Category: Issue 4 (Spring 2025)

By Samuel McRae

Only idiots want to be infamous. So no, Karime wasn’t taking the video well. At best this would be a flash in the pan. At worst…

“A heated confrontation in Cliff Heights, California, has taken the internet by storm. A now-deleted clip on TikTok shows an area woman issuing violent threats at local youth.”

Fatigue stung at Karime’s eyes, that or the excess screen time. Few of these articles passed for journalism, and it shouldn’t have surprised her the news pushed tabloid garbage. It still stung. And now came the worst of it, that damn video.

“Touch her again and I’ll break your f***ing wrist!”

“We were feeding it!”

“Crazy b****!”

“You need to leave, now. You’re lucky she didn’t bite you! Maybe you’d learn some common sense!

Karime stood by that. Maybe she should have watched her language. An image popped into her head, reality tv fans drawn to the censor bleeps like dogs to a bell. How did people care about this?

“We just wanted to feed it.”

That little punk’s side of the story. His speech punctuated by sniffles begging the audience to feel bad.

“That’s all we wanted! But this lady comes out of nowhere threatening my friends. We didn’t know if she was gonna hurt us!”

“To threaten a child like this?” the mother of this seventeen-year-old boy scoffed. “That’s unbelievable. She’s lucky she didn’t lay a finger on him, otherwise I would have her in jail.”

That bitch. Encroaching on a coyote den-during the pupping season mind you- could hurt more than their poor little egos. They were tossing sandwich traps to get as close as they could. What kind of game was that? Coyotes are survivors in the face of habitat loss, and people can’t stand it. If the coyote (within her rights to do so) snapped at these kids, they’d run back to the hovels of suburbia. Their parents and neighbors would take up arms to punish an animal for being an animal.

Last year Karime’s worthless nephew set snare traps across his property, protecting his yard from animals he didn’t own. Including the neighbor’s cat, who should have been kept indoors anyway. Instant legal shitshow. He asked for help with his legal fees.

“Those fees are your tuition for the school of consequences.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?”

She hung up and cut him off. She hung up a lot these days. Too many people thought her life was their business, strangers even.

A knock on her desk.

“Let’s remember to keep our work time productive. Normally you’re better about this.”

Her boss. Karime straightened her posture and closed the news tab, opening a spreadsheet.

“Sorry, Dan. Just worried about recent events. I want to know what clients might think before I work with them.”

“This,” Dan gestured vaguely, “stuff will only interfere if you let it. Just keep your best face forward.”

Her career in a nutshell.

PR work paid her bills, a long drawn out investment returning on Karime’s effort. Her true passion? The Alderman Wildlife Center. Animal rehabilitation supported by the California Department of Fish and Wildlife, one of the reasons Karime paid her taxes.

As soon as she stepped out of her office, investor relations turned to bullshit. This was real work. Putting Melvin in a holding cage, cleaning the shit out of his kennel. They needed to feed that raccoon less. Gross. Ultimately manageable. Toughing out the stench and texture was a matter of mental fortitude.

Melvin was an orphaned tick magnet, and he hated being handled. Good! His fighting spirit would help him survive in the wild. He just needed time to recover. And a clean kennel was a step in the process.

“Thanks for helping out. I know reptiles are more your forte.”

Paulo’s deep voice held the cadence of a mall dwelling valley girl, with the knowing lilt of relaxation born of expertise.

“It’s just what needs to be done,” Karime replied curtly. “How’s Cheeto?”

A Western painted turtle. Native to North America, not native to California. But that wasn’t really her fault. Some shortsighted suburbanite left her at the shelter with a sticky note on her shell.

This is Cheeto. We can’t take care of her anymore. Please give her a new home!

Cheeto was only eight inches long. Did they think she’d get bigger? Paulo had the decency to give her a home. Karime’s furrowed brow dissolved to a neutral, inquisitive look.

“How’s her eating?”

“Good. She’s, like, really into live prey. Such a little snail hunter.”

The corners of Karime’s mouth lifted. “She deserves a home like yours.”

“Of course. By the way, Kelly’s graduation party is on the 26th.”

Kelly was another volunteer. Punctual. Talked about sea creatures for hours on end. Good on her for graduating.

“She’s a good kid. I’ll get her a tank filter for the snails.”

If you ever made eye contact with Kelly, she’d probably show you pictures of her rabbit snails. Creepy orange tissue protruding from a long black shell. Exactly why Tetrapods were more Karime’s speed. But still, Kelly kept the snails’ habitat so precise in pH and salinity it would make a surgeon blush. To care that much about snails of all things… maybe the next generation wasn’t as fucked as Karime thought. Maybe.

After a night of restless sleep, one shower, and thirty one brushed teeth, Karime chopped tomatoes, cilantro, green onions, and leftover chicken. She cooked them into an eight egg omelet divvied into two equal portions. Two plates of morning goodness drizzled in a storebought salsa brand Karime fell in love with in college. One for her, one for her wife: Professor Anna Channita, tucking a button up into her pants as she walked to the table. Karime was relatively butch, but that was a lack of interest in the trappings of femininity. Meanwhile Anna’s vision of heaven held suits, ties, and slacks tailored to her lean, top heavy figure.

“Morning, darling. How’d you sleep?”

“Poorly.” Karime sat down. “Eat.”

Anna gave her a knowing look. “You’ve been keeping your head down. You would have told me by now if anyone gave you shit.”

Karime shrugged. “You know me well.”

“It will blow over,” Anna promised. “Give it time.”

Karime sighed and dabbed a napkin at her chin. “If you say so.”

