Tomodachi

Jessica Turner

 

            Straight across from me, emerald eyes peering deep into my soul, a girl stands. Her hair is a lovely shade of auburn that appears tinged with red in the light, and lays intricately twisted into roiling curls, pinned into a deliberately messy bird’s nest in the back. Her face is powdered, but her cheeks are rosy with makeup to hide the true blush underneath. Veins of black line her undereyes and flick out into pert cattails at the edges, sheltered by streaks of baby blue above. Her lips, curving down at the edges, wear the most alluring shade of rouge, and press together tightly as to not allow any discouraging words to escape.

            The girl is beautiful, no doubt, but I do not know her.

            LaMonica approaches me from behind, rest her hands on my bare shoulders. “You look gorgeous, Jess,” she says, staring with me at my reflection. “What’s the matter? Smile! Today is going to be the best day of your life.”

            I pull away from her grasp and turn from the mirror, twiddling my glove-adorned fingers. “What am I even doing?” The words part from my lips, not directed at anyone in particular.

            “You’re getting married, Jess!” Zoe squeals. “I swear, the first time I saw you and Youngblood together, I knew God had put you two together for something special. And now you’re getting united, in holy matrimony.”

            “You’re not getting cold feet, are you?” LaMonica asks. Without even facing her, I can feel her buttery golden eyes boring into me, their cold glaze prickling my spine.

            I turn back to the mirror, smoothening the wrinkles in my dress. “I don’t know,” I say honestly. The strapless sweetheart collar of my dress frames my figure in a desirable way, almost too coquettish for a dress of such purity. A simple, corset bodice leads into a train of ruffles after ruffles that drags several feet behind me. The girls helped me pick it out.

            “Don’t you love him, Jess?” Zoe queries, her voice as soft as her skin.

            Turning towards her, I allow some of true feelings to surface, feeling their ripples as they spill from my mouth. “What even is love? How do you know when you’re in love? Like, really in love?”

            “Oh!” Carmelita starts, her eyes wide as half-dollars. “My abuela said it has to do with temperature. And perspiration.”

            I can’t help but smile at her, but it quickly washes away. Perched upon my head sleeps a crown of enlaced dandelions, and the engagement ring on my left hand wears a pearlescent sapphire, my birthstone. Despite being a dainty princess-style ring, it feels increasingly heavy on my hand. “I just don’t feel like I’m ready.”

             “Well, you had damn better get ready!”

            “LaMonica, watch your language!” I hear Zoe shriek.

            Quickly I veer towards her to see her arms crosses and her eyebrows furrowed, her mouth a hard line. “Sorry, Zoe,” she says, her eyes leaning towards my friend, but they quickly dart back in my direction. “But I’m not going to let you ruin this for yourself, Jessica. You are always second guessing yourself and playing it safe and it causes you to miss so many amazing opportunities like this. My brother is a great guy, and he loves you so much. You had better not break his heart.”

            A lump grows in my throat, and I blink rising tears from my eyes. “I…” I stammer.

            “LaMonica, there’s no need to be so rough on her,” Zoe says. “None of us can imagine what she’s going through right now. Marriage is a big deal; it’s a lot of stress on someone. Just know that we’re always here for you, Jess.”

            “Yeah!” Carmelita sings. “If you need someone to watch your future kids, I’m your girl.” Her hazelnut hair bounces with as much vivacity as she did, performing against the bronzed, peanut butter backdrop of her skin.

            I hadn’t even considered children yet. “Thanks, Carmelita,” I say, forcing a smile forward. “Thanks all of you, really. I don’t mean to seem ungrateful. I’m just…anxious. But I do appreciate you all.” I make sure to glance in LaMonica’s direction. “And I’ll try to be a bit more happy for myself.” As a smile slowly grows on her face, I let out a sigh. “After all, this is my day.”

            “That’s the spirit,” Zoe trills.

            A knock sounds at the door, followed by Jordan’s voice. “Hope everyone’s decent,” he says before pushing the door open without invitation.

            “What are you doing here, Jordan?” Carmelita asks, dragging a brush through her hair, eyes fixed on her reflection in the grand vanity mirror. “Shouldn’t you be helping Youngblood get ready, being his best man and all?”

            “Oh, please,” he says. “He’s been ready since seven. I just wanted to make sure you b*****s did a good job fixing my sister up.” He approaches me, putting a hand on my cheek. “Your hair looks very nice.” I smile, and then feel him pulling down the edges of my bodice to expose more cleavage. “Come on, Jessie. If you got it, you need to flaunt it. And trust me, honey, you got it.”

            A streak of blond darts around the doorframe and into the room. Zack halts, his eyes dancing around the room, before a frown draws across his jaw. “Ah, man, no one’s naked,” he sighs. He stands tall in his tuxedo, a carnation resting peacefully in his breast pocket. Jordan, a little smaller, with a hibiscus over his ear, wears a similar suit, but his jacket is missing.

            “Get out of here, you pervert!” Zoe bellows, her cheeks flushing to match the color of her sundress.

            The right corner of his mouth curls upward. “Well, hello, Zoe. You look very pretty in pink.” Moving over closer to her, Zack drapes an arm over her shoulders. “When are you gonna tie the knot?”

            “Once I find the guy that God has planned for me,” she says in a near whisper, ducking underneath his arm and proceeding towards the bureau. Her hair resembles a frozen moment when milk first penetrates the meniscus of a cup of coffee, a deeply black, ombréing to a light cream. “Love is patient, after all.”

            He approaches her and whispers in her ear, loud enough for me to hear, “Maybe so, but I’m not.”

            “Can everyone just leave?” I hear myself say, and all eyes turn in my direction. “Please? I just…I need a few minutes to gather my bearings.”

            Along with the fuchsia wallpaper and my scattering paintings, silence decorates the room for a few moments. “Yeah, of course,” Jordan says finally. “Everyone out, bride’s orders.” I watch as he allows Zack out ahead of him, giving his a*s a loving grab on the way out.

            Slowly the congregation of people in my dressing room begins to diminish. “Don’t take too long, the wedding starts at noon,” LaMonica reminds me. “That gives you…”"she pulls her phone from her bra"“twenty minutes. So gather them quickly.”

            Once everyone is gone, it’s all I can do not to ruin my eyeliner.

 

Brandy Wright

 

            Autumn is my favorite season for photography. Every season has its perks, of course: summer has its sun showers and verdant greenery, spring has its pastels and promise of new life, winter its crispy clear skies and fresh powder. But color schemes are the most important things in photography, and autumn’s does it best for me. Caloric crimson, tawny tangerine, glorious gold. No photographer can truly capture the quintessence of autumn, especially on Ratchetson Island.

            The shutter of my Canon clicks, and the moment of a lone, vermillion leaf dangling from a nude branch is frozen in the screen. A confident smile passes along my face as I relish in my work.

            “Don’t waste your film,” I hear from behind me. Turning, I see LaMonica approaching me, a cross expression uglifying her usually beautiful face. “Besides, the beach is over this way. You have to take plenty of photos of the wedding. I’m going to want a scrapbook.”

