Flash! by Missouri Baptist University

A Journal of Very Short Fiction

Missouri Baptist University Department of English Issue 5 2020

Flash! is a collection of short stories published by the Department of English at Missouri Baptist University, One College Park Dr., St. Louis, MO 63141. Submissions: To submit a flash fiction piece, please attach it as either a Word file (.doc or .docx) or a PDF to matthew.bardowell@mobap.edu. Submitted stories must be 50-1000 words in length; however, exceptions can be made at the editorsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; discretion. We consider up to three stories from each author. Please include the following information when submitting a flash fiction piece: author name, school or affiliation, story title, number of works submitted (up to three stories are allowed), word count for each story, and a short biographical statement (50-100 words). Multiple stories can be submitted in a single document. Interested students, faculty, and friends of the Department may submit previously unpublished manuscripts to matthew.bardowell@mobap.edu for consideration. Flash! is published once annually, exclusively online. Our submission deadline is September 1st, and our target publication date is October 1st.

Missouri Baptist University reserves the right to publish accepted submissions in Flash!; upon publication, copyrights revert to the authors. By submitting, authors certify that the work is their own. All submissions are subject to editing for clarity, grammar usage, and Christian propriety. The views expressed in this publication do not necessarily reflect the views of Missouri Baptist University.

Mason Arledge and Matthew Bardowell

Paul Acker

Mason Arledge

Seth Grady

Melissa Lawrence

Matthew Bardowell

In the fall of 2014, Flash! published its then-final issue. For several years, the chapbook has lain dormant, waiting for powerful stories to awaken it from its slumber and present it to a world in need of literary art. Today, after a six-year hiatus, we are proud to present the revival of Flash! in the form of the fall 2020 edition. It marks a new start for the online magazine, one we hope is filled with enlightening flash fiction stories capable of giving expression to our deepest yearnings, our most profound experiences, and even those moments in life that appear at first blush seemingly trivial. As Flash! embarks upon this new venture, we hope you will join us both by reading the included stories and submitting your own work to future editions. The fall 2020 edition of Flash! also comes at a time when the world could use a fresh breath of air. When we released the initial call for papers for the fall 2020 edition, we stated the theme for this issue was Flash!: The Pandemic Edition. Some of the included stories, such as Paul Acker’s “Scenes from ‘The Death of Intimacy’” and Matthew Bardowell’s “I Hope This Email Finds You Well” were inspired by current events, while others do not deal explicitly with present circumstances. Some, like Mason Arledge’s “The Sky is Falling” and Seth Grady’s “The Reflection of the Truth,” were written before the pandemic yet still relate to the human capacity for resilience and our ability to believe in goodness. Fiction can speak with wisdom, positivity, and poignancy to the world around us, and in this unexpected and challenging time it offers a gateway to explore the difficulties associated with our current circumstances. These stories can plant a small seed of beauty and remind us of the power and necessity of art, especially in trying times. In less than a thousand words these tales can also engender a feeling of relatability and encouragement. May these stories offer similar solace to you. But, above all, enjoy them. Thank you for reading, The Editors Mason Arledge & Matthew Bardowell St. Louis, MO December 2020

We didn’t get a dog until I was eight or nine. It was surprising both that my father had said we couldn’t have one, since he and his six siblings grew up with a beloved dalmatian named Annabelle Spot, and that he then changed his mind, because he seldom did. But when we came back from church, the Swedish Lutheran church where my great grandfather had been a pastor, my father announced we were going to the pound to pick out a puppy. Most everything at the pound was denominated ‘Shepherd X’ as to its breed, and our Shepherd X was reddish gold in color and shaped like a slightly bigger variety of wild fox. Since my sister was taking Latin in school, the dog was named Caesar. Not long afterwards it escaped from the house and was killed by a car over on Prospect Street. Some kind soul called us on the number that was engraved on Caesar’s identity tag. We weren’t allowed to accompany my father when he drove over to see the dog. We soon got another dog from the pound which we named Scheherazade, and then another from a local farm that we named Hobbit. In his later years, when he was retired and would take walks around the neighborhood, my father grew very close to Hobbit, who always walked with him, and lay at his feet when they came home. Before I had a dog I had puppets, animal hand puppets. All told, they were a red reindeer whom I called Rudolph, my least favorite, in part because his cardboard finger hole was too small; two puppets with rubbery plastic heads that I didn’t entirely like either, apparently one a crocodile and the other a frog but I considered them to be a dragon and an alligator; and a Tiger named Tony, my favorite, furry like a Stieff stuffed animal, with glass eyes. At night I would line them up under my pillow, with their heads sticking out. By morning the one on the end had always fallen onto the floor. I tried to be fair and rotate their positions, apologizing profusely to Tony when I deemed it to be his turn, but in fact putting Rudolph in that position more often than not. I suppose I figured he wouldn’t notice, being such a pea brain. Years later I found Tony the Tiger in a box in the basement, where my mother had left toys for visiting cousins to play with. He was missing an eye, with a thread or two in its place, a sorry sight, and an emblem of transience and mortality.

