Lost Balloon

School children walk through the Art Institute, two by two, holding hands. They are quiet. They are clearly under strict instructions, filing in behind their teacher, but still I think maybe.

***

“The Vitruvian Man” is superimposed upon himself and stretched within a circle, within a square. I lean closer. He is bare, anatomically perfect—he could breathe. In 1490, there must have been a real flesh man flayed with ink by da Vinci down to muscle, sinew, vein.

***

I sit on the front steps, eating sushi from the gallery cafeteria. He walks up the steps towards me. His security pass swings on a lanyard. His glasses catch the light and they flash, making his eyes invisible, then visible again. He leans down and kisses my cheek and smells of his last cigarette.

“What are you doing here?” he says, and it is kind.

“The da Vinci exhibition.”

He sits beside me, twenty centimeters away.

“You should come after hours,” he says. “I can show you around without the crowds.”

The sushi rice is sticky. I push my tongue across my teeth. I smile.

***

I have pushed my tongue along his neck, across his knuckles, down the ladder of his ribs. He was underneath my hands so that it was not his skin I felt, but his blood that hummed, hot.

***

His voice is low, so low, crawling around the pit of my stomach. It takes its time, scraping over and over, finding its old place.

“Are you okay?” he says.

I nod. “Sure.”

He smiles, but I see it: she was always a dreamer.

How to tell him that I am listening intently? Not to his words, but his voice, the texture of it, the timbre, the base, the way it moves through me, the way it stays.

A group walks past us up the stairs and I slide five centimeters closer to him.

***

Almost two years ago now, he took off his shirt for me for the first time. The afternoon light got in around the edges of my bedroom blind and his skin ran with goosebumps. His clavicle was a wishbone, stretched across him. I wanted to break it in two. I did. I wanted him to push me to the edge. Sometimes he said, “Are you sure?” He pressed the words into my skin. Nothing hurt then.

***

I pay attention. The things I could tell him: clavicle derives from the Latin “clavicula” meaning “little key,” because the bone rotates like a key when the arms are raised. The clavicle is the bone most often broken in the human body.

***

We danced in a club and the music beat and vibrated through me. It soared. He leaned against me, his skin burning. He kissed me, pushing a pill from his mouth into mine. I swallowed. He smiled.

“Let’s go home,” I said.

He bent closer. “Home? Why?”

The crowd pressed against us, strangers, every single one of them. They slid against us. I could not breathe. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back away from mine. The chemicals hit my veins and they ran and ran.

***

“Studies of the Fetus in the Womb,” dated 1510-1512/13. Leonardo da Vinci drew a foetus with its knees raised, its head bowed and pressed against its hands and knees, hiding its face. The umbilical cord sweeps across its body. The womb is cleaved open, like two halves of a shell.

***

The children leave the gallery and run down the stairs, a tumble of legs, arms, small bodies, oversized backpacks. They laugh and shout. They push their faces to the sun and they grow, their cells dividing, multiplying, unfurling.

***

He was illuminated by the moon, its cold wash of lilac-blue light. Shadow lines of the window fell on him as he looked into the night.

“What’s out there?” I said.

He turned to me. “Nothing important.”

I believed him.

***

In bed, he slept and I drew my finger along his clavicle, first one way and then the other, finding the halfway point, finding the ends.

***

The gallery asked him to help curate an exhibition of Impressionist works at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. He planned to travel through Europe afterwards.

“For how long?” I said.

“I don’t know. There are so many things I want to see. Cities I want to visit again.”

All I heard was I, I, I while he listed galleries, cities, icons.

***

A drawing of da Vinci’s compares man and animal: “Studies of legs of man and the leg of a horse,” dated 1506.

***

Another drawing shows a man inside a woman: “Coition of a hemisected man and woman,” dated 1492. She is far less detailed than him. She fades into nothingness.

***

He sent postcards. One was from the Galleria Nazionale di Parma in Italy, da Vinci’s “Head of a Woman,” dated 1500, painted in oil on wood. On the back he had written—she looks like you.

I studied that postcard. “What the fuck?”

Her hair was tangled, her gaze downward, fixed on nothing it seemed. I threw her away.