            I look back down at my instrument and save the picture. “Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of film,” I say, shouldering the strap, letting the camera bounce along my hip as I walk. “And I know my job, LaMonica, so don’t tell me what to do.”

            I cross beside her, keeping my eyes fixed on some distant coordinate to avoid eye contact. I hear leaves crunch under her feet as she turns to follow me. “I’m sorry, Brandy. I know that you’re competent. I guess…I just really want everything to be perfect. This is a big day for Youngblood.”

            “I’m sure everything will be wonderful,” I respond without turning around. “Just don’t stress so much, you’ll wrinkle.”

            I’d prefer photographing woodsy undergrowth to a seaside wedding any day, but Jessica is my best friend’s sister, so it’s the least I could do. And the décor is beautiful. An isle of sand, enclosed by rows of milky white daisies, culminates in an arch of greenery, peppered with flecks of flower petals. Lavender ribbon laces around the topiary, the contrails of each end fluttering in the maritime breeze.

            There are no chairs, so everyone stands in their finest attire. Zoe, holding her Bible, stands under the arch, a floridly pink sundress lying under a crochet waistcoat on her lightly tanned skin. Beside her stands Youngblood in a red and white tuxedo, tight enough to show off the curves of his muscles. It’s a cool day, but beads of relentless sweat pop up along his brow. His hands go through a constant cycle of sponging his forehead, wiping the sweat on his pant leg, thumbing his pockets, twiddling together, and swinging through the crisp air.

            LaMonica assumes her position as maid of honor across from Youngblood, but leaving enough room for Jessica. Vested in a teal trumpet dress with peacock feathers in her silkily blond hair, she mouths stern words to her brother. I snap a shot of the two without her noticing.

            Carmelita’s Latin skin contrasts nicely against her beige gauze dress, and a faux-fur headband holds her hair in place. “Hey, Brandy! Take a picture of me!” she calls, lifting a leg, tossing her head back, and jutting her lips out like a duck’s bill. Another moment captured.

            Dressed in suits of royal blue and gold respectively, Frankie and Zack are nearly wrestling in the sand. A grin perched between my lips, I take another photo. My gaze does another lap around the wedding area before the smile fades away. My own garb includes a green and pink Aztec tile maxi dress with a purely white train. A steel gray snood hangs loosely around my neck, and a pair of leather mid-calf boots separates my feet from the grainy sand below. Everyone seems to be present and ready, so where is he?

            Lost in thought, I nearly face-plant at the violent shove from behind. “Hey, Bran Flake.” I turn to see Jordan’s smiling face, framed by his short chinstrap beard and goatee. His mousy hair is kempt in a manner that makes it appear unkempt, and his cerulean eyes have a way of feigning innocence, despite veiling anything but. “Why are you taking pictures of people like a weirdo?”

            “It’s what LaMoanica employed me to do.”

            “Employed? As in you’re making money?” I nod. “S**t, she should’ve employed me,” he says. His suit is deep violet mixed with black, matching the hibiscus over his ear. His face tenses, a muscle twitching in his neck. “I don’t think Jessie wants to get married.”

            “Why not?”

            “I don’t know, but I can tell she doesn’t.”

“Well, how do you know?” I ask, bringing the snood over my head to warm my ears.

“Call it a brother’s intuition.” He shrugs, as if none of it matters. “I guess we’ll see if she stops the ceremony or not.” His eyes drift away from me and toward the apartments before widening. “Well, here she comes. Get ready.” He struts away from me and into his spot behind Youngblood, giving his shoulder a quick rub on the way.

            Sure enough, a patch of white slowly makes its way towards the beach. Everyone getting into their positions, Frankie clutching his acoustic mahogany. Carmelita and Zack stand on either side of the floral isle, waiting for Jessica to enter, basket of flower petals and ring-laden pillow in hand.

            As her fragile feet grace the sands of the shore, notes from Frankie’s guitar string together, dancing midair in a wedding march ballet. The tail of the dress flows behind Jessica, erasing her footprints in the sand as if she were nothing but a ghost or a memory. I begin snapping photos of her: one of her plaited rosewood hair, one of the dress fluttering in the zephyr, one of a dewdrop hanging from her descended eyelashes. She doesn’t seem to acknowledge me, her focus on some distant land across the sea.

            I shimmy around, to capture photos at different angles, photos of Carmelita trailing behind and bestrewing rose petals down the isle, of Zack nearly tripping over a sand dollar, and of Youngblood laughing at the prior. Of LaMonica giving her brother an icily stern look. This will make a beautiful scrapbook.

            After Jessica takes her spot across from Youngblood, her pupils directed toward the ground, Zoe begins to speak. “Friends and family, we are gathered here today on Siren’s Song Beach to celebrate the joining of these two souls into one,” she says, and then turns to Youngblood. “Erick, Proverbs 18:22 says that he who finds a wife finds what is good and receives favor from the Lord, and I can already feel that favor washing down on you.” At seeing his smile, Zoe reflects the gesture and turns to the bride. “And Jessica, Proverbs 31:10 says that a noble wife is worth far more than rubies, or sapphires, in your case.”

            Jessica gives more of a forced exhale than a laugh, but it’s understandable; trying to laugh at Zoe’s jokes is like giving birth through your mouth. “When a man and woman come together in the holiest of matrimony that is marriage, their two entities merge together into one, two halves becoming a whole. Love is a beautiful thing, but pure love like this is a gift from God.”

            I pull up my camera and snap a picture of Jordan rolling his eyes towards the French blue sky. “Erick Edward Young, do you take Jessica to be your wife in the eyes of God and everyone here, to love, carry, and support her no matter the circumstances?”

            With a wide toothy grin, he declares, “I do.”

            “Jessica Faithe Turner,” Zoe continues, “do you take Erick to be your husband in the eyes of God and everyone here, to love, cherish, and honor him no matter the circumstances?”

            A chord of silence strikes the seasalt-moistened air, and my finger quivers over the shutter button. Everyone stands still, not breathing, a few heads turn. I see LaMonica gulp and shift her eyes around. “Answer her, Jessie,” she says in a strained voice.

            “I…” she stammers, closing her. “I’m sorry.” Youngblood’s eyes lay on her face, unmoving. After a shake of her head, she lets out a barely audible, “I do.”

            Cheers and applause rise above the crash of the waves, and I see LaMonica sigh. “Praise Him. Erick, you may kiss the bride,” Zoe concludes, holding her Bible tight to her chest. With one hand on her nape and one on the small of her back, Youngblood sweeps Jessica off her feet into their first kiss as husband and wife. Snap.

 

Jordan Turner

 

            I can see fog condensing on my window from the amount of heat being produced in this room. The friction of skin against silk sheets, skin against skin, makes for a more than lukewarm night. Scents of a few lit candles and combined sweat loom in the air as the choir of noises pouring from our body surely passes through the walls.

            As director of imports, it’s my duty to greet and assist any mariners that arrive at Ratchetson Island’s port. A shipment of timber and other building materials for the new concert hall arrived shortly after Jess’s wedding, and I gleefully welcomed the men to our islet. Conlan, a fit lad with a deep Irish accent, his hair a brilliant garnet tipped with snow, his eyes a cool rush of Caribbean seawater, introduced himself to me as captain. He pulled me to him when he shook my hand, his lingering a bit too long in mine, letting me know it was time to begin our business transactions.