A flash of concern colored Anna’s face. “Right. Well, I have more papers to grade if you need a distraction. Matty wrote something about the impact of boy bands on masculinity.”

“I thought you taught Political Science.”

“And yet…”

Anna chuckled. “Anyway, some people are so tied up in their own baggage they make everything about themselves. No wonder people project their strict teachers and mommy issues onto you.”

Karime made a face. “Their what?”

Anna shoveled the rest of her meal into her mouth. “Just a theory Nico shared in office hours.”

“I… appreciate his concern, but I’d rather he stuck to World War 1 facts.” Karime rubbed the bridge of her nose. “How the hell do I know who you’re talking about? I know your students’ names better than you do.”

“Because you are a genius.” Anna stood and gave her a kiss, savory from breakfast. “Have a good day at work. Try not to kill Dan, but if you must, have it look like an accident.”

If the business park had a saving grace, it was the view. K&S Business Communications straddled the threshold of urban sprawl to forested hills. According to Dan, it was good for the valuable mental health of K&S’s em-partner-ployees. In fairness, the hiking was good. Karime spotted a bushy tail on the way out of her car. It disappeared between the trees. Like a wink, or an inside joke offered by the fauna.

Karime let out a breath and stepped into the office. It greeted her with blasted air conditioning she’d never get used to. She stifled a shiver and entered the elevator, maintaining a professional composure in the presence of a coworker. Gina. When Karime failed to tune out gossip, some people whispered that Gina used to be an actress. This might explain her incessant need to participate in office politics torn from the screenplay of a spy movie.

“Hi,” Gina said with the rehearsed pleasantry of someone who needed something.

“Hello,” responded Karime with the formality of someone with somewhere to be. Not enough to feign interest, but enough politeness not to hear back from HR.

Gina batted her eyes innocently. “I saw the news this morning.”

Karime felt a lump in her chest rising up her trachea. She had plenty to say on the topic. Plenty that she would rather keep to herself.

“Some kids were harassing a coyote, possibly with pups, and I drove them away without laying a hand on anyone.”

Gina pursed her lips. “I see. Well, hopefully they don’t press charges. My cousin’s a lawyer, I could totally get his help.”

“That’s great, Gina.”

The elevator dinged, doors opening and desks beckoning. But someone stood in the way.

“Hi, Dan!” Gina fluttered over to her seat and out of the way.

Dan waved like she was an aunt he didn’t recognize before turning to Karime.

“We have a training for you in the break room.”

Odd. Karime was up to date on all her trainings, none of which ever took place in the break room. “What’s it about?”

“Er… asset protection.”

Okay, Dan was definitely lying.

“This isn’t a casino, Dan. Did anyone else get ‘asset protection training?’”

Dan’s mouth twitched. Employees were staring, as if he didn’t already regret the switch to open concept. Cubicles kept eyes on computers, not on delicate situations.

“In light of recent events, the company has decided to terminate your employment.”

No veneer of approachability, just a robotic script in the interests of K&S. Dan looked like he was defusing a bomb, and Karime nearly laughed. Oh, he was fucking scared? He’d love if she flew off the handle, just think of all the unearned PTO. No, Karime simmered her rage, guiding it under the surface.

“Has my work performance declined? If so, why didn’t you reach out?”

“This is the company’s decision. Not mine. I’m sorry to see you go.”

Karime tried to still her hands. Her heart beat louder than Dan’s words, her firm posture hunching like her spine was trying to eat her sternum, her dry mouth swallowing her turning stomach. She didn’t even like this fucking job, but she wasn’t bad at it!

She needed to leave. Immediately. No one needed to see her revert to a dumb kid from decades ago. The elevator dinged, she was on her way out. Acid churned at the back of her throat, and before the door opened, she doubled over for release.

Three days since the firing, she was ready to talk.

That sober evening, Anna cradled her wife’s back on the couch and wrapped an arm around her. Both of them breathed in warmth and comfort, easing them out of a lull of commiseration.

“Retirement by force. This is life now.”

Anna rubbed the stiff left shoulder. Commiseration without agreement.

“I didn’t say anything about the incident and they still fired me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Anna was a rare type, the kind who always knew her purpose. Even rarer, it earned her a decent wage. She’d better, it took years of scrounging money across three degrees. Petsitting while editing other people’s papers, countless nights of mentally repeating notes while stocking boxes and milling about on security. Even substitute teaching, a forward-echo while she cased out universities. Without Karime’s guidance, Anna would have gone crazy.

And so, Anna probed. “Would you trade your time at K&S for something different?”

Without missing a beat: “A company that entitles me to my pension.”

Actually, K&S left her pension alone. Maybe as a show of good faith, maybe to mitigate a liability, whatever. That wasn’t the point. Anna licked her lips.

“Let me rephrase. Say you followed your herpetology dreams, what might that path look like?”

Karime’s brow tensed.

“I would work as a wildlife care specialist at a zoo. AZA accredited only.”

Anna thought so. Karime was the same woman she first met, precise dreams etched into her hard head. Anna was getting her Master’s while Karime fought for a Bachelor of Science. In the end, she switched over to a more lucrative major in business. Anna knew she hadn’t let this go.

“Very specific. And this zoo job would require…”

“Residency.” Karime smiled dryly. “Internships too. Humans don’t dole out money for the benefit of other species.”

“Charity-”

Karime sighed, softly and nasally. Anna dropped it, but she kept talking.

“You know what you’re good at? Decisive action. Decisive words. You don’t compete without a goal, even if you put it there yourself. And you play to win, you wouldn’t be happy floundering around grasping for your dream.”

Karime drew in a breath, expanding her chest, drawing it into her stomach. She let it out, all her tension leaving.