***

“I should get back to work,” he says. “It was good to see you.”

He puts his arm around my shoulders and he is hot all down my side. I see his clavicle beneath the collar of his shirt. Little key. Old friend.

“Have you seen the drawings of the human heart by da Vinci?” I say.

“Of course. Why?”

In 1513, da Vinci must have reached inside a human body and pulled out the heart, or somebody did it for him.

***

In the gallery gift shop, “The Vitruvian Man” is everywhere. I buy a fridge magnet and I don’t know why. 

***

I walk back to the train and realize the actual man that da Vinci drew from in 1490 might not have been alive at all. In fact, he probably wasn’t.

Melissa Goode’s work has appeared in Best Australian Short Stories, SmokeLong Quarterly, New World Writing, Split Lip Magazine, WhiskeyPaper, Atticus Review, (b)OINK, and Jellyfish Review, among others. One of her short stories has been made into a film by the production company Jungle. She lives in Australia. You can find her here: www.melissagoode.com and @melgoodewriter.

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Clio Velentza lives in Athens, Greece. She’s a winner of Queen’s Ferry Press The Best Small Fictions 2016, and her work has appeared in several literary journals including (b)OINK, Corium, WhiskeyPaper, The Letters Page, Atticus Review, and Wigleaf.

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At first, it wasn’t about changing. It wasn’t about coping. It was about not drinking. Another hungover suicide attempt landed me in the psych ward, and I realized I couldn’t kick alcohol alone. So I went to meetings. I listened. I heard sober drunks say things like, “I try to do the next right thing. It’s nothing noble. It means making the bed. It means brushing my teeth. It means feeding the dog.” They told me to write gratitude lists. To forgive myself. To question my motives. To pray. They told me to get a sponsor. They told, and I did.

I found Charlotte.

Charlotte is old enough to be my mom. She has shoulder-length dreadlocks and straight, white teeth. She laughs a lot. She says “mmhmm,” with emphasis on the second syllable. She can pray like a preacher’s daughter and call your ex a motherfucker in the next breath. She’s heard my inventory of resentments, fears, debts, and sexual mistakes and hugged me afterwards.

In the beginning, her mantra was, “Honey, you’re okay.” I’d call her after fighting with my boyfriend and she’d say, “You’re okay.” I’d be pissed at my boss, ready to quit, and she’d say, “You’re okay.” I’d wake up anxious and she’d say, “You’re okay.” When that boyfriend left for good, I dialed her number and watched my face crumple in the mirror while I waited for her to say, “You’re okay.”

When depression left me gasping, fingers twitching toward knives, Charlotte would tell me to do my nails. I’d glare at her then—I want to die, and you’re giving me beauty tips?—but now, I get it.  A D.I.Y. manicure is like hitting “reset” on a camera. It pulls me out of my head, refocuses my lens. As usual, Charlotte was right.

So tonight, as my brain rages, telling me I’m hopeless, broken, not worth it, I won’t binge on whiskey or reach for a razor. Instead, I will paint my nails.

I will sit on the bathroom floor and choose a shade of blue from a dozen different colors, from black to pink to brown.

I will push my cuticles back and sever them with a tiny, U-shaped blade.

I will draw the brush across my left index fingernail first and feel the coolness of wet polish. I will paint three coats of color then a topcoat, just like Glamour says.

I will hold my hands in front of my lips and blow.

I will sit in stillness until they dry, careful and silent. For fifteen minutes, I’ll be okay, just like Charlotte said.

And when I stand up again, fingers tipped sapphire, ocean, stormy sky, I will be changed. Not brand-new, but better than broken.

Emma Faesi Hudelson teaches writing at Butler University in Indianapolis. She lives in a house by the woods with three dogs, two cats, and one husband. Her work has found homes in Booth, BUST, Linden Avenue, The Manifest-Station, and others.