            We were invading each other’s mouths before we got in the door, sliding my hands over his hard body, groping him. A fragrance of sharp citrus lingered on his freckled skin, beauty marks decorating his spine. I told him to close his eyes and let me be his guide, piloting his hands to all the right destinations. Earlier he parked his ship into our harbor, and now I’m returning the favor.

            He breathes heavily, swearing with his Irish tongue, the same tongue that now knows the distinct tastes of different parts of me: the sweetness of my wrists from sugar spray, the saltiness of my neck from ocean mist, and the mint of the inside of my mouth. Our breaths mingle like water and powder as I comb my fingers through his elemental hair.

            One final, guttural moan as I deposit my parcels, and my vessel pulls out of his marina. We lay side-by-side on my twin bed, catching our trade winds, before I roll onto my side and simper warmly. “That was fun,” I purr, tracing my fingers along the creases of his abdomen, drawing upward and circling his Adam’s apple.

            “You are something else,” he breathes, and stops my mouth with another informal negotiation. Or two. I like the way my lips fit into the spaces between his, the way they work together like spinning gears. At one of the intervals when we pull away for breath, he asks, “What time is it?”

            “Don’t worry, baby, we’ve got all night,” I say, and tug on his bottom lip with my teeth. Our representatives collide again for another moment or two before his resign.

            I can hear a sense of longing in his tone. “As much as I’d like to, Jordan mate, we’re docking out at twelve, so I’ve got to be going.” As he says this, he sits up on the bed, throwing his legs over the side, searching about for his clothes. They lay scattered about on the floor, his boxers somehow managing to be pendent for my doorknob.

            “Aww,” I groan, pulling myself into a seated position. “Well, feel free to come back anytime you want to make another delivery.”

“I just make take you up on that offer.” The flames pirouetting atop the candlewicks silhouette his naked body, showing his ruggedly svelte form, the dishevelment of his fiery hair. He slides his boxers on first and his jeans follow suit with a squeeze. His eyes veer towards a photograph on my dresser, and he fingers it inquisitively. “And who is this cutie?” he croons.

            I feel my throat tighten. “Oh. That’s my boyfriend.”

            Even in the darkness, I can see him eyeing me, one eyebrow cocked. “Your boyfriend, aye?” His polo slips over his head and arms, holding firm to his body like a second, cotton-based skin.

            “Yeah, but…”"I swallow"“He’s gone. So don’t worry about it.”

            “Oh,” he says. “What a shame.” Throwing his jacket over his shoulder, he dips his feet into his boots, lacing them midway up his calves. “Cause I certainly wouldn’t mind having a piece of that a*s.”

            I halt. Words begin rising in my throat, curses unknown to most of humanity, but I swallow them back down. In their place, I proffer a quiet, “You’d better go.” Saluting me, his slender body steals from my apartment, the door inaudibly closing behind him. And before I realize what I’m doing, my bed is overturned, clothes are strewn from my dressers, and I’m standing in the shower, blood rinsing from my body.

            I have to wash the citrus off of me.

 

Zoe Baron

 

            St. Katherine Assembly is the only church gracing Ratchetson Island’s shore. It’s an antique, Victorian cathedral with redbrick walls and a grand, stone door. Depictions of biblical stories stand frozen in stained glass windows, and the memory garden behind it is enclosed by a high fence with a paisley iron gate that creaks when swung open.

            I step inside, and find it dark, as it should be. As I make my way to the front, I draw the rose-encrusted lighter from my pocket and light the candles sitting in the windows, the light twirling ballerina shadows across the images withheld. The pews, with their velvet seats and hardwood backs, welcome me home, but saddened to see me unaccompanied, as I am wont to be.

            In Remembrance of Me, reads the altar at the front, holding a nosegay of daisies, sunflowers, and posy. I light a stick of incense and watch the smoke rise and diffuse into common air.

            The chapel is a mansion of rooms. Beyond the sanctuary lies a hallway leading to a four-way crossroad. Down one corridor sleeps an unused nursery, the smell of dust loitering over toys waiting for the grubby hands of children and two gender-neutral bathrooms. Another hallway leads to a door with an awning window that opens into the backyard cemetery.

            But it’s the third passage I take, ending with a lavish, ribbon-stripped study with an attached bedchamber. On my vinyl desk rests a journal, bound in velvet, with gilded pages. It’s open on my latest entry from last night where I was preparing the ceremony for Jessie’s wedding.

            Beige lace curtains drape over the queen-sized bed, drawn back with silver roping. The leopard comforter invites me in, but just as I’m lifting the sheets to metamorphose into a chrysalis of warmth, I see a light, soft and blue, through the window.

            I return to the crossroads and take the fourth corridor towards the cemetery. The moon is high and full in the freckled sky, her smile illuminating the faces of the tombstones. Most of them are ancient, the nearest ones dating to the nineteen-twenties. The names of many have been weathered away by rain and wind, illegible even to me.

            But several rows and columns inward, I can see the blue light. In front of a small, ebony-cut headstone, Zack crouches on one knee, his head bowed, a lantern possessed by an indigo flame flickering violently beside him. His hair rises into blond spikes, lightly battered by the day, and his lips in a rosy pout, whispering into the darkness.

            “Zack?” I murmur, and see his eyes flicker away.

            He quickly rises to his feet, swinging the lantern in my direction. “Zoe?” he says. “What are you doing here?” His tone quickly changes as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other. “Just couldn’t get enough of me, huh?”

            I groan. “I live here, Zack,” I reply, crossing my arms. “Of course, you might know that if you ever came to Sunday services.”

            “Oh, right,” he says, dusting dirt from the knees of his pants and raking a finger through his hair. “I just simply haven’t the time for such trivial squanders.”

            “You’re not concerned for the sake of your soul?” I ask, taken aback by his lackadaisical answer.

            With a shrug of his shoulders and a tilt of his head, he replies, “Not really. I’m already acutely aware that I’ve bought a ticket for a one-way train straight to hell. I might as well enjoy the ride, you know what I mean?”

            “It doesn’t have to be that way, though,” I plead. “You have hope, Zack. You can have salvation.” The look painted on his face tells me I’m getting nowhere, so I tear my eyes from his face down to the grave. “Why are you here, anyway? Whose grave is this?”

            His eyes follow mine, landing on the coal black stone. “I don’t know,” he declares. “I don’t know any of these people. Do you?” I shake my head, and he turns his to the distance. “We all moved here some years ago, but many of these graves have been here for over a century. I think this one is my favorite, though.”

            I position myself next to him as he holds the lantern up, casting its light across the tomb. The etchings are still deep and legible, matching the recent date. “Kayla Shabreil Gore,” he reads. “Born March twenty-fourth, 1903, died March thirty-first, of the same year. She was only a week old when she died. Isn’t that sad?”

            “It’s very sad,” I admit, my gaze washing over the face of the grave. A baby with fragile, three-feathered wings and a lopsided halo sleeps quietly below the date of death. I look to the left and right, expecting to find the parents’ graves, but am met with no such luck. “But that still doesn’t tell me why you’re here.”

