend. They want a pet, but I do not know which one is right for them. Maybe you can help me pick one?” I tried not to smile too widely. I was right. He wanted me to choose one for him. Most people that come into a pet store know what type of pet they want. They run the gambit from just having a slight idea of a fish or hamster or snake, or have read every book on the subject of their animal, knowing every detail before they purchase it. That was rare, but this was even rarer. People almost never came in and asked me to tell them what pet would fit them best. “So it’s like a present?” I asked. The man shrugged a little bit, turning the corner of his mouth up. “I suppose you could say that.” “How old is the person?” “A little bit older than me.” “Do you think he’d like something more if he could hold it, or does he just want something pretty to look at?” He seemed to take a long time to think that over, watching the feeder tank filled with hundreds of goldfish swim around before turning back to me. “Both.” “Maybe a bird then?” I motioned for him to follow me to the glass side of the bird habitat so I could point them out. Devon and the man followed. The sun conure they had in the big cage at the time made a loud squawk when she saw us. She wanted sunflower seeds, and I was going to give her some if the man didn’t say, “I do not think he would like anything that is loud.”

I laughed a little. “I don’t blame him,” I said. “Conures are nice, but they need a lot of attention and get really attached to whoever they’re with. They can get mean if they’re too used to that person… and they’re really loud because they’re originally from the rain forest and need to span a lot of distance.” I realized that I was spouting too much information so I stopped talking. Not everybody was interested in tiny facts about every single animal like I was, and I often forgot that. “What about these?” The man asked. “What can you tell me about these?” He had shifted his weight a little in order to point to the cage that had cut throat finches in it. “What a strange name,” he said to himself. “Well they’re called that because the males have this bright red band around their throats.” I shrugged. “It’s a little morbid but…” I decided to get back on topic. “Finches are more of an animal that’s just for show. I mean, you could train them with a lot of practice, I think, but it takes a while and they’re really small. So you can’t clip their wings and if they fly away, they’re gone,” I said. “I would probably suggest either a dove or a canary.” The man turned his head to the cage on the end that held two diamond doves, which I always thought looked more like pigeons, but they were pretty sweet. He considered this for a few seconds. “I do not think he would like a dove.” “What about a canary?” I asked. “Canaries are calm, pretty, and some of them sing, but they aren’t too loud.” I led him over to the last cage on the left where the yellow canaries were and he followed, Devon trailing behind us. “Can you train this type of animal?” I couldn’t help noticing that when he said “animal” it sounded more like animwall. I nodded. “Yeah, of course. It takes more time than some of the other birds, but when they get used to you, little by little you can get them to perch on your finger and all of that kind of stuff.” He was looking past me at the cage that held three yellow canaries. He studied them for a long time. I watched him watch them because I wasn’t sure what he was thinking. “Okay,” he answered. “I like this bird.” “Okay.” I smiled. Then I walked into the enclosure, fully prepared to make a new owner happy with their new pet. *** When I was fifteen, my entire life changed. Some people say things like that. Some people say that something bad or traumatic happened when they were a pre-teen and it changed them. I always thought they were exaggerating in some way. Most of the people I knew in high school said that over the summer they had changed. That they would never be the same. Those kinds of things are not what I’m talking about. What happened to me was different. Then again, I didn’t exactly have a normal life before everything changed. My parents were involved with Vampires. That’s not a metaphor. They kept it well hidden, enough that us kids—me and my little brother—were concealed from whatever went on. They never brought vampires into our house, never introduced us to any. But they taught us how to spot them, how to block them out of our thoughts, how to tell if they had good or bad intentions. My parents were not blood donors; they did not have vampire friends. Neither of them was ever bitten. What they did was help “good” vampires blend into society. They set them up with social security cards, bank accounts, fake families and fake back stories so they could look and act like us—humans—as much as possible. But that was only a whisper in our everyday lives. The fire was what changed everything.