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You made me cry on the school bus. Row two, window seat. I never truly knew what made the tears come fast and heavy. Maybe it was your awful motorcycle jacket, the one with the silly Mickey Mouse patched on the back, or maybe it was when you put your hand on my knee and squeezed. While I burned like gasoline, you made me promise to meet you beneath the bleachers that afternoon. I never did tell. What I did do was take lovers like you. Rest of my life. Lean, quiet men with gentle hands and sad, kind eyes. The snap of them made my heart break. Like yours broke, shot down in the rushing faraway jungle. Our last kiss, you held me like I was going out of  style. The homecoming crowd thundered above us. Popcorn, peanuts rained down through the slatted seats. I listened as you said we already had our home. We could be us anywhere. But young, we were young. Too young. And promises beneath bleachers never amount to anything. Only the weight of bodies atop empty beds. Stretching an arm out for a memory that won’t shut up.

Jules Archer likes to smell old books and drink red wine. Her work has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, >kill author, Pank, The Butter, Foundling Review, and elsewhere. She writes to annoy you at julesjustwrite.com.

The other woman showed up at our house, braless, on Mother’s day. Her t-shirt looked like a wax-paper envelope with messages to my mother visibly enclosed. We’re younger, perkier, winning, they said. Babies haven’t suckled us. Your husband’s a different story. I was just a girl. Still, I understood.

I tried to slam the door in her face. My furious father let her inside anyway—just as he had the first time, every time, since they’d met at hiking club. My mother served charcuterie while the woman talked about how to shit in the woods. Creamy slices of dill Havarti. Camembert. Crackers on a wooden board. Salami. The woman squatted in the corner. I wondered if she would actually defecate near the philodendron I’d bought Mom as a gift. She was here to mark her territory, after all.

Now I nurse my newborn daughter while my husband frosts a cake meant for me, downstairs. Belly full, my baby fills her diaper, and the smell reminds me of that woman’s body odor, like stinky cheese and pheromones—pungent—even though the memory is stale. Not this Mother’s day. I close my eyes and watch this Mom club the unwelcome guest with the cheese board; there’s splintered wood, and a patch of skin opens like a present.

E.M. Hubscher is a writer and toxicologist from North Carolina. Her work has appeared in Eunoia Review, as well as several scientific journals and a textbook. You can find her online at http://emhubscherauthor.weebly.com or @emhubscher on Twitter.

Gerald crawls out.

He got the idea while stocking shelves at ShopMart. It closed to customers at midnight. From then till 4 a.m. the cleaners and stockers took over. After that the store was empty till 9:00. Not even a security guard prowled the premises so confident was management in the door sensors and glass break protectors.

One morning Gerald clocked out at 4:00 with everyone else, but couldn’t bear the thought of going home. So he quietly ducked into the men’s bathroom and waited for the night crew boss to go through her routine and lock up. Then he crept out into the store to the huge mountain of toilet paper packages. It reached nearly to the ceiling and sprawled across four aisles. Valuable real estate for sure, but it was practically a tourist attraction. Hell, it was a tourist attraction. People posed in front of it, came from out of town to see it, and put make-a-wish sticky notes on it. The staff even decorated it for holidays.

He carefully repositioned eight-packs to create a crawlway to the center of the mountain. Once inside, he removed and re-stacked packages to hollow out a living space. When he was finished, there was room for him to stand and more than enough for sleeping and moving about. It was good enough to live in. So he does.

He likes knowing there’s so much commotion outside, yet the super-absorbent walls muffle the noise of the busy store to a soft relaxing murmur. He passes the time sleeping, taking advantage of the store’s free WIFI to browse and listen to music on his phone, and reading by light of a lantern from Outdoor Life. A bucket gets him through the day.
During his 4-9 a.m. excursions, he takes care of hygiene, charges his phone, and pilfers supplies — usually chips, candy bars, peanut butter, and cola. He strolls through Magazines, his personal library. He’d take in a movie, but too many security cameras eye Electronics. Same for Jewelry. There’s a necklace his wife would have loved. Ex-wife. “I want more, Gerald. You just don’t have any ambition.”

Maybe she was right. He looks out as dawn creeps across the parking lot. Maybe he should strive for more. A magnificent mound of paper towels is taking shape over in aisles 42-46. It would make a real castle. Maybe then he could convince Doris to move back in with him. It’d take a lot of work to make it livable though, and he doesn’t care for that side of store, he thinks, as he posts another sticky wish and crawls back inside.