            I see a stellar twinkle pass across his azure eyes. “I come by every week and pay my respects. I don’t really know why; I guess it seems a bit irreverent to just watch them waste away.” He looks me in the eye, his eyebrows furrowed. “Wouldn’t you hate to be forgotten after you die?”

            A chilled wind blows tousles some leaves around, and I pull the edges of my waistcoat around my torso. “You should go home,” I tell him. “You don’t want to catch a cold.”

            “Right,” he says with a smile. “I’ll see you later, Ziggy.” I watch him leave, a trail of blue disappearing into the darkness beyond the church.

 

Erick Young

 

            Rather than head back to one of our apartments, Jessie and I opted to stay at the Ratchetson Inn, a resort for travelers who never come. It sits undisturbed on the coastline of the island, far enough from the avoid to avoid high tide but close enough to feel the salty spray of ocean mist before dawn.

            Our room is a bit barren: one large bed, laden with fleece sheets, against one wall; a television and stereo against the other; a door on another wall, which I assume leads to the bathroom; and a beige sofa in the center, directed towards the TV. I plant a seat on the bed, kicking my shoes and pulling my socks down my heels.

            “Well,” I begin, “it’s been a big day.”

            “No kidding,” I hear her say.

            A cunning grin etches along my jawline, showing my teeth. “And it’s only going to get bigger from here.”

            She swivels slightly in her spot, one arm hanging limp, the other clutching her elbow. Her eyes divert away from mine, seemingly staring at an unknown stain on the carpet floor. “I’m going to the restroom, to freshen up,” she says, and takes her leave through the door on the opposite side of the room.

            Piece by piece, I pull each strip of clothing from my body, and feel the firm softness of the blankets against the bare nakedness of my skin. I saunter about the room a moment, turning the stereo to some soft, orchestral music to set the mood. I hear the water running in the bathroom, and what sounds like a moan slip from her lips.

            I grin and return to the bed, lying with my back against the backboard, hands behind my bed, my legs spread for the entire world to see me in such a primal state. This won’t be my first time having sex by any means, but it will certainly be my first time making love. I’ve had many unmentionable nights, streamed with lace and sparkling with glittery cheeks. I’ve been a puppeteer to many, but no one has made a marionette from my heartstrings before tonight.

            And as Zoe preaches, good things come to those who wait. So I wait. For minutes. Still the water runs. I call out to her, “Jessie, are you alright?”

            The flow discontinues. “I’m coming out now,” I hear her say after clearing her throat. The door slowly creaks open, and I’m filled with a sense of renewal in how beautiful she is.

            Her viridescent eyes shimmer with moisture, and her rosy cheeks frame a tight smile. Her hair, brown and wavy, pours down her shoulders like an Aquarius. She strides toward me, her skin, nearly flawless, and almost bare for me, scantily ornamented with thin, lavender passementerie. I immediately felt a warmth growing inside me.

            “Jessie,” I stammer. “You look f*****g hot.” She says nothing as she climbs on top of the mattress, crawling so that her face is over mine, the ends of her hair tickling my nose. She smells of vanilla and lilies, a scent I’ve never smelled on her before. Everything about her seems different. The calm, reserved girl I married has been revamped into this feline in heat.

            Fireworks explode in our mouths upon contact. My chest heaves, swells like a beach ball with each breath she pushes into me. Her body creates friction against mine, starting a fire inside my belly.

            I close my eyes and find that I’m standing a small room with no windows and no doors. The walls seem tight around me, like I can’t breath, but I find some peace in that. Dozens of keys of different designs and colors dangle from the ceiling on piano wire, swaying ever so slightly. I finger one, and feel the cool metal sigh against me.

            I find another key, a three-pronged shaving of silver with an intricate L swirling on the bow. Like the other, the surface is cool, as metal is wont to be. I yank it from the chord, and I hear a soft moan exude from the quivering walls. Tossing the key aside, I run around the room with a hand in the air, letting my fingertips titillate their bits. They giggle at my touch and dance like wind chimes, tinkling to make the most beautiful medley of music notes.

            I seize more of the keys, snatching them away from their swinging party, feeling the room wobble and shimmy around me likes a boat tossed among waves. Tossing one to the side, I grab for another and scream. Pulling my hand away, I see the imprint of the key seared black into my palm, smoke rising from the burning flesh. The key wears armor of lava, a lowercase g roiling on the bow.

            My eyes linger on the key, worn red with heat. As my hand hovers over the shoulder, I can feel the estrus emanating from its curling face, passionate as sin, beckoning to me. With all the ferociousness of a Bengal tiger, I grab the bow with both hands and jerked downward. Rather than the wire breaking, the ceiling from which it hung collapses on top of me, the tiling melting into boiling water as it pours down. The walls wail, causing them to tremble, but soon retire to a somber susurration of sighs.

            I lie under her, still deep within her cherry blossom, my body moving in time with hers, churning from the experience. Her heartbeat is quick but slowing, and mine rumbles like thunder in my thoracic rainclouds. Our hair is windblown, our skins bare, our eyes filled with light and visions of each other. Hers still shimmer, as if she were holding back tears, but I’m sure that’s not the case.

            “I love you,” I whisper, staring deep into her emerald soul. A smile roosting between her lips collides with my own, until I feel the sweet warmth of sleep prickling into my consciousness.

            Dreams of meadows plague me, of their flowers bursting from desperate fear, of the sun shattering and falling to earth like flotsam and jetsam. I awake with a start to find Jess is not with me, but a faint light peaks from underneath the bathroom door. The water is running.

 

Jessica Turner

 

            The water pours from the spigot, hundreds of thousands of drops per second, a volume that would soon flood the sink, were it not draining just as fast. But that’s nothing new; everything has been moving so fast lately, too fast for me to keep up with my own life.

            The mirror reflects a very different image than yesterday. Though they put out their best effort, my bobby pins have done nothing to hold my hair in place. My eyes, swollen from too long of a night and too many tears, resemble Christmastime with their red, white, and green scheme. After all the masks and paint were washed away, my skin wears scratches and bruises, marks on my neck matching the color of Erick’s lips.

            I tried to shower, to cleanse myself of what happened last night, but the stains run deeper than the enamel. So I stand, with a towel hugging me tight, staring back at my unknown reflection.

            “Jessie?” I hear along with a beat on the bathroom door. “Are you alright in there?” His voice is low, heavy and humid with sleep. The tiny window in the bathroom, looming above the mirror, shows that it is still night, with no known promise of morning.

            “Of course,” I push out. “Go back to sleep, Erick.” He offers no reply, but I wait for the sound of his trailing footsteps before I allow myself to breathe.

            On the back of the toilet resides of a notebook and pen, bearing the phrase “Let us know how you enjoyed your stay.” Taking the pen in hand, I begin to write.