The professor was not only an old man, he was an old-fashioned man. So that while his contemporaries were streaming the films that they watched during their isolation, the professor rented his films from a video store, one of the last that was still operating. It had remained open as offering an essential service during the Plague by way of its CBD products, products containing cannabidiol, a hemp extract, claimed by its manufacturers to be something of a modern if unsubstantiated cure-all. It was good for everything that ailed you, except of course for the viral Plague. Taking the long drive to the video store occupied some part of many of the professor’s days. It offered something of a blessing in disguise, for the route into the city where the store was located took one along a road with a river view, the River des Peres or ‘despair’ as it is sometimes called by those who know it. It is hardly a river at all but a harnessed channel that divides the middle-class neighborhoods of the county, where the professor lives, and the city, where dwell the more recent immigrants, Bosnians and Albanians, who offer their exotic fare in restaurants via non-contact curbside pickup and delivery. Food prepared literally by little old ladies but with any hints of their homeliness and frazzled good cheer concealed behind surgical masks, the required paraphernalia of the Plague. The professor’s ride along the river road with its higher than normal speed limit offered him not just a kind of view but also a chance to accelerate his red and white sports car with its throaty engine, an S-class engine, originally made as it happens in the working-class neighborhoods outside Oxford. When visiting in Oxford the professor often took photos of the many such cars in and about Oxford, with their variety of style offerings, and sent them back home to his lady friend who also owned such a car. She has since moved away, to take care of her ailing parents, bringing with her the professor’s last remnants of intimacy. He senses that intimacy now as a kind of undercurrent while his sportscar purrs along, and while he looks at the many couples, young and middle aged and old, strolling and biking along the river, and the herd of deer grazing in the cemetery, and the first-year nesting pair of bald eagles in a tall, leafless tree, and the extended families of Canada geese lollygagging on the median, their lone sentinel stretching up his neck, keeping watch for the threat of human passersby. The professor emeritus meets an acquaintance outside a Costco. She like him is retired but still demonstrates products in the aisles, set out uncovered on a table, except that she is on hiatus now during the Plague while the company figures out how to make those demonstrations more sanitary. Costco is known for their free samples also but again, not while the Plague is raging. All the customers wear masks and seem a little somnambulatory as they roam glassy-eyed amongst the massive displays. The place has achieved an unwelcome fame for its news photos of people hoarding toilet paper. Everything comes in big lots anyway, but the customers were filling up their carts with four packs each of thirty-six rolls per pack. The stores would run out in a few hours. Facebook started running ads for

the purchase of bidets. The professor lives and eats alone and has difficulty finding much of anything at Costco compact enough for his needs. He splits a double pack of lightly smoked Norwegian salmon with his demonstrator friend and they cut it in two with scissors at the customer service desk, but only after they have purchased everything and shown their receipts on the way out. The store seems to have big lots of people also, which they restrict to three hundred customers at a time, and they have appointed one employee to wipe down the soda fountain after each use. She scolds an Asian man for spilling ice cubes on the floor since people, she explains, could slip on them and fall and get hurt. The Asian man acts both confused and apologetic without quite knowing why. The professor sees his first firefly of the season, flushes it up from the grass, its bulb flashing as he rushes past, running late to his car to return some rented videos. The road is dark before him alongside the river, but the clouds are still backlit by blue like in a painting by Magritte. Ceci n’est pas un rêve, c’est une peste. Returning home in the true dark, he sees a few bugs glow white in the throw of the headlights.