David Henson and his wife have lived in Belgium and Hong Kong over the years. They now reside in Peoria, Illinois with their dog, who loves to walk them in the woods. David’s work has appeared in two chapbooks, Literally Stories, 365 Tomorrows, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Dime Show Review, among others. Find him online at http://writings217.wordpress.com.

I never went to school. My mother hid me away. She’d refuse to let me play in the street with the other children. Some days I’d refuse to speak.

The black nights were my escape. We lived close to the river, and I’d sneak to the water’s edge, shivering as velvet mud wormed between my toes and sucked at my heels.

After my mother died, I made sure the whitecoats didn’t catch me. It was better to be a circus freak. The Feltz Brothers signed me up as Flipper Boy; set me next to Snake Tongue and the Bearded Lady. They were my new family. Each afternoon and evening the punters came to gawk at the sideshows. Brave men stood close with their beery breath. “Devil’s spawn,” they’d hiss, and cross themselves.

I was glad to join the Tumbling Billies, clowning in the ring. My limbs learned to flow round my feet. I can still hear the crowd’s roar.

My old bones release me into the dreaming dark, and I push through musty midnight curtains. Half-lit phantom faces loom from front-row seats. I launch myself onto my palms, cartwheeling first one way, then the other. The smell of old sawdust fills my head, the echoing voices of the Billies sing out around me, and my body whirls.

Dust rises. I am spun into light and air. You can see clear through me.

Ali McGrane lives in the UK and is an emerging writer of short fiction and poetry. She has studied literature and creative writing with the Open University and works in a university library. Her work has appeared in Fictive Dream and is forthcoming in Ink Sweat and Tears.

Papa said it wasn’t good to keep secrets so the morning after my nightmare I told him about it.

He told me not to worry. “It’s normal to dream about your Mama.”

I had woken up crying and my eyes felt crusty along the edges. I picked off the dust. “Do you dream about her?”

“Sometimes.” He turned back to the nook in the wall he called the kitchen and flipped the eggs. “Just means she’s on our minds is all.”

The lake water cast reflections that glittered along the ceiling in the morning sun and it made me remember my dream again. Mama used to call those Glimmer Fairies and we’d pretend to catch them in jars when I was little. She’d put the mason jars out on the front porch that overlooked the lake. At night, she’d say they’d gotten out. “You can’t keep them captured up for long. They always get out.”

Papa put my eggs on a paper plate and ate his right out of the pan. We’d been at the cabin for four weeks now and I was starting to think we may stay here forever.

“We’re just going to get away for a while,” Papa had said as he packed my duffel bag back home. “A change of scene would be good, right?”

I’d nodded and told him yes, and hugged him around the neck and waited for his arms to wrap around me. I let go when they didn’t.

I thought we’d go somewhere new. A vacation somewhere warm maybe. I thought maybe Papa and I could drive down to North Carolina or Florida, somewhere with a beach, and we could lay in the sun and both of us not talk for a while. I thought of us giggling over salami sandwiches (“more sand than wich” he’d say) and slathering on sunscreen.

I didn’t think we’d be going to Mama’s cabin in Michigan. It took us hours to drive there from our house in Ohio; Papa drove slow. I watched the sprawling green and yellow farmland roll past, one ocean of vegetation looking the same as the next.

It was the first time I’d gotten to make this drive in the front seat, but the view looked the same. Just less tinted.

It didn’t seem right, being here without her.  She’d grown up in the cabin, coming here with her own parents on weekends and holidays. Then she took us here, letting us shape her place into something that was ours. Now it was ours and not hers. We’d stolen it.

I wondered if people still owned places after they died. I’d gotten her costume jewelry, scarves, and a few antique pens she’d loved. They were packed in a box somewhere – Papa had put them away.

We ate so quiet I could hear a boat’s motor rev up across the lake. The dead-wake hours must have ended. I wanted to ask Papa to take me in the fishing boat. I wanted him to ask me to go on the boat. He’d been working on the engine in the motor for days, cursing and spitting over the gunwales, hands streaked with oil. Once our old boat was up and running I wanted him to take me through the canal. I wanted to go fishing in the lake that connected to ours; it was bigger and had larger fish, or so Mama used to say. But Papa hadn’t gotten the motor started yet, so I didn’t ask him.