“How long did it take me to finish Cross Justice?”

The book? Anna didn’t see where this was going. “About two months.”

“How long did it take me to read Hope to Die?”

“The same.”

Karime nestled her head into Anna, neck leaned back as if assisted by horizontal gravity. “I read to punctuate the day. When I settle into bed, when I put on my glasses, I’m done for the day.”

“You relinquish your momentum to the inertia of rest.”

Despite herself, Karime chuckled. Her cheeks bunched up when she smiled.

“You understand. When I stop for the day, I lose all my steam. Why’s life any different?”

Anna ran a hand through her wife’s hair.

“Because your ‘forced retirement’ is bullshit. You are not letting the mortgage catch up to our savings. I live here too, sunbeam.”

Both women closed their eyes. A few seconds passed. Then they sighed in unison. This seldom happened.

“Branch out,” suggested Anna. “Keep your momentum without overextending. But we’ve made too good of a life together to end up victims.”

The Alderman Wildlife Center smelled the same as always. Part hospital, part stable. Waiting by the front desk were Paulo, glancing over in concern, and Kelly, holding something. Kelly was a short, chubby, olive skinned girl in a fresh set of gym clothes. She kept her black hair dyed blonde, then dyed it blue. Karime didn’t get it, but it didn’t look bad.

“I was on my way out,” she said in lieu of a greeting. “But I wanted you to have this.”

She held out a book. The Ends of the World.

“It’s about mass extinctions. Hope you like it.”

Karime blinked. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. It helped me put some stuff in perspective. I hope it helps you out.”

Kelly waved on her way out. “Gotta go. Nice to see you, Mrs. Cardoso!”

“Goodbye, Kelly.”

Karime tried to think of the last time someone used her surname. The doctor? It felt good to be respected.

Paulo cleared his throat. “Sorry if that was abrupt. Kelly’s a little awkward.”

“She’s fine. How’s Melvin?”

“Loving the clean cage.”

Paulo pursed his lips and pondered for a second. How to say this lightly.

“I wanted to ask you something before you help out for the day. Don’t worry, you’ll get a chance.”

A chill through Karime’s chest.

He continued. “I don’t need to hear about the incident. I trust you were acting within your judgment. What I want to know is simple.”

He folded his hands. “Did you know where the den was? Before the kids did, I mean.”

Karime took a breath. In, out. Chest out, chest in. This was Paulo. She could trust him.

“I used to hike a certain trail.” By the K&S building. “I’d walk, and walk, and walk. Eventually, I stopped seeing other hikers. I’d hear the coyotes. I followed their tracks. They used a crack in the rock for their den.”

Karime closed her eyes. The taut muscles of her forehead loosened like a line given slack.

“There were four of them. One mom, three pups. They never approached me, to be clear. I never approached them. But we’d see each other. I think they understood I wanted to keep my distance. I only wanted to watch them.”

A rough swallow. The ice in her chest cracked.

“The pups are gone. I hope they left, that they got to grow up. But I worry. Did all three of them really leave at the same time? Did something happen to them?”

A deep exhale, taking in the melted sensation between her lungs. It was warm. The weight of stress flowed through extremities, spiraling through the air.

Paulo unclasped his hands. “You are one of a kind.”

Karime dabbed at her eyes with a thumb. “Thank you, Paulo.”

“No, thank you. It’s been, what, two years? I’ve wanted to ask this for a while. The center needs some new Care Associates and-”

“Yes!”

The word came out of her mouth before she could process it. Her most raw desire ringing clear without a chance of restraint.

“Yes,” she smiled. “Yes.”

Author Bio

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By Joshua Diabo

The phone rang and rocked in its cradle, like a chorus of angry wasps attacking my eardrums.

I did all I could to resist. The pain surpassed any threshold I had envisioned myself possessing. So proud. I was no longer that man I swore I would kill and leave buried.

I answered the phone to silence on your end. But, I felt the tug on the string that connects us on some far distant metaphysical plane. I like to imagine there isn’t any pain there. It has been a long time since I felt that tug. I pulled back against it with the force that I still had.

“Do you miss me yet.” I said with a venom I thought I had stopped producing. No answer would have satiated me. My eyes shut with the tightness of a vault. There was no bracing against what would come.

When my eyes opened I was slouched against the wall, limbs splayed. Like a doll that had been tossed away in anger by a child. The phone was somehow still held up to my ear.

Shallow breaths escaped the receiver. I recognized them as the same that had once reverberated against my neck.

They slowed over a period of time that I lost myself in. Though my body was useless, something in me ripped itself free and began to climb out of the bowels of my being, towards you.

The thing tore sinew, and crushed cartilage. Tastes of copper and the tang of stomach bile bit the lowest part of my tongue. My fingers twitched, whatever survival instincts remained attempting to fight back.

I knew there was no fight left in me beyond pageantry. The thing had its grip on my furthest molars. Red mist and the scent of burnt hair billowed from my facial orifices.

A heat began broiling me from the inside out. The liquid of my eyes vibrated to the silent rhythm.

I felt the base of my tongue begin to detach, a sensation like Velcro slowly being pulled apart made its way up into my mouth. Blood pooled in my tightly closed mouth. Whatever I held within could never be allowed to live. The thing shook with a ferocity that matched the static that was now emanating from the receiver.

I could no longer hold it. Blood pushed itself from my mouth with force. My teeth began to crack under the pressure.

A birth of blood and teeth, with my offspring shaking among the viscera. It was eyeless, and did not make any attempt to recognize me. Then the newborn thing dove into the phone’s receiver.

The phone sat on the ground unmoving. I steadied myself, then lifted the receiver to my ear and waited with held breath. It took more than I had left in me not to say anything.