“Steve, I’m home,” she shouted. Her furry friend, however, greeted her instead. “Daisy,” she said, curious and frustrated. The fluffy Maltese sprinted around the corner of the room barking before the pitter-patter of paws ascended the stairs. Ignoring the dull dog, she began putting the groceries up, placing the brownies her loaf of a husband requested at the bottom of the pantry. Suddenly, she heard the four-legged beast make its way down the stairs and felt a soft nudge at her side. “What do you want, darling? Did Steve feed you?” she said to her dog. Daisy was rather adorable with her pristine curls, unmatched intelligence, and pink bow cocked slightly sideways. The dog sprinted around the corner, although she returned to her owner, pawing at her leg. “Okay,” she said, sensing an urgency from the dog, “What’s the matter?” She abandoned the groceries and followed the dog into the dining room, catching a glimpse of the curled tail bounding up the stairs. “Steve!” she shouted at the bottom of the staircase. “Can you see if Daisy is okay?” “Steve!” “He always puts those stupid headphones on,” she mumbled as she trudged up the stairs. Light floated through his doorway, which stood open just enough for the dog to squeeze through. She pressed open the door. “Steve, Daisy is—” Her body stopped, and her heart froze. “Steve?” she whimpered. His body dangled from the ceiling, a rope tied around his neck. Daisy fearfully nudged his feet, looking at her owner for an explanation. Yet, the woman simply stood, her face expressionless. Concerned but curious, she checked if he had breath or a pulse. He had neither. Beneath his body, two empty pill bottles had rolled next to each other just beside the kicked over stool. The first was his anti-depressant medication. Didn’t she just pick up the refill Tuesday? The second was sleep medication. She didn’t know he took sleeping pills. “Daisy,” she muffled through a hazy, broken voice as she picked up the dog. Her thoughts stumbled in uncertain circles. Her husband had just hanged himself. He swallowed the pills just in case the rope wouldn’t work, or possibly to relieve the pain. Then, he slipped his neck through the loop and kicked the stool out. Why?

She quietly stumbled back downstairs and called the police, still holding Daisy. She told the operator her husband had committed suicide. Soon enough, law enforcement arrived and inspected the body before taking her to the police station for questioning. She, with the dog still in hand, proceeded to tell her account. After several attempts and being told multiple times to â&#x20AC;&#x153;take a deep breath,â&#x20AC;? she conveyed the message in enough broken pieces. They accepted her testimony and called the case a suicide, offering condolences. She thanked them and walked outside without the dog, deciding to go to the chiropractor. Her back was stiff. Lifting the groceries must have caused more strain than she thought.

“It will rain today,” the radio’s voice echoed through the kitchen. Oh, bother, she thought to herself. When would the radio ever have something good to say? She stopped making the casserole and dusted her hands off on her apron. “In fact, it may storm,” the radio continued. “We could see heavy rainfall, damaging winds, and flash flooding.” She had planned to meet Deborah for lunch, but she did not want to venture outdoors in such weather. “Lightning and hail have already damaged thousands of homes in the area.” She hadn’t opened the windows this morning for this very reason, hearing reports the night before of such possibilities. She hoped the roof would stay intact. She couldn’t afford a new one. After the last storm, some professionals in an unmarked truck came knocking on her door and informed her hail had destroyed roofs in the area and she would likely need a new one, and so she caved and had a roof installed. “Tornadoes have been spotted. We have video evidence.” Urgency and shock stung her face. She ran over to the TV, banging her knee against a chair in the process, to see if their house sat in the storm’s path. Fuzzy dots blurred the screen. She moved the antenna delicately, trying to find the one place where it would receive the signal. The storm must be terrorizing the sky, causing the TV to blur. Finally, she found the right angle, but she had to hold the antenna with her hand; otherwise, it would move ever so slightly out of place and lose the signal. The entire screen held a digitized red splotch.

Sure enough, the voice on the TV echoed the one on the radio, “Be safe, folks. The tornadoes are dangerous and devastating the city.” She couldn’t believe it. “What’s this?” the voice said as video clips of the demonized weather played across the screen. On one clip, the tornado swept up a young man and emphatically threw him into the sky. “We now have reports of serious flooding and possible hurricanes. Yes, Main Street has transformed into a river.” The TV showed a man completing a kayaking slalom course around the lampposts. Another audacious teenager floated in an innertube. “We now have reports of an earthquake.” An earthquake! Now both the sky above and the ground below have opened to swallow us, she thought.