During the day there wasn’t much for me to do. Papa worked on the boat and I fished off the dock for minnows using breadcrumbs and a large net. After I caught them, I threw them back. I didn’t need bait.

I shot bottle rockets at the ducks floating by until Papa told me to stop the racket and let them be. I tried talking to Papa and asking if he needed help but he told me go run off somewhere. Where would I run?

I didn’t want to be bored. I wanted to find something engrossing, something that filled me with such interest that I didn’t mind that his back was towards me as he leaned over the glossy black motor.

I was dipping my net back into the water when I heard Papa yelling and the engine spitting into life. His hands were pumping above his head, and he leaned back in a way that could only mean victory. He was still holding his wrench, and for a moment I worried he’d drop it on his head, but then he tossed it aside and clapped with a whoop. He turned around to face me. “I got it,” he said, a smile spilling across his face.

And just like that I felt a lightness grow within me.

I knew he’d take me on the boat tonight and we’d watch the stars come out of a dusky blue sky and make our own constellations. I knew he’d tell me stories about times they went camping and then he’d coast the boat towards the middle of the lake. I knew I’d fall asleep on the leather seats, lulled by the rocking and the smell of gas and lake water.

I knew I’d put my mason jar out on the front porch overnight and see if the glimmers stayed, just this once, until morning.

Madeline Anthes is the acquisitions editor for Hypertrophic Literary, and her work can
be found in WhiskeyPaper, Third Point Press, and more. Read more about her at madelineanthes.com or follow her on Twitter at @maddieanthes.

“It should be rockets,” says Sandra.

Smoke slips from her mouth with each syllable. We’re standing outside the back of The Essex Arms, watching the sky turn a sickly yellow.

Up above I see one star that’s been shining bright these last few days. Maybe I’ve been mooching off longer on my breaks and spending more time outside. I remember my dad telling me something about Venus being mistaken for a star.

“At least that way there’d be some sign they’re going away.”

Sandra stares way off into the distance, over the mostly empty parking lot past the dumpsters and into the dried-out woods behind. One of the cars has had its wheels taken overnight. It leans over, surrounded by shattered glass.

I don’t mind that everyone’s leaving. Quit their jobs and abandoned their houses. Even their families. Every day the numbers go up. Hundreds of millions plug into the virtual worlds of The Grid. All the ads say it’s paradise, and a lot of people I know have given up on this place for good.

Already pollution is way down. Electricity companies complain they’ll see catastrophic losses. Stores are upset that fewer people come in to buy holoscreens and robots and other shit.

“I saw this thing the other day,” I say stubbing out my own cigarette. “Some scientist. Said imagine we were all back in medieval Portugal or wherever. And some dude comes up and he’s all ‘Who dares travel the deadly seas with me. The journey will be perilous and we’ll probably die but if we make it I promise it will be amazing!’”

There’s a loud cheer inside. The crowd tonight is rowdy. Rough. Spoiling for a fight. For anything.

“And?”

Sandra waits on me like, come on.

“So the scientist says imagine some other dude comes up,” and I pause and do my best fancy accent like the science guy. “’For half a doubloon I’ll transport you safely to any world you wish. Verily, you may be a king or a queen and every desire you’ve ever had will be yours.’”

Sandra takes a drag on her cigarette, the cherry right up close to her fingers. She stares at me all intense.

“Like, I guess he’s right,” I say. “If you could safely go to some sweet-ass virtual world that’s probably better than dying on the way to the real one, yeah?”

“Wouldn’t you rather find something real?” asks Sandra as she flicks her cigarette and opens the door. The sound spills out, laughter and shouts and under it all the raw groan of not knowing what to do.  We need to get back inside. Hank will already be pissed. People want their fries and wings. Mourning the slow end of the world is thirsty work and thirsty work needs greasy food.

I reach for an answer but take too long and she’s gone.