 

            Jessica the flower, they called me

          As pretty as a dahlia,

As fragrant as a peony

Just waiting for the gardener

To one day come and pick her

 

But who knew she’d be violently torn

From her bed, so snug and warm

Her leaves strewn off,

Her petals plucked

To let the world know she’d been fucked

Carmelita Reyes

 

            Morning peeks through my window, the pale blue sky lit up with sunlight and promise. Angelo, Jessica’s blue-eyed Siberian husky, sleeps in a monochrome swirl on my Spanish-tile rug, soft susurrations puffing from his lazy nostrils. Rising from the sheets, I tiptoe past him in an oversized tee and my bedroom slippers.

            Stealing to the kitchen, I find Piper, my own colorpointed Birman beauty, pottering around the house with no set destination. She purrs against my ankles, tickling my flesh with her furry sweater. Jessica had always admired how clean Piper’s coat was, how well-fed she always stayed, how adoring she was towards me. I suppose that’s the reason she entrusted me to keep Angelo while she went honeymooning with Youngblood.

            Angelo leisurely strolls into the kitchen, passing by Piper without any altercation, and makes for his labeled food bowl, giving me a pitiful look at finding it empty. As I pour the kibble Jessica left me into his bowl, I hear a knock sound at the door.

            “Coming,” I say, my slippers pitter-pattering against the wooden floor.

As I pull the door open, I see Frankie standing on the other side, his furry hands stuffed deep in his pockets. “Hey, Carmelita,” he says, grinning in the same way a raccoon or a possum might, stretching wide across his face, hiding bad intentions. “I hate to ask you, but do you think you come with me somewhere and lend me a hand with something?”

“That’s really specific,” I reply, eyeing him warily. His hair falls into olive twists over his forehead, shadowing the speckled jasper ore in his eyeballs. “But yeah, sure. Why not? I don’t have anything better to do today. Just let me get dressed right quick, okay?” I replace the door in its casing and quickly"quietly"turn the lock as I regress back to my bedroom.

Despite the beaming sun above, the breeze makes for a chilly day on Ratchetson Island, so I slip into a pair of acid-washed skinnies that frame my a*s like a Monet, while an extremely loose poncho designed with a dream catcher hangs over my shoulders like curtains. Stepping into my combat boots, I sashay back to the door, taking care to lock it as I leave. Jessica would never forgive me if Angelo ran away under my watch.

Together we depart from the apartment complex and away from the beach, traversing towards the edge of Ratchetson Woods. “So, where exactly are we going?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest in an attempt to keep the wind from blowing up my top.

Without turning around, he says, “The other side of the island.” A wave of gooseflesh ripples down my arms and back, partly from the wind and partly from the blasé tone encumbering his voice.

“Why?”

“The gate needs repairing.”

“What gate?”

“The gate the separates us from the other side of the island,” he says, finally turning around. His long-sleeved gray tee bears the vision of a black lady, singing, presumably, and the contrails of a red undershirt can be seen peaking from the orifices.

I wrinkle my eyebrows at him like a deflating balloon. “I’ve never been to the other side of the island.”

“That’s not surprising; most people haven’t,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders. Ratchetson Woods is a thick forest of fervent greenery with splashes of spectral flora from the golden honeysuckle to the vermillion rafflesia, from the autumnal lichen to the violet orchids. Foxes and deer scamper about on the ground floor, while parrots and monkeys dominate the overheads.

“Is it safe?” I inquire, skipping ahead slightly faster in order to remain at his side. His gait holds so much duty, so much responsibility. Though he’s not much taller than me, his stride seems nearly double mine.

One corner of his mouth tightens, his lips pressing into a hard line. “Not usually,” he says sternly, before cracking a wide, toothy grin. I roll my eyes and remain silent for the rest of our stroll.

A tall, iron fence, lined with barbwire and undergrowth, appears before us, mightily standing like a fleet at attention. A rusty sign hangs on by a thread, reading Warning, High Voltage. “Is it really electric?” I ask.

He shakes his head, his shaggy mop jostling. “That’s why we’re here. I don’t know what happened, but somehow the voltage was tripped. We haven’t had any storms lately, so I’m really at a loss as to what could have caused it.”

“Could it have been an animal or something?” I ask, leaning against the trunk of a wide tree, sliding down into a knee-hugging sit on the root.

Retrieving a screwdriver from his back pocket, he begins to diddle with the cornered screws of a gray box, marked with a lightning bolt. “It could have been, but it would have to had been one big a*s animal. Maybe a bear.”

“A bear?” I quiver.

“Or a mountain lion, maybe.” He drops three screws into his shirt pocket, the panel door swinging down by its last bolt. “But who really knows what all lives on the other side of the island? It’s a dangerous place. That’s why it’s my job to keep us safe.” He shoots a quick smile from his profile before returning to his work, tinkering with the agglomeration of wires and nuts found into the gray box, twisting and winding like a perfectionist’s nightmare.

The sound of a twig snapping alerts me, and I suddenly stand back up from the tree, my ears perked in a vulpine manner. “Why did you need me to come with you again?” I ask, feeling uneasy.

He laughs. “I’m not gonna lie, I just wanted some company, honestly.” Drawing his palm across his sweat-beaded forehead, he sighs. After a few more seconds, I hear a loud, airy noise followed by a buzz, like the sound of a giant mouth sucking in a yellowjacket. “There, that should be fixed. Why don’t you touch it and see if it’s working?”

Instinctively, I reach for the fence, and he grabs my wrist, his grip stern. “Woah, Carmelita! That’s three thousand volts of electricity. It might not kill you, but it’d sure hurt like a b***h.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, turning my head away from him, feeling my cheeks redden like apples. “People always tell me I don’t think, I just do. I guess that’s true, huh?” I let out a nasally breath that could be considered a chuckle in some regions. “I don’t see why you’d want the company of someone stupid like me.”

“No, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have told you to do that,” he says, his callused fingers still wrapped around mine, tightly. “But you’re not stupid, Carmelita. You just do as your told.” Placing a finger on my chin, he turns me to face him, his eyes in mine. “You’re a smart girl. And you’re very pretty.”

Before I know what’s happening, his mouth is on mine, his hand on my a*s. His tongue tastes of cigarette smoke and mixed malt. I feel the bark of the tree against my slowly disrobing spine. “No,” I moan, placing my hands against his chest, but my attempts to push him away are made futile by the strength of my own ardor.

Another twig snaps, closer this time. “What was that?” I ask, twisting away from him.

“Nothing, baby,” he says, making me touch him, too big and too swollen for one hand.

“No,” I repeat, louder and firmer, stepping away from him and regaining my clothedness. “I want to go home.”

He stares at me long and hard before looking down. “Yeah, sorry. That was uncalled for.” He clears his throat, wiping his lips. “Do you mind walking back by yourself? I need to finish up here.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say. I part my lips to apologize, but find him turning around before I can get the words out of my throat. But the taste of his mouth, and the promise of something better, lingers on my tongue like a troubled spirit to a cemetery.

LaMonica Young

 

            I have no title, no nomenclature of nobility or moniker or majesty, but I am the unofficial queen of Ratchetson Island. Without me, the very sends of our balmy coast would float away into the everafter. I deserve a crown of rose gold and opulence, but I wear only premature crow lines and a sweaty brow.