“Yes, the ground is splitting beneath us. We’ve never seen anything quite like this. Entire houses are falling through the earth.” She let out a shriek in horror. Her house! She could feel the walls shaking. “Folks, we suggest you start saying prayers and screaming at everyone. The earth’s core is overheating and may soon explode.” The earth explode! Her hand darted to cover her mouth, leaving the antenna out of place and the TV fuzzy. What would she do? How could she protect Harold? She started weeping. The beautiful world would soon be a vast nothingness. She heard footsteps. Her son, Harold, trotted down the stairs. Unaware of his mom standing by the TV, he went to leave through the front door. “Harold!” his mom shouted. She let go of the antenna and sprinted to save her son. He looked at her, his face terrified and eyes bulging. “Mom?” She leaped on him, explaining the situation. Harold peered through the slightly cracked door and cautiously pushed it open. It was sunny and peaceful. It looked like every other day: absurdly normal. The radio mumbled, “We now have word that in addition to the wind, lightning, hurricanes, fire, earthquakes, the sky is falling. I repeat. The sky is falling. It may be the end of the world.” “It’s the end of the world,” she screamed at her son who seemed confused by the discrepancy. Together, they looked outside at the contradiction, and Harold stepped onto the porch. Then, Nolan, their neighbor, meteorologist, and resident conspiracy theorist, sprinted out of his house in a bathrobe, exclaiming, “It’s sunny with a tenpercent chance of rain!” while holding his umbrella for safety. He ran down the street like a modern-day Paul Revere. “Well that’s absurd,” she said, remembering how she never much liked Nolan, and she returned to the TV to see how long before the earth exploded.

Breathe. Just breathe. She traced her finger along the window, staring out into the abyss. The rain whined against the glass, and the droplets pleaded with her to come inside, so they could escape the monster chasing them, but she wouldn’t allow it. She didn’t dare open the window. She knew what prowled, and she was not willing to provide even a crack for the darkness to slither inside. The single light in the shrinking, cluttered attic bounced off the glass, so she could see her reflection, blurred and disfigured by the rain. As she stared, she wiped the droplet from underneath her eyes and pulled her cloak tighter before placing her hand on the window. It felt hollow, empty, like something inside had abandoned its home for a false promise. It felt cold, deathly, like life had suffocated itself and somehow preserved its body. She inhaled, and then, without making a sound—she didn’t want to let anything know she was there—she exhaled, the heat of her breath clouding the portal. She carved a smiley face into the cloud, but she didn’t smile, and the moisture faded. The single light in the night sky, the moon, attempted to illuminate the trees below, but it couldn’t—only the sun could, and it was asleep. Companions to the glowing rock, the stars flickered iridescently like eternal fireflies that did not know how to stop shining, but one day they too would fade into the dark. She placed her hand on the metal handle. One twist and a push and the thin wall would release and allow free passage between the two realms. The cold bound inside the brass seemed to siphon the heat out of her palm and numb her hand as if completing a transfer with the outside world. She drew her hand away. Around the edges of the pane, the darkness reached for her and slipped through the cracks. The feeling caused her body to tense. She did not want to face the darkness, not tonight. She turned her head from the window. The single light in the room nursed on the remaining life it had, attempting to last another day. It gleamed down on a painting glued to the wall opposite the window. She did not move, but she mentally inched closer to the portrait. It resembled the back of a fireplace after the burning of logs, a mixture of ash and concrete, though a golden frame surrounded the canvas. Outlined in black, two figures stood in an embrace: a father and a mother. However, inside the cradle where the child should have been, a silhouette stained the picture. She turned away. She could sense the wall collapsing, the window screaming, and the portrait shrinking toward her, and she closed her eyes. Breathe. Just breathe.