She’ll plug into The Grid eventually. I figure everyone will. I hear a tinkling sound and watch as the breeze sends a crushed plastic cup jittering along the pavement.

Above me, the star that might be Venus shines and I think of how much everyone’s said about it and thought about it and it probably barely thought of us at all.

Paul Alex Gray enjoys writing speculative fiction that cuts a jagged line to a magical real world. His work has been published in Spelk, 365 Tomorrows, The Wild Hunt, Between Worlds and others. Growing up in Australia, Paul traveled the world and now lives in Canada with his wife and two children. He’d love to chat about writing with you on Twitter @paulalexgray or you can learn more about him at www.paulalexgray.com.

Taro awoke with watering eyes from a shallow sleep. Another dream of being back in his childhood village. Running over grass towards the old temple with his brothers. The scent of spring in the wind as it blew through pink flowers. Everyone smiling. Fresh takoyaki and cherry ice wafting from food stalls. A dangerous dream to have floating over dark water. Images could drive a man crazy while he breathed stale cabin air and had salt permanently etched in the folds of his skin.

He’d lost count of the days. The Antarctic waters were unforgiving, but he finally had enough money to get back home. That’s all that mattered. He’d been gon—

It took a few heartbeats to process Kazuki standing over him. The grip on his hair brought things to clarity as his head smacked off the wall.

“I won’t tell you again. Get up! Have you no idea what’s going on?” Kazuki screamed. Had never seen such panic in the old man’s face before.

The boat jerked and Taro was thrown out of the bunk. He pulled on boots and rushed up the stairs. Rain pelted the deck. The boat was leaning, fast taking in water. The waves were choppy with every third pouring over. The sky thick with black clouds.

“What happened? Where’s the captain?”

“I don’t know. He and the life boat are both missing. Get over there and help Jiro,” Kazuki said.

Jiro was frantic and trying to get the nets back on board. Taro held the edge and pulled towards the starboard side. Kazuki was shouting on the phone in the pit. He was slapping himself and kicking the steering wheel.

“What do you mean? Do you not understand our situation? Hello? Answer me. Answer me!”

“Taro get me a knife from the kitchen,” Jiro shouted. “We need to cut the nets.”

Taro nodded. The boat slammed against the waves. Before falling down the stairs he saw Jiro flying overboard.

Taro held onto the bunk as the boat swayed and water rushed into the room. He managed to kick the door closed. A noise like breaking metal echoed and he was thrown against the wall. He struggled into the bunk and held on as tight as those hands would grip.

The feeling of being dragged. The boat was already well under and headed for the deep before he realised he should have gotten out of that room. He scrambled to the door and peered out the circular window, seeing only darkness. He climbed to the top bunk and kneeled. Water leaked in from the joints in the door.

It was quiet. Then there was a dull thud. The sinking stopped. Three quarters of the room had filled with water, levelling just under the mattress. Didn’t know how long the air would last. A red cigarette box and its contents floated on the water. A picture of Kazuki’s granddaughter. That was all.

“Kazuki?” he whispered. The light flickered. Panic churned inside. Breaths became much deeper. “Kazuki? Jiro? Anybody?”

No answer.

The rescue party would be there soon. Kazuki told their co-ordinates. The captain might even have been going for help. Had to just stay calm and wait. He curled into a ball and pulled a damp blanket to his chest. Exhaustion swallowed him.

Taro opened one eye. Hands numb, pins and needles crawling in his legs. The water level had risen and the walls were groaning. He took both hands out the water and rubbed them. Teeth chattered. The bulb flickered. After three breaths it went out.

He held knees in the darkness. Even if they knew where the boat was, why would they rush down there? He was dead; that’s what they’d all think. It would be weeks, if ever, before they’d try and salvage the boat.

No one was coming to save him.

No one.

Only death.

He clenched his jaw and dropped into the cold water, gasping. He wasn’t waiting to die in there. He took a series of deep breaths and paused. Silent. And smashed his elbow into the center of the glass. The glass shattered and water rushed inside. He pulled himself through the window and swam through the darkness.

Taro ran over the grass towards the old temple with his brothers. The scent of spring in the wind as it blew through pink flowers. Everyone smiling. He was home.