*** I had been working for PetLand a few weeks before I got called in on a Friday night. I usually never worked on Fridays. And I never worked nights. There was a bad snowstorm blowing in. They were saying that it was going to be a blizzard. A lot of people were calling out because they were afraid of getting stuck, and I was the only one stupid enough to answer my phone when Devon called, begging me to come in because there were a ton of sick animals in the quarantine room and she couldn’t take care of them all by herself. “You sure you have to go in?” Dani asked over the phone. I was already on my way, and I had her on speaker as I was stopped at a red light. “There was no one else,” I told her. “Devon even said we could close the store early if we want, as long as we get everything done.” “Are you sure?” she asked. “You haven’t been out by yourself at night in...Well, ever. You going to be okay?” Now I sighed. “Yes, Dani,” I said. “I’ll be fine. I haven’t had any anxiety since I made the move.” “That’s not what I was talking about,” she said, dead serious. “I know,” and I was serious too. “I won’t be alone, I promise.” “Stay with that girl you work with.” “I will.” The light turned green and I made the left turn into the shopping plaza where PetLand was. “Well, I’ve got to go,” I said. “When are you coming home?” Dani sighed, exasperated. “I swear, you’d think switching your credits over a state or two would be easy by now.” “Yeah. It’s always easy.” Dani laughed. “Depending on this storm, I should be home sometime this weekend. If not by tomorrow, Sunday. For sure.” “Good. I miss you,” I said. I didn’t want to tell her that I was lonely and kind of scared without her. She probably already knew that. “Just relax, Ava,” she said in only a way she could, the way that never failed to calm me. “Okay.” “I love you,” she said. “I love you too.” Then I hung up and parked my car, stepping out into the lightly falling snow. The moon was still shining against the blackened sky, but the way the flakes made shadows against it soothed me. It was peaceful. I would be at work for a few hours and then I could go home. Devon would be with me practically every second. I would not be alone. There was nothing to be afraid of. *** I was in the locked quarantine room for about twenty minutes, feeding hamsters pink antibiotics, making sure the guinea pigs had enough vitamin C drops in their water, and refilling their food and water when Devon knocked. “Hey,” she said. “There’s someone here who wants to see you.” A smile spread across her face. “Who?” I asked. Without answering, she grabbed my forearm and dragged me out of the room, the heavy door shutting slowly behind us. She led me to the wall of fish tanks, where she abruptly stopped walking. “Here,” she said a few feet away from the customer. It was no surprise the Russian man was back. He had snow on his black overcoat and a few pieces were melting in his hair. “Hello again,” I said. Then I noticed that he wasn’t alone. “This is the girl who sold me your bird,” the Russian man said to him.

The man standing next to him was extremely skinny, his face sunken in. If his hand wasn’t so warm when he shook my hand, I would have thought he was a vampire. I also would have felt him trying to get inside my head, which I didn’t. I told myself I was being paranoid because of the conversation I just had with Dani. He smiled when he shook my hand, then let go. “How is he?” I asked. The thin man spoke as the other one walked around slowly, looking at the goldfish again. “My bird is good,” he said, giving me another smile. Something about him was definitely off. I didn’t know what it was, or even if it was real at all. I was being paranoid, I reminded myself again. I always did that when I was on edge. If I wasn’t careful, the paranoia would turn into anxiety, and that was never good. “So then what brings you here?” I asked to get my mind off of things. “It must be important if you guys came out in the storm.” Devon stood on a ladder, pretending to pull dead fish from a tank as she watched us, aimlessly dipping the net into the water. The thin man motioned with his head to her before returning his gaze to me. “You are here,” he pointed out. I laughed, trying to make conversation. “Yeah. No one else wanted to work besides Devon and I.” He laughed too and it was a soft, barely there sound. “We do need help, don’t we?” he asked the Russian man who had been quiet this entire time. “He is impatient about teaching the bird to sing on command.” His accent was somehow thicker when he spoke the words, but he didn’t look at either of us when he said them. “Oh?” The man with the Russian accent nodded, crossing his arms over his chest, but he was still staring into the tank. “I am not,” the other one said, sounding way more defensive than the comment warranted. “It takes a long time,” I said, trying to ease him into seeing things my way. “You only bought him, what,” I directed at the man I originally sold the canary to. “Two weeks ago?” He nodded again. “Yeah,” I said. “It takes a lot of time. He’s probably not even used to you yet.” “That is not the only problem,” The skinny man said. “The bird has not sung since it was brought home.” I nodded, listening intently to what he was explaining to me. “It only sits in the cage and stares.” “It might just be stressed,” I said, and his eyes noticeably bulged a little bit. “That’s normal,” I added. “It happens sometimes when you take an animal out of its environment and into a completely new one.” “That will take time as well?” he asked. I nodded. He looked like he didn’t believe me, like there was something defective with the bird I had sold him. I was unsure of a lot of things in my life, but the fact that I sold a sick bird was not one of them. “Here,” I said, motioning for both of them to follow me to where the birds were, but Devon followed me too. First I walked to the front of the enclosure, where we could see through the glass that looked directly into the canary cage. “You guys wait here,” I said to Devon and the Russian man. Then I turned to the thin man again before I said, “Come with me.” I walked around to the other side of the habitat and opened the door with the key, then gestured him to step inside with me.