            Just this week, I had to oversee the planning of Youngblood’s wedding"which required meticulous detail considering his blossom of a bride can’t seem to dress herself"orchestrate the construction of our new concert hall"where hopefully I can orchestrate an actual orchestra"alert Frankie of the short in the meridian gate"now how did that happen?"and begin preparations for our annual Halloween bash.

            I stand beside the island fountain, watching each bead of water slurp into the standardized suction and spill out over the top and back into the bottom well. The area sleeps so barren any other time of year, but just before All Hallow’s Eve we bust out of the goblins and gourds and garnish the fountain square with spook and spoof.

            My phone has a light seizure in my pocket, so I draw it to my face with a soothing, “Hello?”

            “Hey, LaMonica.” Frankie’s voice hangs heavy over the receiver. “I got the gate fixed.”

            “Oh, thank God,” I say, having a leg-over-leg sit on the fountain perch, feeling its gentle mist against my nape. “Did you figure out what shorted it?”

            “The f**k if I know, man!”

            The gentle hum of the electricity radiates behind his voice. “You’re still at the gate?”

            “Yeah, why?”

            My head swivels left and right, the coconut tresses of my hair swirling like a dancer’s ribbon. After finding no one around me, I say, hardly above a whisper, “Can you see anything on the other side?”

            The line goes dead for a moment, and I nearly check to see if the call was dropped, before I hear him say, “Nothing but trees.” I sigh. “But Carmelita and I heard some twigs snapping earlier.”

            “Carmelita? What the hell was she doing there?”

            “I invited her. You’ll have to forgive me for not wanting to come all the way out her by myself, Mona. You and I both know what’s over there, and it gives me the willies.”

            “How about you man up and do your job?” It comes out more sinister than I had hoped, but my tongue continues to flick words of fire. “I’m sure the twigs snapping was just a deer or something like that. But you’re right; you and I do know what’s on the other side of that gate. And you know that no one else can know about it. So do us both a favor and don’t endanger that little secret more than we have to. Understand?”

            The din of his smoky breathing rumbles through the receiver, and I can practically smell the menthol on his breath. “Whatever you say.” I open my mouth to ripple another wave of reprimands, but the line goes dead, and so does my drive.

            The power button is Frankie’s acne-scarred face, my thumb is a sledgehammer, and as his brain splatter into my pocket, I fold my arms under my breasts. “B*****d,” I say aloud, to on one in particular, and clear my head with a flutter of eyelashes and fabric. The mahogany peacoat I wear hangs loose against my mercurial frame, tied limply with a velveteen belt, besting away the biting nip of the autumnal air.

            The preparations for the Halloween bash can wait until tomorrow; I need to investigate for myself. I had thought Frankie would be a competent enough ally in this debacle, but he is steadily proving himself to be less and less reliable. Fully aware of the dangers, he enlisted Carmelita as an aide"probably attempting to give her AIDS in the process"and couldn’t even solve the problem that I sent him for initially. If you want something done right, send the queen.

            The sun already is only just beginning to set when I enter Ratchetson Forest, but one would think it was midnight with how dim the canopy sleeps. Indistinct animal noises chirp and mew and howl on all sides of me, but I pay them no mind. My mind is elsewhere, paying its respects.

            As the electrical gate grows into my peripheral, I hasten my pace, the heels of my pumps digging into the loamy earth. It hums softly, a tune I do not know, and I find myself straifing along the outer edge, looking for nothing particular but anything peculiar.

            Using the flashlight application on my phone as a guide, I scan the perimeter, finding no teeth marks or scratches, only the standard weather of weather. A rabbit hops along beside me, cocking its head curiously to the side. “Yeah, my sentiments exactly,” I say, dragging a finger along the pentagon curve of my chin. It’s a precious little hair, an untouched white with big azure eyes. It scratches vigorously behind its ear with its foot, until I gasp.

            A hand reaches through one of the bottom slots of the gate, gripping the rabbit by its neck. But the hand is like none I’ve ever seen. Oddly humanesque, but mutated, fingers like machetes, waxen to a tawny color that rivals rot. The skin clings tight to the bone, zero percent meat separation, and I feel the wind catch in my lungs as the rabbit is snatched through the hole.

            And I can’t stop running.

            My heart beats in my claves, a sound like rain buzzing in my ossicles. My hair whips behind me like the contrails of a horse’s mane, my breathing heavy as winter, my nose running as hard as I am. What the hell was that? The only note that can register in my mind, but the answer is a crescendo of offbeats and missed keys, should and should-not-have-beens.

            The break of waning light marking the edge of the forest etches its way into my horizon, which is the reason I don’t see the root that snags at my ankle. The heels of my hands break my fall to the rugged earth, and I swear between clenched teeth. The chitterchatter of birdsong has been replaced with the fluttering of wings, branches seeming to snap in every dark corner around me. I find a way back to my feet, and also find my ankle to be majorly aching, probably sprained.

            I tighten my jaw and half-limp, half-jog the remaining distance out of the woods, the sunlight prickling my skin like a hallelujah.

 

Brandy Wright

 

            Herbal fumes loom within the plumage of the room, swirling in organic sixes and nines, not fading past the ceiling. I pull the plant from between my teeth and exhale in a long Rhine of fog, feeling a gentle tightening in my throat. Jordan sits across from me, in a long-sleeved crew shirt and tessellated jeans, giggling incessantly.

            “What’s so funny?” I query, passing the roll to him, watching him take a long draw.

            After a few carefully blown rings, he puffs out a response. “My sister just got married.” Even through the haze, I can make out the glaze of his oceanic gaze. Bloodshot, his eyes linger briefly on mine before lazily drooping out of focus. “She always was the more promising child.”

            “Are you worried she’ll leave the island?” Cozily roosting in its dock, my phone fills the room with some melodic tune, a lady with a voice as smoky as this apartment crooning over an artificial backing track. The notes mingle midair with the miasma, soft susurrations giving a lyric lap dance to the fog, and raping my eardrums with rapture.

            He gives an easy shrug. “I don’t see why she would. There’s nothing for her out there.” He hands the roll back to me. “Her past is here, so her future is here as well.”

            I run my flaccid fingers through my hair, pushing it all to one side and onto my shoulder, my head bobbing slightly to the side. “I thought you liked Youngblood.”

            “I never said I didn’t.”

            “Didn’t you two"“

            “No, not him. I couldn’t.”

            “Wow.” I breathe in deeply, feeling the vapors circulating through my lungs, lingering in my alveoli long enough for brunch, and then release with a relaxed jaw, the lemonade smoke pouring from between my rosewood lips. “How’s Cole?” His eyes flit towards me like lightning bugs. “You haven’t spoken of him in eons.”

            He resumes his giggling. I offer the flower back to him, but he shakes his head like a leaf. “That’s because I haven’t heard from him in eons.” What starts as another laugh erupts in coughing, that fades back into a half-winded chortle, before slips his feet under his butt and proceeds to lay his head on my crisscrossed legs.

            Flicking the remainder of the roll in the general direction of the trash can, I rake the autumn leaves out of his hair with my hand and into a pile. I blink, and they burst into a white flame that leaps and screams before smothering itself.

            “You’ll see him again,” I whisper, so low it may just have been a thought, but he vibrates in my lap, half sobbing half snickering.

