amphibi.us

Jacob clicked send. The report, the result of two years of work, was now out for final review. Jacob’s hand shook. He was hungry and tired and alone in the office.

In his apartment he ate five cookies, a bowl of cereal, and a carrot. He was anxious. He focused on what he was doing. He was washing his hands and straightening his papers and washing his hands. It was eight o’clock. He turned on the TV and nothing was on. He went to the bathroom.

In the hallway on the ceiling was the smoke detector. The red light flashed every ten seconds. Jacob saw the light and looked up at the detector, pausing half a second. His mind split in two. One side believed he exposed himself to half a second of extra radiation. One side knew nothing happened. He walked into the bathroom and froze. His breaths were short and shallow. What had he done. What had he just done. His fingers touched the counter for grounding, but there was none.

He wandered into the kitchen. He was going to die from cancer and his blood boiled and he hated what he had done to himself. There was white then a flash of red and he clenched and rammed his head into the refrigerator door. Then there was black.

There was black for one minute. Jacob came to with his cheekbone on the linoleum floor. He touched his forehead. Blood.

The next day was Thursday and he did not go to work. He followed floating particles of dust in front of the bedroom window and mourned. He was dying. He did not want to die so he replayed what had happened. There was no conclusion and he was tired and cried and slept.

When he awoke Friday he was alive, but only for half a second. He made toast. He took a shower. He unloaded the dishwasher. He was an empty shell. He replayed what had happened and he was tired and slept.

He did not go to work on Monday. He went for a walk. On Tuesday his sister called and he answered. It was the first time he talked to anyone since “The Incident.”

On Wednesday he went to work. He had seventy eight emails. Reading them reeled him in. His supervisor had read the report and said it was great.

One week later Jacob played pool, drank beer, and laughed with a friend.

© Jeremy Britton, 2012

I walk to school every day up the really big hill.

My leg hurts,

Because I am fat says my mommy.

My friends call me “Elephant,”

Because I remember all the math.

When they play Miss Mary Mack,

They say the elephants jump over the fence.

I want to be like those elephants some day,

But my leg hurts.

© Neesa Sunar, 2012

i only found one picture
of the night
we all crammed in the bedroom

(to sit in a circle on the floor
while the last seconds of the year
ticked away,

and made noise with whatever
we could find;

singing at the top of our lungs
so we wouldn’t have to hear

ourselves think,

or make wishes
we knew couldn’t come true)

and i’m not even in it!

it’s you,

sitting against the bookshelf
and laughing,

at the reason why
you only have one shoe on,

and how of all the moments
to take a picture, this was it.

© Andrew Chmielowiec, 2012

[others]

when we left the bar
everyone had vanished

it was only
7

it was like god
had taken
everyone but us

the sun
should have
been out
but it was
dark like
midnight

and as we
drove back
to that small
space
we had
wrestled
from the
world—

the space
where we
fought
dreamt
and
fucked,

we stopped
at all the right
traffic lights
even though

there was
no one
there
to
notice

© Bill Winchester, 2012

Chinese Laundry, Chicago

In a storefront laundry
on North Clark Street
brown draperies release
this quiet man

who has my shirts.
He smiles and bows–
how carefully
he wraps them.

Before the draperies
fall back, I see,
for a moment,
in a circle swirling

almost out of sight
three kerchiefed women,
glistening black,
bending, grabbing, sorting.

© Donal Mahoney, 2012

[others]