He hesitated for a second, but then he came in, shutting the door behind him. I knelt down in the small space which was made even smaller with him in there. He stayed close, studying every movement I made. I opened the canary cage where three yellow males were. I had planned on keeping it a secret, but I wanted to convince them that it could be done. It was my goal to try and train each bird, even a little bit before people bought them. I always had free time to teach them, and no one else had as much patience. I had already trained the parrot to sit on my hand, but whenever I went to pat his head he would nip. He was a little bit harder to hand train than the canary with the tiny white spot on his chest I had been working with recently. I pointed him out. “You see that bird right there?” He nodded. When I looked up, Devon and the other guy were nodding too. I began to whistle a tiny tune: one high note and one low. The bird didn’t respond, but he hopped on the branch closest to me, turning his head and listening. It took him a few seconds, but he eventually responded in an identical song, which I whistled back. “You taught it how to do that?” The thin man interrupted. He was standing right next to me, watching the canary. I nodded. The bird repeated the two notes a few more times before it realized I wasn’t whistling back anymore, gave up, and began eating some seed. “It took a while,” I said. “He still won’t sit on my hand or anything, but once in a while he’ll sing when I ask him to.” He smiled, satisfied with the demonstration, “Thank you.” I shrugged, gently shutting the cage. He rested his hand on the door handle a second too long before twisting it and leading the way out. “Does it make you feel better?” I asked. “Now that you’ve seen it can be done?” I locked the door again once we were outside. “Yes,” said the Russian man’s friend. “This most definitely puts me at ease. Thank you again.” I smiled back. “You’re welcome.” *** I shook the snow from my hat as I walked into our new apartment. Dani would be joining me in a few days, and I couldn’t wait until then. I was lonely. And when I was lonely, I tended to worry about a lot of different things at once. I knew, in a certain portion of my mind, that where we had picked was safe. We spent weeks, maybe a month searching for somewhere I could find a job at a pet store and Dani could transfer her credits. It was never wise to stay in one place at a time. I never lived in any given state for more than a year, so making friends was difficult. Not that I talked to anyone else much besides Dani. She was my cousin, five years older than me, and the only family I had left. Every time we had to move, either because my mind grew too suspicious or because I thought we had sat still for too long, I told her she didn’t have to come with me. I always wanted her to come with me, of course, but I didn’t want her to miss out on things like job opportunities, friends, and having a normal life because of my past following me around. I locked the door behind me and kicked off my sneakers. I took off my coat and went into my room. This apartment was smaller than the one in Ohio, but bigger than the one in Nevada. The rent was cheaper by three hundred dollars than the one in Arizona, and it was peaceful. They also allowed pets, and Dani had been encouraging me to get a cat or a small dog, maybe even the chameleon that I had wanted for a few years. But I had to wait. For what, I wasn’t sure. I always thought that when I didn’t have to keep running, I would just know. I wasn’t sure what kind of sign I was waiting for, but it had to come someday. I knew Dani was hoping this was the time we stayed. She wanted to live in upstate New York—near the city, but still far away enough that we were close to nature and not around a ton of people. She found a