 Thankfully, I didn’t have to. All that awaited me on the other line was a few shallow breaths, and the busy signal after you hung up.

Author Bio

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By Tierney Mestre

My name is Case Marrow, and I will not be Forgotten. 

The buzzard hisses like a cornered animal, four blades shrieking as they beat against the wind and waves of sand. It snarls and pitches forward, and I slide, unsecured, across the cargo area and toward the uneasy operator. He’s a big man, broad and well-muscled, with a bulbous flight helmet covering his face. He seems almost apprehensive of my presence, leaning over the controls as if I’m about to wrest them from his grasp. 

I’ll admit, the thought had crossed my mind. 

Maybe he can tell, or maybe he is intimidated in some way by a broad-shouldered sixteen-year-old who weighs half of what he does. Perhaps he doesn’t like that my gaze keeps wandering to that helmet of his. The goggles are black-tinted and vacant, plastered atop his face like the dark eyes of an insect, and the strip of thick leather that covers his nose and mouth is dark and oil-stained. It’s ugly.

---

Nothing in the Golden City is ugly. 

But this is not the Golden City. The City is walled and safe from the winds. The Golden City is home to high society—a place of extravagance, learning, beauty. 

I’ve never been inside, but I will. I will return from the wastes. I will never set foot in the Outskirts again, never again walk among the slums outside those walls. Never face working the oil rigs under the burning sun. I will not be Forgotten. 

The buzzard’s engine cuts. We free fall and my stomach leaps into my throat. The operator says nothing, shows no indication of surprise. Just…nothing. The sand beats against the belly of the small aircraft with a vengeance, but otherwise, silence. 

The plummet is gut-wrenchingly long before he flips a switch, and the rotors kick back to life before we slam into the sand. Suspended in a harness, the operator doesn’t feel the jolt as I do, hunched in the cargo area between the seats. My boots leave the metal platform entirely, and I slam painfully back down with a shock that shoots up my spine and a thud that reverberates throughout the buzzard. The operator turns, regarding me with those blank lenses, before waving a gloved hand at the tied-shut sack that lies on its side by my feet. 

My only lifeline in the wastes. Three day’s supply of water, two of food. I could make it stretch to five if I’m really careful, but that’s all the time I have. There are few usable resources out in the wastes. Buzzard wrecks and mummified corpses make up the rest of what’s to be found beyond the City and its Outskirts. 

The door of the buzzard opens with a jolt, red light beaming in, scalding hot and bright as the sun itself. I throw up a forearm to shield my eyes—they’re blue. A sign of bad luck, and twice as sensitive to the light. The operator grunts, turning in his harness and shoving the bag towards me, since clearly I hadn’t gotten the message the first time.

---

Fine. I grab its single goat-leather strap and pull the sack to my chest before stepping into the wastes. I’m bathed in burning light. There’s nothing but red, sandy dirt, and my shadow, stretched long and painted maroon by the falling sun. It’s time. I am Forgetting. I will return anew, purified by the wastes to become a member of the Golden City. I will not be Forgotten. 

And my name will no longer be Case Marrow when I return to claim my place as a citizen. 

Four rotors sputter to life once more, and I’m nearly knocked off of my feet by the beats of wind and sand whipped up by the blades. I stagger forward, bracing myself for the inevitable: hitting the red dirt forearms-first with a grunt and a word I’d never dare say in front of my mother. The air is ripped from my lungs violently, and I am left heaving in the dust. The buzzard is gone. I didn’t see which way it went. 

It takes me longer than it should to regain my breath, and I pull myself into a sit to examine the damage: scraped elbows I can live with. They need to be wrapped. Every bit of exposed skin does when a sandstorm is inevitable. They strip naked flesh raw. 

So, I dig through my bag for the rolls of cloth and the hide canteen I know I will find, and get to work. 

---

I was fourteen when I made the decision to go out into the wastes in hopes of winning my membership into the Golden City. It was after a market day. The sun in the Outskirts was particularly scalding, and the shadows cast by the walls of the Golden City were not as much of a reprieve from the heat as they should have been. Sales had been down—they always were—I wove between adobe buildings with my head down and my fists buried in the pockets that contained what few coppers I had managed to prevent their jingling.

In the slums full of hungry, sun-burned people, carrying money had to be discreet. The only place one could show the gleam of coin without risking getting robbed was the market strip, guarded by tan-clad guards with guns strapped to their backs. They were only really there to protect merchant goods, but they had foul tempers and didn’t take kindly to any sort of ruckus being raised on the strip. Likely, they never wanted to be assigned to the Outskirts. The disdain in their eyes was marked, full of curled lips and uneasy glances. 

I looked over my shoulder before dipping into an alleyway and pulling myself through a paneless window. 

“Case!” Eve was fifteen and skinny, far more than I, with limbs that didn’t quite fit her body. They were too thin, too knobby, and too long for her little frame. 

“I have to be home before sundown, I’m back from the strip,” I muttered. At my words, her eyes lit up. I pull coppers out of my pocket, count out six, and shove them into her thin, pale hands as our market-day routine called for. “Where’s Graham?” Her brother, two years her junior and already her height, was nowhere to be seen. 

“Oy!” He must have heard his name, as he pushed past a curtained doorway and met eyes with a gap-toothed grin that spread unevenly across his sun-browned face. Eve thrust the coppers into his hands, and he winked at me before turning to leave. “Gotta get to market before sunfall,” he supplied before ducking back behind the curtain and out of sight. 

I kissed Eve on both cheeks goodbye and lifted myself out from the empty window frame. 