When she opened them, she could see the silence as the picture and the wall stayed still. Or did they? She closed her eyes, inhaled, exhaled, and moved her attention to the window where the rain still threw itself against the glass, desperate tears asking for hope like diseased people trying to escape the virus. Placing her palm against the glass, she felt the warmth of her fingers battle against the cold of the window. Then she heard a whisper as if it was wind, but in it, she heard the voice, an echo of melodic bliss. She turned her head toward the painting. It was still. She closed her eyes and listened. The sound did not come from the painting or the window. Rather, the atmosphere around her probed at her from every direction, singing into her ears a song she had buried in her mind, stored away in a graveyard, and locked in a vault for no one to revive, and yet, it had resurrected itself. When she allowed her vision to gaze around the room, she heard the lullaby begin to play. It sounded like a music box, one where the ballerina dressed in black twirled to the slow, gentle melody before it halted and waited to be wound again. But it was a lie. As she turned her head, she saw it â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the dancer spinning on an old dresser â&#x20AC;&#x201C; and shivered. She pulled her cloak even tighter as the volume increased. She should have never come here. Looking toward the painting, she could see the walls moving inward, and the art transformed. It now illustrated two gravestones in white flanking one small figure of ash. A tear crept down her face. She looked away. The walls began to pressurize the room. When she turned her gaze to the window, the water became more aggressive and frequent, slamming itself against the glass with a crashing noise. Was it even rain? She placed her hand on the handle. Still cold. The lullaby danced around her, taunting her, tempting her. It screamed. It whispered. Her lungs tightened and gasped. She needed to escape. Twisting the metal, she felt the latch unhook. A burst of air gasped around the corners, and the cold flooded inward, but it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t the cold she sensed. It was the darkness. Breathe. Just breathe. It asphyxiated her like the lullaby, which softened into its original whisper. The painting inched nearer, and the walls forced her to curl. Her heartbeat became irregular and frightened. Her lips twitched. Her eyes watered. The walls choked her and the lullaby suffocated her. She pushed the window fully open to escape. The darkness, carrying its hollow cold, swirled inward and constricted her body. Her muscles tensed and froze. The pressure pricked at her skin. Breathe. Just breathe.

She placed her hands on the window frame and inched her head outside

until her entire torso had vacated the room and her fingertips held her from falling. The moon glowed a little brighter, and the trees five stories below acted like small arms reaching for her. She closed her eyes. The lullaby played behind her. The air almost felt warm. Breathe.

Once upon a time not so long ago as one might imagine, I was walking home alone one night. It was dark, so dark in fact that I could barely see my hand in front of my face or the very path upon which I trod. Yet, up ahead I saw at that moment what appeared to be a dim light shining through the outskirts of a forest. Instead of heading on home like I ought to have done, I decided I would investigate this strange and alluring light in the distance. Now standing just on the edge of the forest, the light was even brighter and more beautiful than anything I had ever witnessed. With the strange beckoning of the light and the forest, I took a deep breath and stepped inside rather quickly. Entering into the forest, the bright light that I had seen before was just a taste of the beauty hidden within. I had entered into a clearing in the forest, with a meadow which was rather large and truly a beautiful sight to behold. As I proceeded further into the clearing, I noticed multiple pools of water spread all about the clearing. The vastness of these pools of water became even clearer to me as I proceeded to walk through more of the clearing. Curiously, I stepped closer to a pool or pond of water on my right-hand side and looked into it. I noticed my own reflection, but it was not exactly like that of a mirror as one might think. Instead, it was as if I was looking at myself through someone elseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes. It was clear to me that these ponds were the people that I meet or had met. Staring into this pond longer revealed to me the things I had done in this one instance. It was not just this one pond that showed what I had done, but all the pools of water in the clearing, which was too grand a multitude to number. Taking all of this in, I was filled with pride and rather flattered by how all of these ponds showed the greatness of my life. In one such pool, I was able to see a depiction of myself as lofty and like that of pure gold without blemish. All of this lead me to become rather proud and haughty in myself and my accomplishments. Within this spirit of haughtiness and pride I began to head toward the end of the clearing where a strange and rather beautiful path in the forest was. Having proceeded down that path, the landscape suddenly and drastically changed. That glorious light and the beautiful meadow were now a distant memory. I was all alone now, in a dark and mysterious forest. Having no other choice, I started off down the path that lay before me, and as I did so the wind began to howl. As if a switch had been flipped, lightning and thunder and rain began to be poured out upon me. I was no longer haughty or proud; I was afraid for my life. No matter how far I walked the storm simply did not let up, and my body and soul became weary and broken. I was caught in the fury of this storm and I began to question my life and my fate. Was I meant to simply just die in this storm? Was this what was prepared for me from before I was even born? At that moment, I gave up and collapsed up the ground, and as I did so the flood waters rose and swept me away. Those flood waters had swept me into deep waters, and I had begun to drown when all of the sudden a bright light shone through the dark and deep wa-