really good school, I found a really good therapist, and things were calm here. I never saw a vampire. Everywhere else I would see at least a few, walking around town, fake-grocery shopping, fake-eating at a restaurant. Maybe we had finally found a safe place where we could settle down. I shrugged off my dirty uniform once I was in the bathroom, turning up the hot water to get the chill out of the room and my bones. When I got out, I toweled off, dressing in the warmest sweat pants I owned and a long-sleeved pajama shirt. I threw my work clothes into the washing machine, grateful we had found an apartment that had the washer and dryer inside rather than in a basement or somewhere we had to drive to instead. It was also on the ground floor, which made garbage day a lot easier. I ate left over Chinese food from the night before, and then I turned on the TV to some re-runs of sitcoms I had seen a million times. I only wanted the sound of it while I unpacked some boxes, I wasn’t really watching. Sometimes I would feel anxious over nothing. That night, just being alone in a new place, unpacking our belongings like I had so many times before, only this time, without Dani, triggered me. *** When I was fifteen, I woke up one night with a sore throat. When I opened my eyes, everything was cloudy. It wasn’t right. I always slept with a light on when I was younger. It made me feel better. But that night, everything was hazy. My room was filled with black smoke. I could smell it. I scrambled as fast as I could and tried to open my door, but the handle was blazing hot, burning my skin instantly. Maybe the firemen heard my screams, maybe they were breaking every window in the house, but they came in through mine and whisked me out of the room before I could try my door again. I was hospitalized for smoke inhalation and had third degree burns on my hand. No one told me where my family was. *** A hot sweat broke out all over me, making my wet hair stuck to the back of my neck. I tied the thick heavy strands into a ponytail. That always helped in the beginning stages. I took my cell phone off of the charger and opened the window in my room, leaning my head against the screen as the cool air hit me in the face and momentarily shocked me out of the hot flash. I dialed Dani’s number and she picked up on the second ring. “What’s wrong?” she asked. It was her usual answer whenever I called instead of texted while she was at school. It was around four in the afternoon here, so it was about two in Flagstaff. “Nothing,” I said, but I could hear the trembling in my tight voice as a lump began growing in my throat. “Are you having one, Ava?” she asked, her voice calm, which helped a lot. I could hear people talking around her like she was in the cafeteria, but then it was a lot more muffled, like she had gone outside. “Yeah,” My voice came out in a whisper. I was afraid that my breathing was going to take over my body, and that was always bad. I could never stop an attack once that happened. “Okay,” she said. “Are you outside?” She knew from years of experience, through both of us talking about it and experiencing it together, that removing myself from where I was beginning to get anxious and going somewhere else would often help. “Kind of,” I answered. “Okay,” she said. Other people would ask me what was wrong, what made me panic, or maybe they would instruct me in things that I had no control over in this state, like to breathe or relax. Dani knew that those things didn’t help. What helped was switching my mind to something else so I wouldn’t have to face it. So the attack wouldn’t peak and I didn’t let my mind get swallowed up by the actions of my body. “How many minutes have you been like this?” she asked. She knew I was good at counting. I

counted every second of every attack, which would also make my mind concentrate on it more, causing the sensations to get worse, but at least I knew how many minutes I had left of it before it was over. Ten minutes was the longest I had ever gone through one from start to finish, and I wasn’t looking to ever increase that record. “Two minutes,” I whispered. “Okay,” she repeated. “You have the painting we made hanging up yet?” she asked. I swallowed. I hadn’t had the chance to get to it, but it was wrapped in brown paper, leaning against the closet door. “No,” I said. “But,” I had to take a breath before continuing. “I can get it.” “Okay,” she said yet again. It was her calm voice, she said okay a lot without telling me that it was okay, which would only make things worse because the words would draw my attention to how I wasn’t breathing, the tingling in my arms and legs, and the dizziness and nausea that was crashing into me with every ticking second. I set the phone down reluctantly, not wanting to leave Dani’s voice for even the shortest amount of time. I found the heavy wooden frame wrapped in its paper and began tearing it away. Once most of the covering was gone, I carried it back to the window and leaned it against the wall nearby as I picked up the phone again and let the frozen air breeze past my face. “Got it,” I said, though my voice was barely there. “Okay,” she said. “What do you see in that painting? Tell me.” We painted the canvas a few years ago, after one of my many therapists thought it would be a good idea to incorporate art therapy into my treatment for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and Anxiety. It was a large abstract with different shapes in water color and acrylic paints. We both painted it together, and each line, circle, splatter, and shape represented a different worry or fear we had. We didn’t name them out loud, we just sat and painted silently one summer afternoon. We hung it in my room whenever we moved so it would be ready. I took a little too long to answer, so Dani calmly took control for me. “How many black lines are there?” she asked. “Count them for me.” I swallowed, tried to focus my blurring and doubling eyesight on the image in front of me. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. SixSevenEight. Nine. “Nine.” “Good,” she coached. “Now tell me the green ones.” OneTwoThree. Four. Five…Six. “Six.” I took a deep breath, the first my lungs would let in. Then another. “Blue?” Dani asked. I knew how many there were without counting by now, but that would defeat the purpose. I searched around for them, finding the numbers like they were magical tools that would keep my ribcage from collapsing, my head from spinning. “Seventeen.” Finally, I was okay. “I think it’s over,” I said. “Are you sure?” I paused, taking note of how my breathing was smooth, my hands were no longer shaking. “Yes,” I gulped. “But I still feel out of it.” Imagine that sensation you get when you’re just about to fall asleep. That point where you’re past tossing and turning, but not ready for dreams yet. The place where your mind wanders and doesn’t make any sense. Now imagine that your eyes are open while you’re in that place, and you’re trying to shake yourself out of it, blinking rapidly and looking around, trying to figure out if you are or aren’t awake, but you can’t rise above the wandering of your brain, and you can’t control it. They say the fear of having a panic attack is worse than having a panic attack. Mostly, that’s true. I just forgot about that when I was in the middle of one.