It was the last time I ever saw Graham alive. He never made it to the market. We identified his body, bloodied and beaten over six coppers. He must not have hidden the jingling of his coin.

In the wake of his death, the two of us swore to get out of the slums once and for all when we were old enough to endure the Forgetting. 

She had laughed, then, despite the tears. It tickled her that we would not be able to recall such a promise once we became citizens of the City. Her laugh was a big, raucous thing, out of place coming from such a frail and round-faced girl. 

---

I’m reminded of her as I finish tying my wrappings. She was so much paler than the rest of us, a monument to her taboo Golden City heritage, and had to wrap herself during the months where the sun spent more time in the sky than beyond the horizon, lest her skin blister and peel. There’s no way she could have tolerated the heat out here. 

But I can, and I will not be Forgotten. 

I find myself trudging forward, following my shadow as it darkens a path before me, sun to my back. We were flying towards the sun when we left the Outskirts, slums darkening the tall stone walls of the City, nearly worn white by the beating sun. Thus, heading away from the sun would return me home. 

Home. I throw my head back and take a drink from my canteen to keep myself moving. That’s what propels me forward as the night creeps in and the skies darken. My shadow fades, but I’m facing the right direction. As long as I keep moving, I shouldn’t lose track of the way I’m headed. 

I lose track of time without the sun as a marker, and the desert waste goes dark. The stars are distant, casting little light. I’m quickly unable to see the red sands in front of me. Stopping for the night is how one dies out in the wastes. Is that what happened to Eve? No, couldn’t have; she was too smart for that.

I toss my bag into the dust with a gentle thud before shoving my hand in blind, rooting around for the lighter I know is stored. We are allowed one bag for the Forgetting. Eve and I had spent months perfecting our supplies—often youths partaking in the Forgetting pack too much water, or only worry about food. Poor supplies are a surefire way to be Forgotten, lost in the desert. I wonder how many souls it has claimed. 

Mine will not be one of them. 

My hand brushes metal, blessedly cool against feverishly hot skin. A lighter. Its inverted bell shape is awkward in my hands, but will protect a little flame against the harsh winds of the wastes. I fumble for the knob, and with a series of metallic clicks, a weak golden flame sparks to life between my hands. I should save its fuel for if I need fire, but I can’t bring myself to snuff it out. At least I have a little bit of light against the impossible dark, a small amber glow to guide my path. 

As dull as they are, the stars seem brighter out in the waste without light leaking over the walls of the Golden City and blotting them out. Back home in the Outskirts, they’re almost nonexistent. I don’t think I ever had realized that there could be so many. 

---

The last time I spoke to Eve, the night was nearly as pitch-black as it is out in the wastes. We were huddled in the adobe hut that had once housed her family. Now it was just hers—maybe a blessing, given that many of the Outskirts families’ houses were packed tightly with children, like goats in a slaughter pen. She was pale and thin, huddled under ratty blankets despite the night’s relative warmth. 

She had been spending all of her money on supplies for the wastes. I had been pretending not to notice.

The both of us sat shoulder-to-shoulder on her bed mat in a sort of reverent silence, each all too aware of the following day and too worried about stoking the other’s fears to bring it up first. 

It was me that broke the silence. I couldn’t bear it. 

“Do you have everything packed?” 

Eve’s eyes were impossibly dark despite her fair complexion. She had always joked that my blue should have been hers, and I always retorted that her luck was plenty bad without them. That night, though, her gaze was distant and dull, lacking its usual warmth. Fixed on something I couldn’t see. 

“I’ll have to Forget you.” 

She was worried about the coming day. Her own buzzard would take her away, drop her into the desert wastes, and she would begin Forgetting. She would be tested under the burning sun, and if she managed to find her way back, would have earned her citizenship to the Golden City. 

Now I wonder if her pilot was as uncaring as mine, behind those dark lenses. Eve would have to leave every aspect of her old life behind. Become a new person, with a new name, history Forgotten and unmarked by the dark, ugly stain of life on the Outskirts. I wouldn’t Forget her, though. I’d promised to find her. 

“When I’m in the Golden City, we’ll find each other. It’ll be less than a year apart.” “What if I don’t…” she trailed off, gaze roving to the curtainless window, the only source of light a weak, yellow beam from a lamp hanging haphazardly from the adobe outside. “What if I’m Forgotten?”

“You won’t be,” I pulled her into a brief hug before rising to my feet. Despite being a year younger, I was head and shoulders above her little frame. 

“Wait!” 

She stops me before I can pull myself through the window sill, and presses something cool into my dry hands. 

It’s her father’s ring, a golden band carved with intricate, swirling designs. I thought she had sold it not long after his death out on the oil rig. 

Speechless, I stared at her for a moment. Finery had no place in the Outskirts. This was something to be killed over. Only one thing could escape from my throat as I stammered at her, shifting my feet uncomfortably. 

“You’ll be okay.” 

At the time, I didn’t know it was a lie. 

Four days later and no whispers amongst the guards on the market strip. Only one boy had completed the Forgetting in our lifetimes, and the chancellor of the Golden City had made sure to announce it to the Outskirt folk—that we, too, could become like them. If we only Forgot the shame of our birth. 

Yet, nothing. Days turned into weeks, and I became the only one to remember Eve’s name. I dared invoke it only once, when I told Ma I would be Forgetting when I turned sixteen. It was the only time she ever struck me. The bruise lasted for weeks. 

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The inky blackness of night bleeds red at the birth of a new day. 

The winds are volatile, threatening to whip into a storm, but I keep moving. I have no other choice. The first of my two canteens is growing light—a cruel reminder of my limited time.