 

Jessica Turner

 

            They all know.

            My eyes flit along the dirt, from pebble to pebble, my feet shuffling through the decaying grass. I can’t bear to look at any of them. They all know. They’ve all seen. Jessica the flower has been ripped from the sanctity of her bouquet, now a boutonniere on the chest of the man she’s supposed to love.

            The half-built concert hall sits on my left, where Zack and Frankie hammer away almost aimlessly, a cacophony of bangs and whams that sound farther away than my future. They both know. The steeple of the chapel peeks over the treetops in the distance, where Zoe is more than likely annotating her scriptures or preparing communion for a mass that will never arrive. She knows. I have to swing by Carmelita’s apartment and pick up Angelo. She, too, knows.

            “Hey, sis.” A hard elbow shoves into my side, and I wince, the glare from the midafternoon sun outlining Jordan’s doughboy body into an oblong silhouette. His eyes gleam like sapphire, his teeth sharp as diamonds, ready to gnash away at my effigy. “How did it go last night?

            He knows. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not talk about it, Jordan.” I scuffle along, watching my feet, neither rising nor falling with each step, merely moving forward like a wind-up mouse.

            “Why? Did you guys have sex or not?” His shadow slinks behind me. “Don’t tell me you wimped out, Jess. I know it was your first time. Did it hurt? I’ve always had the suspicion that Youngblood’s hung like a horse. Or was it tiny? Oh, damn, you didn’t laugh at it, did you?”

            “Will you just f**k off!?” I don’t realize I’m shouting until after the words are already suspended in the air between us, an aghast look glossing over his usually controlled countenance.

            His hands find their way into the recesses of his pockets, one of his legs, swooping behind the other, bent at the knee. “Oh, okay. Sure, Jess. I’ll see you later.” His voice is hushed and strained, a ghastly whisper barely above the rustle of the autumn breeze. He turns on his ballerina toes and grand jetés away.

            My feet proceed to carry me along the beaten path, while my mind lingers between the silk sheets at Ratchetson Inn, stained with glitter and moisture, butterfly kisses pressed against the lumps underneath. It was exactly how I had daydreamed, but in all the wrong ways. It was raw and visceral, deeply-touching and hot, but not like I had wanted.

            The cool gale tickles through my auburn waves as I make my way up the steps to Carmelita’s apartment, a black cat wreath hanging from the knob. My knuckles whack against the hollow wood, and before long I can hear the shuffle of a hurried gait.

            “Geez, two visitors in one day"Oh! Hey, Jess,” she adds, as her eyes meet mine, soggy with fresh eyeliner, only one cat eye fleeked, her bronzer unblended. “I didn’t expect you back for another day or two. Is everything good?”

            “Everything is great,” I lie, and smile at the flooring. Her toes are freshly painted a glossy fuchsia. “We just decided to come back a little early. Is it okay if I take Angelo now?”

            “Yeah, of course. Come in.” She steps aside, allowing me by, into the warmth and hearth of her apartment as she hobbles about on her heels. “Angelo, your mom’s here to get you.” She turns me to me. “Soooo, how was it?”

            Despite the heat hanging in the air, I cross my arms in my dolman sweater to bite back the chill along my spine. “It was fine.”

            I peer about for Angelo, but find him nowhere, and the crackle of his claws against linoleum evades my ears. “Fine? That’s all I get? Come on, chica, you know I want every salted detail.”

            “There’s nothing to talk about.” Finally, a quicksilver flash bends around the corner, and Angelo seeks refuge in my knees, tongue out and eyes up. “Sorry, Carmelita, can we talk later? I’d really just like to get back to my apartment. I’m pretty tired.”

            She grins, a fake eyelash drooping against her raised cheekbone. “Oh, I bet you are. I’ll see you later, Jessie. Oh, and Angelo was such a pleasure, I’m willing to watch her anytime you like.”

            I stop. “You do know Angelo is a boy, right?”

            “For real? My bad. I don’t know what a penis looks like.” She doubles over in laughter, and when she brings herself back up, her eyelashes have disappeared completely. “But I know you do. Try to keep the noise to a minimum.” Sending a hard wink in my direction, she turns back around and shakes her rear all the way back to her bathroom. My body lingers in the doorway a moment longer, before I briefly scavenge for Angelo’s food, bowl, and leash.

            We take the stairs back down, holding on the railing as we make our way to apartment 103. My key jingles in the lock a moment, and I nearly break it from jerking as I feel two hands grab my waist, and a pair of ice cold lips on my ear. “Hey, sweetness.” I can already smell the eucalyptus on the crested breath, and I force a smile to cool my frayed nerves.

            “Hey, Erick. What are you doing here?” The tumblers tumble, and the door swings open, the interior temperature only vaguely less nippy than the outside.

            “I might ask you the same thing,” he chimes. Breaking away from his embrace long enough to swoop inside, I unhinge Angelo’s leash and allow him to roam around as he wishes. My fingers flick the lights on. “I thought we’d stay at the hotel another couple days, get to know each other a little better, you know what I’m saying?” He holds both of my hands, looking down at me and biting his pale lip.

            My cheeks run rosy, the faucet behind my eyes threatening to squeak. “I know, I’m sorry. I just wanted to come home.”

            “That’s fine, we can do it here, too,” he says, pushing the door closed and locking it, reaching around me to squeeze my pumpkin butt. I blush. “We can do anything we want, wife. Ha, I’m still not used to that.”

            His rosebud lips blossom against my scalp, and I let out a ghost of a sigh. “I don’t know, Erick. I’m just not feeling up to it right now.”

            His breathing is heavy, and I can feel the weight of it pushing me down on the bed, his mouth on mine, talking in airy spurts between minutes of liplock. “Come on, Jess. I know you had a nice time last night. I know you did. Can’t we go for round two?”

            I didn’t see him take his shirt off, but his chest is hard like ice against my hand as I push him away. “I said no, Erick. Now stop.”

            His body rises from mine, his face like that of a puppy. I wipe my face on my sleeve and make an unhurried shift towards the bathroom. I can feel my eyes beginning to leak, before my ears perk up to the sound of a clamor behind me. I whip around, my hair fluttering in front of my face before I see my bedside lamp smashed against the far wall.

            “Damn it, Jessica!”He is facing me, his usual docile eyes gleamed with a white hot intensity I’ve yet to see, his Herculean form pulsing with every beat of his propane heart. “I waited four years for you, Jessica, because I knew that what we had was special and I didn’t want you to f**k it up. I have been patient, and faithful, and a flawless gentleman, and I never got so much as a half-assed handjob. You’re not gonna pull this ‘not feeling it’ s**t for the rest of our marriage. That’s just not fair, Jess.”

            “So, what, I’m just supposed to give myself away to you every time you pop a hard-on whether I’m in the mood or not?” Zoe says it’s not good to bottle things up, except potions and fairies. It’s time to release. “I think that’s pretty unfair, Erick.”

            His face is inches from mine, his arms flailing like a vulture. “Why don’t you want to have sex with me, Jessica? Don’t you love me?”