ters. I became filled with hope again, and found the strength to swim to the surface. When I surfaced, I noticed the light had now moved to the shore, and so I swam quickly over to the shore. Having now reached the shore, I sprinted through the woods towards the light, and full of hope. Eventually, I reached the source of the light, but, alas, a great distance and abyss lay between myself and the light. My heart was shattered, and all the hope I had fled from me. I was despairing and alone in the rain, when a hand reached out and touched me on my shoulder. The Man asked me, “Why are you despairing and hopeless, my friend?” I told him that I could not reach the other side of the abyss where the Light was and my only hope in this storm. He smiled and beckoned me to move toward the abyss, and he showed me a bridge that he had built. I got up and ran across the bridge, and I tried to thank the Man, but he was gone. I proceeded onward without my guide, stepped into the light and was taken into another clearing of the forest. In the center of this meadow there was one single pool of water present. This pool of water was so vast I began to question all of the other ones I had looked into previously. “Behold the truth of thyself!” a voice rung out as I approached the pond. I became overcome with fear and wonder as I looked into my reflection in the pond. When I looked at my reflection, I had to close my eyes quickly, but I could not get the image out of my mind. It was a face so disfigured and full of darkness, decaying or dead. I was overcome with grief and sorrow and began to run away back towards the safety of the forest. Once again, I was greeted by the Man in the storm. I begged him to tell me what I saw in the pond, and what it meant. He told me, “You came and looked for the truth. The face you saw in the pond was you, as you truly are.” Giving further revelation he stated that this pool reflected my true nature and the ill or corrupted state of my soul. Upon receiving this startling revelation, I disagreed with the Man vehemently and began to shout, “No, that cannot be!” He held firm and insisted that all the reflections I had seen before were how other people saw me, but these were only deceptions. That the true light he had first seen before he entered the forest was from the Waters of Truth. I realized the truth of the matter, the brokenness of my soul. That face in what I now knew as the Waters of Truth was mine own, and in it was reflected my true state of being. I was in actuality corrupt, wicked, not as the multitude of pools had originally shown me. I was corrupt in nature, bent not straight. For the first time I had truly seen myself as I actually was. I asked the Man, “Will you take away my illness and set me free? You alone can save me, I believe.” He then said, “Arise, my Beloved Child. Your faith has made you well, now peer into the waters once more.” He grabbed my arm and together we gazed into the pond once again. Gone was the disfigured and deformed image of my face from before. Instead, the only face reflected in the waters was his.

“Peter,” “Philipp,” and “Lallia” everybody heard as names were read out loud at harvest. They were all best friends, took the same college classes, and now all three of them could die together. There were 100 Planet-Saving conductors, as they were called, but everybody called them lightbulb suckers because they were actually giant lightbulbs that could kill. The rulers of the enclosure refuted this statement because they said that it was impossible for the process to kill somebody who would live on the earth and in our memories. This enclosure was called Homestead, but younger generations didn’t feel it was fit to be a home because there was no diversity in the community; everything and everybody looked the same. Every year, 100 students would be selected throughout the months at random. Peter and Philipp had graduated already, but Lallia had not, so it was strange for her to have been chosen. But she guessed it was because times were hard, there were fewer people to harvest, and there was a pandemic going on. The world was living in enclosures, and the energy all ran off the Planet-Saving conductors. No one was allowed to talk about how the process could save the planet, and no one questioned it. After the harvest, Peter, Philip, and Lallia were led down multiple hallways that could confuse a beagle’s sense of direction. Before going into the lightbulb field, the three had to sit and watch a video about how what they were doing was an honor and that they were saving the world. One hundred giant lightbulbs lined up in rows that turned out to be taller than the regular height of a man and were overwhelming, but Peter, Philipp, and Lallia did not run away as some people do at the sight of their possible demise. You know that feeling when you are about to die; well, when you are in a group, at times you think about the others’ wellfare and the possibility that your actions could jeopardize their lives. So, the three of them did not move but allowed those in charge to usher them up to their individual lightbulb. The video did not explain what really happens from this selecting of people. A slight tingle was mentioned, but the only thing really stated was to touch the lightbulb and not to let go. The three were all concerned for each other because they were genuine friends that felt like family, but the thought of their families weighed heavily on their minds. They were each instructed to place their right hand onto the outside of the lightbulb which lit up after being touched. Peter and Philipp felt entranced as their hands slowly faded into the lightbulb. Something totally different was happening to Lallia though; her entire body was being sucked into her lightbulb. Lallia called out for Peter and Philipp as she saw a small pillar of fire envelop Peter and Philipp’s hands. They had no knowledge of the fire or what was happening to the three of them. Lallia was fully conscious of the fact that she was helpless and could tell now what was happening. Peter and Philipp had dazed eyes while their dreams faded away. The lightbulb suckers were sucking the dreams and individuality out of Peter and Philipp,