I have made a good pace thus far, but my muscles ache, desperate for a moment of reprieve from sloughing through soft sand. 

I will have to keep going if there’s going to be a storm, as the wind suggests, lest I lose my way. 

Despite the growing heat, the sun is a welcome guest as it rises above me–a guide. My eyes burn, but I ignore it, plodding forward until the sun is directly overhead and the winds whip around me. I pull the wrappings around my face tighter to protect raw skin from the onslaught of biting sand and keep moving. 

I have to keep going, even as the winds become fierce enough for the sand they wield to rend skin from bone, and the sun begins to fall behind me. This time there is no shadow to follow; it’s lost among the storm. I can barely see my boots as I struggle forward, yet I stop only long enough to take a swig out of my canteen. At some point, I fish a piece of salted meat from my bag. 

I’m unable to tell what kind of animal it once was. It tastes like nothing but sand, but it’s food. For all I know, it tasted like sand before being caught up in a windstorm. I chew slowly, thoughtfully. 

When it is gone, the sun is to my back, falling behind the dunes and bathing the wastes in a vermilion light. There’s a shape in the distance, dark and foreboding, but unmoving. I stop in my tracks to study the thing. 

It’s the twisted metal carcass of a buzzard wreck. In its ruined belly might be supplies, but I risk losing track of my direction in the dark. I can’t stop moving now. Despite the aching of my muscles and the feverish tint to my skin, blistered by the infernal heat, I must keep moving.

The wreck is smaller than it appeared from afar, jagged claws of ruined metal twisted by its uncontrolled descent and the constant, battering winds of the wastes. There is no indication of how long it has been sitting, abandoned to the elements. Whether it was wrecked days or years ago, the ruined buzzard keeps its history to itself. 

As I stagger into the heart of it, my limbs grow impossibly heavy, and a gust of wind sweeps me off of my feet and knocks me to my knees. I need to rest, as much as I hate to, lest I collapse where there’s no shelter from the storm. I barely can wedge myself behind a twisted spire of steel before I tumble into the sand, wrapped hands fumbling in my bag for my canteen. It’s gone. 

I’m too exhausted for panic, there’s only a bitter resignation that burns in my belly as I toss my bag into the sand and slump against the hot, ruined metal and close my eyes. Only for a moment. Only a break. 

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I never told Eve I loved her. 

Not after Ma brought me over to meet her father at 8 when he was tossed unceremoniously from the Golden City, two children in tow. He was paler than the rest of us and stood out in a crowd for being so clearly Golden City born and raised. I was a shy child, and she was bright and round, in good health. She grabbed my hand and dragged me into the next room to play with her brother while our parents talked. 

I didn’t tell her I loved her when she was thirteen and her father died in an accident on the oil rig. That night Ma let her stay over, and that night only. She never wanted to be seen around disgraced City folk after that initial meeting, and barely tolerated our friendship as it was. Yet, Eve and I piled onto my little bunk, with Graham on the floor the night of their father’s death.

Her brother snored gently in a pile of blankets, but Eve couldn’t sleep. I pulled her close and she told me of what she remembered of the Golden City, where her mother lived. I knew they were the embellished tales of a scared girl who was desperately homesick, but her eyes lit up like they never had before, so I listened. 

When she was fifteen, we lined up, tears in our eyes, to identify the found body of Graham. He hadn’t come home that night, but we held onto a futile hope that he had decided it wasn’t safe to walk alone at night and bedded down with one of his many friends—he was good at that, making friends. Eve lived in a state of perpetual exhaustion and rarely had the energy to go out to do much else but work as an assistant to the tailor next door. 

She screamed when she saw his body, battered and broken. They had knocked his teeth out over six coppers. I should have told her I loved her then, as I beat back my own grief to calm her down. She’d make herself ill, exhaust herself so much she couldn’t work the next day, and she needed those coppers, so instead I choked it back and held her to my chest. 

And I should have told her I loved her before I slid through the window and left her alone with her thoughts the night before she was Forgotten. 

But I didn’t. 

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The morning comes about violently, with beams of golden light and the high-pitched screech of a distant buzzard. Sand sifts into my mouth and falls from my nose as I startle, scrambling to sit upright. 

I reach for my bag next to me, and am met with a fistful of sand. Panic rises in my throat, pounding in my ears as my eyes shoot wide. It’s gone, alongside the goatskin canteen that holds my remaining water. Last night’s resignation throbs through my chest.

I dig through the sand, hoping it’s buried somewhere, anywhere. What was supposed to be a grunt of frustration devolves into a sob, and in a moment tears streak my chin. They trail down my face, staining red from the grime and dust. 

I’m alone in the wastes, and the only thing that was to keep me alive—if only temporarily—is gone. 

The buzzard in the distance shrieks again, and I whip my head up. 

My bag, battered and stained red with mud, is hung by its single strap across a piece of sharp, gleaming metal. As I stagger to my feet and stumble towards it, my boot strikes something with a thud. 

My missing canteen, blessedly full of water. I pull my bag from where it had been slung to check its contents. They’re all there, and at the bottom of my pack, something catches the sun. The golden ring Eve had handed me. I palm the metal, somehow still cool, and shove it onto my big finger—the only place it will fit—and shoulder my pack with a final sob before I run a sleeve over my tear-stained face. I need to keep moving. 

I can almost see Eve here in the desert, slight frame bent like a sapling in a storm. Her dark hair must have whipped around her face to beat her cheeks, obscuring her vision. Or was her hair red? The color seems to evade me, missing from my memory like a woven cloth with a single thread that had been pulled from it. I can’t help but think I did that once, as a child. 

I must be heat-addled. 

