Jozzie Stuchell Velesig

Jozzie Stuchell Velesig is graduating from Harvard University Extension School with a Master’s in Creative Writing and Literature. Born and raised in Appalachia, she now resides in Charleston, SC. She squeezes writing between her son’s soccer practices, walking their dogs, and kicking one of the three cats off her laptop.

The smell of leather, sweat, and sex hangs in the air

Charlotte runs her finger under the seam of her government-issued shorts, where an angry red line has appeared on her skin. Just once, she thinks, the clothes could fit. Naomi flicks one of Charlotte’s long brunette curls and shoves a drink in her hand. “You better dance,” she says, nodding toward the moderator in the corner.

Charlotte shoots the dark liquid and wipes the cool glass against her forehead. As the warmth of the liquid spreads through her, she melts into the mass of gyrating bodies. Mentally, she starts counting down the minutes until the party ends.

Another 60 minutes. If she’s lucky, she can sneak out and get home alone. The parties are mandated by the decree of the Population Maintenance Department for everyone in their reproductive prime.

50 minutes. According to the posters, the population needs a twenty-five percent increase in pregnancies. These parties will continue until that number has been confirmed at the clinics.

40 minutes. A girl falls into her shoulder, sloshing the young blonde’s drink on her. Charlotte rights the laughing girl and shakes the remaining droplets from her shirt. Another woman grabs the blonde’s hand, and the two stagger off toward the middle of the floor. A woman with lines of fine white powder on her chest turns and offers them to the two girls. They giggle before taking turns lowering their faces to her chest.

30 minutes. Charlotte turns her face away and focuses on Naomi, who grabs her waist, pulling her to dance. A waiter in all black passes with a tray of drinks and pills. Charlotte slips away to down two more shots before giving herself over to the alcohol and music.

20 minutes. A man’s hand slides across her stomach. She steps forward toward Naomi, but he moves with her, bringing his hand up her body. 19 minutes. She squeezes Naomi’s hand and watches as Naomi’s blue eyes light quickly on the man’s hand before returning the squeeze and letting go. 18 minutes. His fingers pull on the skin of her thigh. She should welcome his touch, it’s the law, but her mouth is dry. 17 minutes. His hand winds in towards the inside of her thigh and slides inside the hem of her shorts. His breath is hot as his lips brush her ear, whispering something she can’t comprehend as her stomach rolls.

The next thing she knows, gritty black mud splashes up her legs as the rain soaks her hair. Rain is dripping from her eyelashes and rolling down her nose as she pounds through the dark streets. His footfalls are heavy behind her. Her shoes slide on the wet pavement. Her knees hit the ground and blood begins to seep through her high cotton socks. He yells at her as she pushes her palms into the pavement and propels herself forward. She spins a corner grabbing a rusted railing and tearing up the stairs. A sudden pull on her ankle brings her crashing to the concrete landing. Her world bursts with pain as warm blood rushes from her face. She frantically hits at him as he rips at the flimsy fabric of her shorts. Flipping her over, he pushes his knee into her back, pinning her as he grabs her wrists and pounds himself against her.

Later, she will wonder if she yelled. She will wonder if she could have fought harder. But in this moment, she stares at the bottom of her apartment door. Finally, he pushes her away, saying, “See you at work.” Her head snaps around to see her boss, Dr. Lear. She remains there on the concrete, allowing rain and mud to mix with her blood. Eventually, she pulls herself to her feet and stumbles the few steps to her apartment door. Her breath comes out as sobs, even if her eyes refuse to give up tears.

Water drips from her hair, the long strands soaking the fabric of her shirt. She pulls the stiff, knotted mess and wraps the strands around her fingers. She crawls to the kitchen, rakes through a drawer until she finds the kitchen shears, and raises them to her chin. The sound of metal slicing hair fills her ears. Long, wet curls fall to the floor, their limp bodies mocking her defiance.

A soft knock and the sound of Naomi’s spare in the lock wakes Charlotte from her bed of hair on the kitchen floor.

“The fuck?” says Naomi as she slips in the door. She grabs the broom from the corner and begins to sweep up the evidence. “Shower. Now.”