but was it going to do the same thing to her? Lallia could see the people who had brought them to the lightbulbs standing near them, writing down notes as she drifted into unconsciousness. A wave of fear that had been building inside her was replaced with a wave of comfort at seeing her dreams actually fading away with her life. None of them knew that the lightbulbs were designed to collect a record of possible alternative lives that powered the enclosure as each trance muddled together. Philipp had always been a brother to Peter and Lallia. Philipp, after all, was an only child. Peter had a sister and Lallia had brothers, but the three of them were like family. In Peter’s dreams, he saw summer picnics, popsicles, and a girlfriend that he did not know meeting his two best friends. Philipp saw in his dreams a life with warm winter cabins and decorating a Christmas tree with Lallia and two kids. He had thought Lallia might have a crush on him but had unfortunately denied the possibility of it at the risk of ruining their friendship. At seeing the dream play out, he realized that, from Lallia’s point of view, the love and respect they shared for each other was obvious enough. Lallia knew that Peter was bashful and had a hard time with any kind of attention put towards him. Peter could now see the way Lallia tried not to make him blush all the time but also give him recognition for his accomplishments as memories of their past conversations filtered in with the dreams. Philipp’s memories were blending in with his dreams too as he thought of how Lallia was a quiet person who loved any form of conversational change to meet her at her level. You know when an introvert has spent all day talking to strangers and maybe even in a loud room? There were some days all Lallia wanted to do was have one of them drive around with the windows down and music turned up loud. The beauty of sitting and eating with someone until they were ready to talk first, the little things that Lallia knew Peter and Philipp would do for her which made her love them. Tears were starting to come down Peter and Philipp’s eyes as they were drifting back into consciousness. The two of them could see each other out of the corner of their eyes. They were safe, but then they realized that Lallia was still trapped in her lightbulb. Both Peter and Philipp wanted to take her place, but the people with the clipboards revealed that any disruption would kill her immediately. Lallia’s life was now sacrificed for the enclosure.

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Suzy Rodriquez Lucy James Dear Lucy, I hope this email finds you well. I’ve certainly missed seeing everyone around the office lately, but it’s been nice collaborating on the project with you remotely.

I have a quick question about the edits you made last night. They’re in the “Community Impact” section. There are a few places where I’m seeing letters typed in seemingly at random. I think we can remove them as they appear to be accidental, but I wanted to check with you first in case they’re placeholders for something you haven’t inserted yet. Would you please advise? They were added pretty late at night. I know the days seem like they never end now that we’re all working from home, but don’t work too hard! Best, Suzy Subject:

Re: Google Doc Question

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Lucy Jones Suzy Rodriguez Hi, Suzy: Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry. That was my cat, Mrs. Whiskers. She was rolling around on my desk last night, and I must have left the doc open on my laptop. She’s been a bit restless lately—just like the rest of us! I’m so embarrassed. . . I’ll go ahead and remove what she typed in (haha!). Thanks for letting me know. I can’t turn my back on that feisty feline for one minute. Cheers,

Lucy

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Re: Google Doc Question

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Suzy Rodriquez Lucy Jones Lucy,

That is so funny! Of course, that makes complete sense. It’s actually kind of nice that we’re working in these environments with our families and pets. Our lives will be much more integrated. Give Miss Whiskers my best! Take care, Suzy Subject:

Re: Google Doc Question

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Lucy Jones Suzy Rodriquez Suzy, It’s Mrs. Whiskers. Mrs. She was married for many years—a dog’s age, she likes to say (HAHA!)—to a wonderful Tom. She loved him very much and decided when he passed that she’d always keep the title. She’d be very upset if she knew you had written that, but don’t worry—I won’t tell! (HAHa) Sincerely, Lucy “Time spent with cats is never wasted.” ~Sigmund Freud