Another buzzard whips by, jolting me into the present. Despite the haze of the settling storm, a distinctive outline roots me to the spot.

The City is near. I could make it in less than a day’s walk. 

To survive the Forgetting is to throw away an old life. You’re no longer the child of someone who lived and died slaving away on an oil rig, the son or daughter of a weaver or goat farmer. You’ve proven yourself in the wastes, been purified, and returned a new person. Your old life is gone, your debt is paid. 

Eve was prepared out into the waste to regain her citizenship in the City of Gold. She was ready to lose parts of herself, pieces of her past like her brother’s name, or her father’s easy smile. She was ready to lose me. 

But I cannot lose Eve. I can’t lose Graham, or the woman at the market who always paid a copper or two too much for Ma’s woven rugs because she knew who would be getting them—her son had survived the Forgetting many years prior, and she would never see him again, but knew he was safe in the Golden City despite the fact he could no longer recognize her face. I even cannot lose Ma, bitter and jaded as she has become, for she must have known I stole coppers all of those years and turned a blind eye. 

I can’t do it. 

Even as the sun falls a third time, even as my eyes burn and my lips parch, I steel myself over and turn my back to the Golden City. Step after step, I leave it all behind. My name is Case Marrow, and I will not Forget myself.

Author Bio

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By Aundreah Alcantar

Wrapping a burgundy shawl around my curls loosely, I admire my outfit to make sure the color matches. It does perfectly, the embroidery on my tunic almost the exact hue. That couldn’t have worked out any better. The lady who sold it to me wasn’t kidding; it did suit me. 

The rest of the tunic, along with my pants, were a creamy, sandy color that somehow blended me into the architecture and atmosphere of the Medina of Fez. I had hoped to look like I belonged. This was my home country after all.

I was adopted into an American family and was aware of it from the start. There was no surprise, no secret to be later revealed in my life. My mother had the complete opposite features as me, so that probably encouraged her to be honest. I would’ve definitely questioned my wild, brown curls and darker complexion. The only thing I was ever told about my birthplace, however, was that it was somewhere in Africa and similar to the movie Aladdin. As one could imagine, I needed to know more than that.

Which brought me to the Université Cadi Ayyad in Marrakech after graduating high school, and years of learning how to speak Arabic and a little French. I found that I was dedicated to it. Every adopted child is curious at some point. For me, even though my family was caring beyond belief, I’ve been curious my whole life.

“Very nice.” Sayed, being above and beyond as he is, throws out a hand as if presenting me to the city. I roll my eyes and motion for him to continue walking. There is a crowd beginning to gather as the sun rises higher in the sky. An hour ago, we were practically alone walking through the stalls and stores of the medina on a weekday, but the longer we stayed, the slower we moved as the narrow walkways filled with tourists and locals alike.

“The purchase is justified.” I smile and run a hand along the thin material of the scarf. Somehow, it stops the sun from beating onto the top of my head.

“Check this out.” Sayed rounds the corner, expecting me to follow quickly behind. The walkway grows ever more narrow as both sides are stocked with golden trinkets and colorfully embroidered purses. The street glows like a treasure trove with the soft, yellow lighting of intricately designed lamps. In this section, a makeshift roof runs from one end to the other, but I still feel safe in my scarf and flowy pants. 

“Oh, wow.” The words are breathless on my tongue. It’s a beautiful sight. 

“I wanted you to see these.” Leading me by the elbow, Sayed takes me to a stall filled with lamps of all shapes and sizes. I have to have one. 

“Too many choices. I need your help.” We spend the next five minutes searching for the perfect one. I’m a bit worried about the price, but once I settle on one, it’s time to ask. “Excuse me? How much for this one?” I say in Arabic first, my American accent coming in a little too hard at the end there. 

The lady inside her stall has her back facing us. I am about to call for her attention again, but she slowly turns, bringing the lamp that had her focus with her. 

The scarf around her head is made of a thicker material, her tunic longer to cover more of herself. Her face is framed by it, hair not in sight, and when her eyes meet mine, I see they are a light hazel that glows against her tan skin… just like mine.

“Woah.” Sayed notices it before I do. He points his finger back and forth between the woman and I. 

“The lamp-” The woman responds in Arabic, but stops short when she notices it too.

She looks exactly like me.

Before I can even say anything, not that I have anything to say because of how rendered speechless I am, another much older woman comes up to us from the back of the stall. She is fast, outside of the slow-motion scene happening between this doppelganger and I, staring at each other as if staring at a ghost, as if staring into a mirror.

I am not registering what the old woman is saying, not registering what she is yelling at all, but once I do, I stumble backward into Sayed’s chest. 

“…out of here! If you will not buy anything, continue on your way!”

“Hold on, wait.” I speak in English by accident, everything suddenly quickening in pace. My words make the old woman’s eyes grow five times wider. 

As if triggering a switch, her yells became loud and unrelenting. Spittle flies from her lips as she hurls insults at me in Arabic and gets into my face. 

“Come on, we have to go.” Sayed grabs my arm and pulls me away, but my attention is back on the doppelganger. Her eyes are worried, pleading. I realize she agrees with Sayed; I have to get out of here.

“What is she saying!?” 

The older lady repeats the same word over and over again, a word I’ve never heard before. “Saariqa! Saariqa!”

“We have to go.” Sayed brings me back the way we came. My eyes do not leave the doppelganger’s until we are around the corner once again. “She’s calling you a thief.”

“What!?” I shrug Sayed’s hand off of me and turn to go back. He catches me again.

“Woah, woah, no. Don’t.” He holds me in front of him to stop me. “Don’t. No one will sell to you now. We need to get out of here before they remember your face-”

“Sayed, you saw that. I know you did. That girl-”

“I know.” Sayed gives me a sad smile, “Maybe another day. Right now, we have to go.”