The hot water should be stinging my cuts. Charlotte watches the swirl of blood, mud, hair, and water circle the drain. Naomi opens the door, pours shampoo into her palm, and begins to massage Charlotte’s scalp. Neither of them speaks until Charlotte is wrapped in a towel that Naomi had warmed in the dryer.

“Your hair,” Naomi says, “We have to do something about it.”

“I don’t care.”

“It’s been reported. And when they see this?” She gestures to the shaggy, uneven mess on Charlotte’s head.

“They know?”

“The whole club saw you run out. It’s all anyone’s been talking about.”

Charlotte pulls the towel tighter around her and studies the white fibers. Naomi slips her fingers through the jagged edges of Charlotte’s hair. “I think I’ve got an idea.” Charlotte barely recognizes the sound of snipping scissors and the heat of curlers as Naomi works her magic.

“Maybe the judge will like it enough not to care that you cut it without a permit,” Naomi says.

A knock ricochets off the wall of the apartment, making both of the women jump. “Here,” says Naomi tossing Charlotte a forest green lace dress, “at least it’s cute today.”

She pulls the green dress over her head, wiggling it over her curves, and turns her back towards Naomi.

“You ever wonder about who picked it?”

“Come on. You need to hurry.” She says as she zips the dress for her friend.

Charlotte slides into a pair of strappy heels as she tries to imagine the man who picked the outfit she now wears. What was he thinking as he scrolled through the options on his laptop? Usually, she imagines a scruffy man resting his sticky laptop on his ballooned stomach. But she likes this outfit. Would she have liked the man who picked it?

Naomi pushes her hand into Charlotte’s back, steering her toward the door. The handle feels foreign in her hand as she opens the door to the police officers waiting outside.

The officers barely even looked at her as they lead her down the stairs to their car. She slides into the back seat, allowing them to lead her without protest or complaint. Once in the car, she can hear the officers discussing the mundane details of their upcoming rotation. She leans her head against the cool window glass and watches the city pass by her. The men move briskly, with outfits befitting of their professions and personal style. The women, however, stumble on unrealistically high heels and pull at hems that keep creeping up into the creases of their bodies. Charlotte tries guessing their professions. Is the woman in the leather mini skirt and corset a teacher? Or maybe a nurse? The girl in the knee-high socks and plunging sweater heading toward downtown must work in construction based on the hard hat in her hand.

The crumbling streets of Charlotte’s neighborhood give way to the gleaming buildings and manicured streets of the downtown district. The courthouse sits like a crown jewel at the city’s center, its golden dome reflecting the sun’s rays.

The police cruiser pulls up, and two officers come from inside to escort her. Her heel twists awkwardly as she crawls from the car and up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, the shorter officer grabs the handle of a door. The entrance erupts in light as gleaming tiles, bright lights, and golden accents assault Charlotte’s vision. Strange for hell to look so much like heaven.

The officers lead her to a crowded room with empty women lined up on long benches facing a judge at the front of the room.

“Emily Taylor” a booming voice announces. A young woman rises from a few spots ahead of Charlotte. Long red curls fall over the woman’s shoulders, caressing the top of ample breasts. The women’s knuckles are white as they grip the bench in front of her.

“Approach the bench.”

Emily moves forward, still holding onto the bench like it tethers her to the ground. She pauses at the end of the row before approaching a tiny wooden gate that separates the rows of women from the court itself.

“Enter.” Says the voice.

When Emily finally makes her way to face the judge, the voice begins to relay her charges.

“…failure to maintain an appropriate weight. Failure to meet predetermined parameters of sexual desirability…”

The voice drones on but Charlotte doesn’t listen. She doesn’t want to know the punishment for violating the appearance laws when purposely breaking those laws will be the smallest of her charges. She wipes her slick palms on the dress.

“Charlotte Kilgore”

The courtroom falls silent once more, pregnant with anticipation. The story of her attempted escape has already made the rounds through the city’s rumor mill. Charlotte finds her feet and her body robotically moves to the front of the court.

“Failure to meet predetermined appearance standard, intentional sabotage of predetermined appearance standard, unlawful cutting of property, failure to submit to impregnation, assault of impregnator, and treason against the role of the female.”