            “I don’t know!” The rage seething from his skin suddenly takes on a new form. I bite away the tears. “I’m sorry, Erick. I want to love you, I do. You’re such an amazing guy; you always have been, it’s just…” My biting proves futile, a well growing in my throat as I try to push the words past it. “This has just been really hard for me.”

            He sits on the bed, his chest heaving in long barrels, but his face is still and calm, devoid of any discernible emotion. His arms hang limp, and his jaw is slack. Seconds tick by on the wall clock, minutes, too. No words pass between us. Just dead eyes and cold hands.

            “That’s okay,” he says finally, turning to me glassily, his lips strained into an ever so slight upward curve. “I understand. I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do.”

            I stand like a stag caught in the crossbeams of headlight. “You’re okay with that?”

            “Us not having sex? Of course.” He pats the quilt, offering me a seat beside him. I’ve always loved the way my head was shaped, and how it fit perfectly in the hook of his neck. He’s warm now, but I’ve never felt more frigid in my life. His lips purse against my throbbing temple, his hand holding the ball of my shoulder. “I love you, Jessica Young. And you are worth waiting for.”

            And before I know what I’m doing, my knees are on either side of his pelvis, no distance, hard feelings, or rubber between us.

            “I love you.”

Zackary Thomas

 

            I hold the wood in my splintered palm, long and thick. It leaks sap from its freshly cut nozzle, warm and sticky to the touch; I can’t help but taste. The concert hall comes together nicely, thanks to quick hands and solid plans. The reasoning behind our necessity for a concert hall eludes me still, but LaMonica was very adamant about wanting it in full construction before our Halloween bash.

            From what I’ve been able to gather, there are also preparations underway to edify an observation tower and a mini amusement park. Along with the café and park that already loiter along the inner island square, we’ll be living a life of luxury in no time. But I just can’t help but wonder why.

            Beads of rust drip down my brow, and I dab them with the palm of my cowichan sweater. The blood rushes, pumping, throbbing as I hoist the lumber against the skeleton framework, adding meat to the mix, and begin to hammer. It bleeds.

            My mind flees to various recesses as I work, red, white, and yellow lights that make me feel unsettled, and then Zoe’s butterscotch skin and café au lait tresses that ease my spirit and snip the wings off the butterflies in my belly. The wood slides easy into place, hinged with horse hair and alabaster, a limestone spike piercing the girth and completing the well-supported triangle.

            “Yo!” I hear behind me, and quick flip horizons to see Frankie, in his tartan shirt and cargo pants, slouched against the pile of lumber. “You wanna take a break, dude? You’ve been nailing that wall for an hour now.”

            My muscles bulge within the constraints of my shirt, locked and loading from the labor, my heart making my chest visibly expand. “No, not yet,” I answer, and heave another log into the scaffold, the blueprint of the building seared into my mind like a hot plate. “LaMonica wants it finished as soon as possible, we don’t have time to loaf around, Frankie.”

            He swings his body upward, scratching at his junk. “Oh, yeah, that reminds me. Can you do me a favor and deliver this to her?” From one of the many pockets on his pants, he produces an envelope, sealed with a stamp of melted wax in the shape of an R, the tail rolling into an elegant spiral.

            I finger the stationary, scanning the return address, only to find the ink smearing as to make the writing illegible. “What is this? Why can’t you take it?”

            He shifts his wait from one leg to the other, letting one arm fall limp while the other diddles in his ear. “It’s just a letter for her. And, well, we aren’t exactly on the best terms right now, if you know what I mean.”

            “Is anyone ever on good terms with LaMonica?” I scoff, slipping the letter into my back pocket and under the hem of my sweatshirt, the coolness of the paper staining my spine. “Sure, I’ll do your dirty work. But that wall better be done when I get back, okay?”

            Swatting in front of his face, as if there were flies, he says, “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry about what I do or don’t do, you just focus on getting that letter to her royal bitchiness.” As he kneels over the postwork I left unfinished, he forms a wry grin and winks before driving the nail through the wood. I turn and jog west, hearing him moan as I leave. “Just ‘cause Youngblood caught a fine piece of tail doesn’t mean he’s exonerated from helping us build this s**t. Vacation time my a*s.”

            Everything on Ratchetson Island is pretty close-knit, with the southern coastline and the northern forest serving as the embroidery. The apartments sleep cozily in a grassy crescent right next to Town Hall, where all of the official business is handled. Just south of there bubbles the fountain, where we host most of our gatherings. The clothing store, food mart, and pawn shop dot the rocky, western rim like a triple forward helix, while the chapel resides to the northeast just under the neck of the woods. The café, park, and what will be the concert hall lie not far from the beach, in the general mideast, while Ratchetson Inn stands alone on the far west of the island, just above the port.

            All of the landmarks stitch together with a latticework of cobblestone or sandstone paths, thanks to yours truly. Some of us kept getting lost"even though the island truly isn’t that large"so I thought it might be best to take some proactive action.

             As the redbrick visage of the apartments breaks into my sight, I retard my pace to a light saunter, patting the envelope against my butt just to confirm its presence. Most of the apartment doors bear some symbol of holiday spirit"a happy-faced jack o’ lantern swinging botanically from a nail under the peephole on my own door"but the entrance to LaMonica’s rooms slumbers in cold austerity, neither hide nor hair of cheer to be found.

            I knock in three symmetric thuds, then wait. Seconds pass. I knock again. “LaMonica?” I call, slipping my calloused fingers around the knob to find it doesn’t resist my twist. As I push the door open, the waning sunlight peels through the darkness, scattering the dust particles that flitter in the entry like living creatures. “Are you home?”

            The light flicks on when my finger moves against the switch, and quietly closing the door behind me, my breath eases out past my lips. The sheets on her bed lie pert and intentional, but the same cannot be said for the cacophony of manuscripts that tousle atop her flannel comforter.

            Quality Horse Meat, reads one receipt, stapled to a dossier, apparently, about the eating habits of tropical wildlife. At one corner I see a dissertation on electrical fencing, which I grab and briefly scan before my eyes fall onto something of far great concern. LaMonica’s handwriting. I’d know those hard lines anywhere.

 

            They’ve grown restless lately. The meat I give them no longer seems to satiate their hunger, and this isn’t the first attempt they’ve made at the fence. Frankie does what he can to edify our protections, but I worry that this Halloween may be the eve of something terrible.

 

            “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” The pages are pulled from my grasp, fluttering away like the wings of a hummingbird. LaMonica’s face is a collage of hard lines, her tensed eyebrows and strained jaw, the frame of her lips at a downward angle, before they part and say, “What the actual f**k are you doing here, Zack?”

            I stammer, unable to remember my initial purpose, and fondle at the hem of my shirt for an answer. “Oh, uh…” my palm brushes against the hard corner of the envelope, and my eyes swell like quarters, pulling it into plain view. “Frankie told me to deliver this to you.”

            Snatching it from me in a similar fashion as her other papers, she eyeballs the letter with intense, almond eyes, before they rise back up to mine. “Thank you.” The cross grimace suddenly changes direction, flipping into upside down rainbow, before she turns away from me, sitting the envelope on her bed with its family. “I can always count on you, Zack.” She fiddles with the bedside lamp, as if to turn it on, and then swings.