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Re: Google Doc Question

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Suzy Rodriquez Lucy Jones Hilarious, Luce! My apologies, Mrs. Whiskers . . . Did you just add that quote? I love it! I had no idea you were such a cat lover. One of the bright spots in this difficult season has been how much

we get to learn about each other. Best, Suzy Subject:

Re: Google Doc Question

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Lucy Jones Suzy Rodriquez Hey, Suze: This is a bit awkward, but I feel I have to say something. Maybe it’s just that I’ve been cooped up in the apartment for too long, but I’ve become a keen observer of written tone since we started shelter-in-place. I just have to say that I found your last email off-puyting. When you use italics like that, it could make someone feel that you are being condescdnfjing. And the ellipsis marks after it dont help at all. Anyway, I’m sure you didn’t mean it that way, but I just wanted to you ti be aware of how you might come across to someone less understanding than I am. No hard feelines! (HAHA). No, Mrs. Whiskers added that. It’s her favorite quote, and it makes a good point *wink*. I just wish she wouldn’t use comic sans. She has terrible taste in fonts, and DO NOT tell her I wrote that (Not kidding!). Lucy “Time spent with cats is never wasted.” ~Sigmund Freud

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Re: Google Doc Question

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Lucy Jones Suzy Rodriquez This isd the caht i dnt apreciate beyig taked aboiut BEHnd myy bck. MRS. wHIZkrZ “Time spent with cats is never wasted.” ~Sigmund Freud

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Re: Google Doc Question

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Suzy Rodriquez Lucy Jones Dear Lucy, I’m sorry. This is getting weird. I have to ask you to stop contacting me. We can work on the project independently. Best, Suzy

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Re: Google Doc Question

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Lucy Jones Suzy Rodriquez

Dear Suzy, Please accept my apology. I had no idea Mrs. Whiskers has been sending you emails. We have discussed this many SO many times, but this is the first time she has sent anything from my work account. She can be very defiant, and she has gotten worse since the passing of her husband. She may try to contact you again, but, if she does, please simply disregard any email received from this address using comic sans. Sincerely, Lucy “Time spent with cats is never wasted.” ~Sigmund Freud Subject:

Temprary LEave

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Lucy Jones Human Resources Office

Cc:

Suzy Rodriquez Im need to tayk a breik frim work. I am fine. MRs. Whizkrs is taking giid care of me (HaH) I will letyou kjmow wne I will be back at wor k. LAter. If eniwun would liek to help mei pleashe

drop mkik and tuna packetys at the door of the aprtment. Thanlk yio for undrstnding, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Time spent with cats is never wasted.â&#x20AC;? ~Sigmund Freud

Paul Acker is a Professor Emeritus in English at Saint Louis University, where he taught Creative Writing among other subjects. He has published in such places as Boulevard and Sky Island Journal.

Mason Arledge graduated with highest honors in 2020 with a B.S. in English from Missouri Baptist University, where he received awards for his work in academia, creative writing, and editing. He has published poems and stories in Fireflies’ Light and The Right Words, previously authored motivational blogs for life2lose.com, and served as an editor for publications such as Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal, Flash!, and Intégrité. He is currently seeking to publish his debut novel. Outside of writing, he is a former collegiate athlete and an avid fitness enthusiast with an affinity for photography, the outdoors, and personal development.

Matthew Bardowell is an Assistant Professor of English at Missouri Baptist University, where he teaches British Literature and serves as faculty sponsor for the Creative Writing Club. His short fiction appears in Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal.

Seth Grady is an English major with a few years of writing experience. Seth is a writing tutor, a former collegiate tennis player, and the Vice President of Sigma Tau Delta at Missouri Baptist University. Outside of writing, Seth spends his free time reading stories, studying philosophy, playing video games, and lifting weights.

Melissa Lawrence is a current senior at Missouri Baptist University. As a first-generation student and watercolor painter, she has loved getting to know her teachers and learning from them. Melissa will graduate with a B.S. in English, a Writing Certificate, a Minor in Dance, and a Minor in Business Administration in the spring of 2021. While attending MBU, Melissa has been accepted into Sigma Tau Delta and is a current Student Fellow for Dr. Han. Always trying something new, like diving with sharks, Melissaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dream is to see Hadestown and Hamilton on Broadway. Melissaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lifelong goal is to audition as a character and dancer at Walt Disney World after graduation.