Unless. Unless, no. Not him. Him. The other one. That’s who I want to be today. Him. The one up there on the stage. The one with the mis­sion­ary zeal in his eyes. The one for whom even God isn’t enough of a wit­ness. The one whose mouth sal­iv­ates with pos­it­ives. Give me his out­stretched hands and his cupped claws of explan­a­tion. Yes, abso­lutely. I under­stand it all now, thanks to him. So him, please.

No. No, I’ve changed my mind. Sorry. I want to be him. Right now, this minute, this second. That’s who I want to be today. Him. Make me him, please. He walks the walk and he talks the talk. He’s a man of the people and a man of the world. He’s got the salesman’s pat­ter, the gift of the gab, the words at his fin­ger­tips. I’ll take that one, please.

But, oh, I don’t know. What about him? He’s got his head in the clouds and he’s not com­ing down. Not for any­one. He’s lost and he doesn’t care to be found. He’s seen it all and done it all. He’s gone. Well and truly. He’s stepped off. Risen to a higher plane. He’s all over. All over and out. Make me him, please. Please make me into him. That’s who I want to be today.

What? Iden­ti­fic­a­tion? But I don’t have any iden­ti­fic­a­tion. No pass­port, no. I’m a nation state with my own bor­ders. No driv­ing licence, none. I’ve never even turned a key in the igni­tion. Bloody group? Oh, blood group. No blood, sorry. I’ve bled it all out. I’m dry and cracked. You can’t take my fin­ger­prints either. I have none. No fin­ger­prints. I don’t lay a fin­ger on any­one, for fear that I’ll leave no indent­a­tion. No marks. And I’m not on your elect­oral records either, because I leave no trace of hab­it­a­tion. National Insur­ance? I’ve put noth­ing into the state’s cof­fers. I’ve never paid my way or my dues.

Oh, but you could take my pho­to­graph. You could. You should. You should make me a pic­ture. Burn me onto film. I want 36 exposed neg­at­ives of me, all in the same blank pose. I don’t want to give away any clues. About any­thing. I want passers-by to stare into my blank eyes, and won­der if they know me, if they knew me. Maybe won­der if they even are me, but that it’s some­how slipped their mind. I want com­plete strangers to stop and think and ask them­selves if they could be me, if their know­ledge of being me has some­how slipped their mind. Browse the faces, then choose one to wear.

Come with me. After the explo­sions, when the winds die down and the panic sub­sides, we’ll go and pay our respects at the walls of the dis­ap­peared. Scan the rows and try to identify our other selves. They’re here some­where, I know they are. I don’t need to dig in any rubble, remains and rus­ted metal to find burnt flesh and broken bones and scattered pos­ses­sions, because I’m not there. I’m here. Here. Here on a pic­ture. Here on a piece of crum­bling board. Here, flap­ping in the breeze, held down by a single drawing-pin. Wait­ing to be chosen. Wait­ing to be claimed. Wait­ing to be placed under glass and kept for posterity.

Frame me. Nail me. Hang me. Look at me.

© Vaughan Simons, 2010

Sunlight stretches under the high curtains. It tickles her bare skin as she exchanges professional attire for comfort.  She hums to herself and takes a mental inventory of the evening’s dinner ingredients.

A single reverberating crack wrenches her back in time. She shutters and squeezes her eyes shut. It’s a vain attempt to block a gun blast she’s never actually heard. Golden hairs bristle on her arms but she focuses on filling her lungs with air, consciously expanding her chest, until the lurking disquiet slinks back to its hiding spot.

Did he realize, she wonders as she goes to the kitchen and systematically begins removing clean plates from the dishwasher, how his choice would affect her?

Pushing away thoughts of what he did or did not realize, she flips on the stereo and boppy music streams out, providing a mind numbing melody to sing along with. But even as she sings, she needs more distraction. She clicks on the TV and finds strange solace in the static movements of fictional beings.

A blaze of color beckons from the sink. She rinses peppers, eggplant, spinach and carrots and prepares to chop. Momentarily entranced by the flashing steel blade of her chef’s knife her eyes shift involuntarily to the pale green veins twisting down her wrist. Had he considered just letting his life drain away? What prompts a person to utilize one means of death over another?

Maybe if he’d left the requisite suicide note, she might understand. But they never found one. If he put explanations or apologies in writing, the wind tore them away, leaving only a dead boyfriend and unanswered questions.

She seizes a carrot and hacks with extreme prejudice. She can still see him. She pictures him exactly as he was their last night together. His last night, period. A different kitchen, a different season, but the knife was the same. She wracks her memories for some indication of what would come next. She re-examines his comments, his expressions, the way he held the knife, and finds nothing. It’s not the first time she’s played this game.

Would things have been different if she had woken when he slipped out of her bed to go home? If, still drowsy and unaware, she had reached for him and pulled him back to her, holding him close in those desperate wee hours?

She splits a pepper open and scrapes thousands of tiny seeds away from the deep scarlet flesh, as indifferent to the creamy pods as she had been to the inconvenient fetus the two of them created. The seeds scatter across the metallic sink and, in a rush of water, slide down the drain into darkness.

© Rebecca Gaffron, 2010

You guys talked about bugs from Arizona. No, he talked about bugs from
Arizona and you google imaged them as he was describing to you. Vinegaroon.
Gila Monster. Scary bugs. You hoped you wouldn’t dream of them tonight. You
hoped he wouldn’t sleep over.

He wears matching Adidas socks and a hat. You wear hot pink plaid knee high
socks under your jeans. You are both wearing jeans. You are mimicking one
anothers body movements. You read somewhere that this means you have good
chemistry. You know now that that is a crock of shit.

He is smart and can tell you where McDonalds and Coca-cola came from. He can
articulate San Francisco. He can teach you how to play Yahtzee and he knows
a lot about everything, especially Arizona. Especially bugs.

He can come on your face and open a wine bottle. He can come on your face
and let himself out.

You can sleep soundly. You can wake up and you can wash your face with
proactive, brush your teeth and go to work. You can throw up in your work
bathroom.

© Chloe Caldwell, 2010

[others]