“Do you have Xanex?” Dani asked, pulling me from my thoughts, but not taking them away entirely. “Yeah.” She stayed on the phone with me and waited until I took one. She told me to lie down and watch TV on the couch while I described every little thing that happened on the screen. “I miss you,” I said weakly, once the pill started working. I was still feeling strange, but now I just didn’t care about it. “I miss you too, Ava,” Dani said. “I’ll be home soon. I promise.” A tear streaked down my face. I couldn’t stop it. “I’m sorry.” “What did I tell you about that?” she said. “You shouldn’t have to drop everything for me. Because of me.” “I love you. I’m not dropping anything. I’m just picking up different things.” She tried to joke. I said nothing. The colors on the TV began to blend into each other. “Are you asleep yet?” Dani whispered. “No,” I whispered back. But then I was. I was asleep for five hours before I heard the cat crying. *** To be continued in Issue 4...

About the editor Barbi Moroz was the recipient of both the 2013 Joseph Courter Fiction Award and the 2013 Stephen Dunn Poetry Award, which are first place literary awards at The Richard Stockton College of New Jersey. Her poetry has been published in the online magazines Misfitsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Miscellany and Leaves of Ink. Her poetry has also been published in the print magazines Creepy Gnome Magazine and Stockpot, Stocktonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s literary magazine and will soon be published in Bank Heavy Press.

About the Contributors • Nikki Rae: “Caged - Part 1” - Tuckerton, NJ • William Martin: “Dine and Die in D Minor” - Ocean City, NJ • Holly Day: “Disintegration” - Minneapolis, MN • Mitchell Grabois: “Kelp” - Edgewater, CO • Danny P. Barbare: “A Winding Mountain” and “The War on My Belly” - Greenville, SC • April Salzano: “I Will Die Smoking” - New Castle, PA • Troy Baillargeon: Untitled Pieces - Philadelphia, PA • Valentina Cano: “Palm Reading” - Miami, FL • Gary Beck: “Thermodynamics” - New York, NY • Corey Mesler: “Burying Fly” - Memphis, TN • Ashley Boswell: “California” - Reno, Nevada • A.J. Huffman: “Intersecting Planes of Concern” - Ormond Beach, FL

• Christoph De Bellsterhamm: “Xandexar” and “Man, Iridescent” - Philadelphia, PA • Harry Calhoun: “Loud, Bright, Crashing Things” - Raleigh, NC • Rich Boucher: “The Dark Is Afraid of You” - Albuquerque, NM • John Grey: “Flaming” - Johnston, RI • Rocky Moroz: “Ode to a Hacker” - Riviera Beach, FL • John Haydak: “Burners” - Vineland, NJ • Laura Grant: “Such Great Heights” and “Kaleidoscope” - Gainesville, GA • Alicia Mackleer: Untitled Pieces - Mayslanding, NJ • Cole McCarty: Untitled Piece - Sicklerville, NJ • Rebecca Callaghan: Untitled Piece - North Wales, PA • Saul LaRouxgerstien’El: Untitled Pieces - Paulsboro, NJ

Special Thanks Electric Rather would like to thank the talented writers and artists that contributed to this issue. We are very proud of the diversity of this issue and are honored to publish it. We received more than seventy submissions of fiction, poetry, and art. Sifting through these submissions was a labor of love and we canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t wait to start the process all over again. We would like to thank everyone that submitted to our magazine and our wonderful readers. Submissions are always welcome! We would also like to thank Gregory Melo and Melanie Mackleer for assisting in reviewing submissions and design concepts for this issue. We would like to cite two sources that created some of the textures and patterns used in this issue: cgtextures.com and subtlepatterns.com. For more information about our contributors, please visit our website: electricrather.tumblr.com.