I can’t even think straight as we trudge our way out of the medina. We’re only in this town for the remainder of spring break until we have to return to the university at the end of the week. If I can’t come back to the medina to see that girl again, I don’t think I’ll be able to focus on anything else I’ve already worked so hard for.

Author Bio

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By Julie Haefner

As I approach the restaurant, I slightly hesitate. It’s been a little over four years since I have seen her. Will she look the same? Will I look the same to her? Will she even recognize me? While the questions blow through my mind, I start to slowly walk to the front door. I pull it open and creep inside, looking around to see if she has already arrived. I don’t see her in the waiting area but hear my name called in that sweet voice of hers. I turn to look. She is sitting at a booth, already starting to get up to greet me. The tears start to fill my eyes as I get closer. As I reach her, she stretches out her arms and embraces me in a hug, holding me tight and close. As I pull out of the embrace, I look at her misty brown eyes, smell her signature perfume, and feel the love emanating from her. I’m so happy to see her, it’s been quite a while.

We sit down on opposite sides of the booth facing one another as we always have. Talking is easier when you are looking a person in the eyes. That is something she taught me long ago. You should always make eye contact when you talk to anyone because it shows respect. The waitress comes and asks for our drink order. We order our usuals, root beer for me and iced tea with no lemon for her. We start perusing the menu in silence. It doesn’t take long for one of us to ask the other what she is getting to eat. We always compare just in case the other one finds something more interesting. It always seems like a game to me; one we haven’t played in quite a while.

The waitress comes back with our drinks and takes our order. I’ve decided on a ham sandwich minus lettuce and tomatoes. Lettuce doesn’t belong in a sandwich and I’m allergic to tomatoes. She chooses to be a copycat but leaves everything in it. We sip our drinks while we talk, waiting for the food to arrive. We laugh and share stories, getting caught up on each other’s lives as much as possible. I mostly just sit and listen to her talk. I’ve missed her gentle voice and her Pennsylvanian accent and word choices such as “red things up.” I watch the way her eyes sparkle mischievously when she is tattling on my dad. Her eyes still crinkle up, almost completely closing when she laughs. Mine do the same thing. I guess I got that from her. 

The food arrives and we take a break from chatting to enjoy our meal. I can’t help but glance at her every few seconds to make sure she’s still there. My heart begins to ache as if I am already missing her even though she’s still seated before me. She catches me staring and raises her eyebrows at me.

“Do I have something in my teeth?” She inquires with a smirk on her face.

“No. You just look happy. I’m so glad we’re doing this,” is the only reply I can summons. If I try to say anything else, I’ll break down crying. My heart is so full of love.

The waitress comes and asks if there’s anything else we need. Our eyes meet and we laugh because we’ve already eaten too much. The waitress innocently leaves the check on the table. My mom says that it’s her treat, and my mind starts to panic, knowing the truth she does not seem aware of. Although she is here with me and cognizant of everything around her, her life has changed. She can’t pay for the meal because she has no money, no credit or debit cards. She no longer has any material possessions. If I tell her the truth, will she freak out and make a scene? Will she be mad at me? I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I must tell her the truth. I owe her that.

I slowly open my eyes to tell her, but the scene suddenly changes. I am no longer in the restaurant. I now find myself in my mother’s bedroom, the only light peeking through the dusty blinds covering the sliding glass doors, barely illuminating the room. She’s lying on her bed with her eyes closed. She’s positioned like a corpse in a coffin, with her hands folded neatly on her abdomen. The motion of her chest moving slightly up and down is the only proof that she’s still alive. She’s unconscious and has been for days. I sit across the room watching her, my fiancé by my side. We watch her in silence, holding hands.

After a while, I feel as if the room has changed. I look closely at my mother, trying to see if she is breathing. I start to panic because I detect no movement. Her chest is no longer going up and down. I turn and look at my fiancé. Our eyes meet. He says I need to check on her. I tell him no because I don’t want to confirm my suspicions. He squeezes my hand and then releases me, sending me to my mother’s bedside. I fearfully approach and carefully sit beside her, trying not to disturb her.

“Mama, can you hear me?” Nothing. “Please answer me. Please don’t be gone,” I plead.

I carefully watch her chest. No movement. I put my hand under her nose and feel nothing. I touch her wrist. It’s still warm. It gives me hope. I search for a pulse, but there’s nothing. I lean down and put my ear to her chest and am greeted with dead silence.

“No, mama, no,” I whisper, letting the tears fall from my eyes but resisting the urge to fully break down.

I look up at the digital clock by her bed and mark the time of death, 3:54 pm. I kiss her forehead, squeeze her lifeless hand, and tell her I’m sorry and will miss her.

I stand up, not knowing what to do. I’m so lost. I look to my fiancé for guidance, and he tells me to call in the rest of the family. But I don’t want to do that just yet. I don’t want them to intrude upon the silence, upon my grief. I want more time alone with her. But I realize I can’t be that selfish, especially to my dad. He deserves to know and yet I don’t want to be the one to cause him that anguish. I walk to the open bedroom door and tell my sisters they need to come in, something has happened to mom. I’ll let them be the bearers of this sad news.

As I turn around to face my fiancé . . . I wake up, jolting straight up in bed, tears running down my face, realizing it was only a dream. I’m overcome with grief once more. My heart aches. There’s a hole in it that only she can fill. My dreams are the only place I get to see her now. She’s been gone for four years.

“Oh, mama. I miss you so much,” I whisper into the darkness, sobbing.

Author Bio

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