Her charges are read in the same flat monotone as the charges of others, but their weight squeezes the room until no oxygen remains. The women sit perfectly still on their benches, waiting to hear the gravity of the ruling against her.

A shriek shatters the silence in the room. The doors at the back of the courtroom fly open and armed guards rush in.

“Your Honor. There’s been a situation from your earlier decision. We need to take you into protective custody,” the guard says. His hands clutch an assault rifle to his chest.

The Judge bites his fingernail before turning from the guard to Charlotte.

“Young lady, these are some of the most serious charges I have seen. Do you understand the gravity of the charges?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Your Honor, you need to go,” the guard warns. His face is pale, and his eyes flash wide and white.

“Was the impregnator able to finish?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Do you have any previous charges?”

“No, Sir.”

The Judge bites his lip while looking at the guards ushering the women from their seats with motions from their assault rifles. “Your Honor, we need to hurry,” says the guard.

“Yes, yes,” he says, twisting the ring on his finger, “Your hair looks surprisingly good and has not hindered your sexual desirability; therefore, I issue you only the most severe of warnings. It is against the law to modify your appearance in any way, Ms. Kilgore, without the written approval of the court.”

‘Yes, Sir.”

“Your remaining charges are extremely serious, but due to possible impregnation, I do not want you to face any physical punishments. You will report to the clinic daily for monitoring. Failure to become pregnant will result in forced insemination following your next cycle.”

“Thank you, Sir”

“I am not finished,” the Judge says, “As you do not seem to value your role as a female, you will not receive the benefits of it. Your year of rest following the birth will be waived. You will be placed back into the mandated reproduction pool as soon as you are deemed medically able.”

“Yes, Sir,” Charlotte chokes out.

“Also, this birth will not count toward your reproduction number. You will still be expected to hit your reproduction expectancy before applying for reproduction retirement.” At this, the Judge turns and follows the guard from the room, leaving Charlotte to stare at his empty seat. A guard grabs her by the elbow leading her toward the doors at the back of the courtroom.

“What happened?” She says.

Mistaking her disbelief about her situation for curiosity about the turmoil in the courthouse, he answers, “This lady’s got this tumor. Doctors say it will kill her if they don’t get it out, but Judge said the scar would be too large. She won’t be so desirable no more, so she can’t have that procedure.”

Charlotte rubs her eyes.

“Yeah, Judge said he thinks she can have one more birth before it kills her. So he sent her for forced insemination and for her entire pregnancy to take place at the clinic. Guess she went crazy and started smashing windows and stuff. Crazy, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, crazy.” Says Charlotte imagining the spray of glass fragments hitting her as she smashes windows. Naomi is waiting for her in the apartment when she returns from the courthouse. “They took all your alcohol. Even warned me that it’s against the law to give you any.”

Charlotte stares at her blankly before going to the bathroom cabinet and pulling out a suspiciously amber-colored mouthwash. She tips the bottle back before offering it to Naomi.

“It isn’t?”

“Definitely not whiskey. See, it’s ‘mouthwash. ’ Says so on the bottle.”

“Charlotte, you can’t be serious! You’re already in so much trouble.” Naomi says, pushing the bottle back to Charlotte, who shrugs before taking another long drink.

The beeping of the closet alarm wakes Charlotte the next morning. The clothes are comfortable and loose; no longer is she needed as an object of desire. She is surprised by the variety of food and new vitamins in the kitchen. Every woman takes the clunky prenatal vitamin as they are always “prenatal.” Still, after a successful “exchange,” the diet designed for sexual attractiveness is replaced by one designed for creating a good home for a fetus. Grateful for something other than another berry smoothie, Charlotte munches on the avocado toast and sips the fresh-squeezed orange juice. Thankfully, since she works at the clinic, the newly mandated check-ups won’t force her to change her schedule. She slips the apple, a paring knife, and almonds into her bag before heading out the door.

Naomi meets her on the sidewalk, and they walk silently to the clinic. Naomi kisses Charlotte on the cheek before taking the elevator to the diabetic ward where she works. Charlotte checks in at the front desk, pees in the little plastic cup, and settles in on the exam table to wait on her doctor. She likes her doctor. She has been seeing Dr. Bohicket since she had her first cycle. The door opens abruptly. Instead of her sweet, greying Dr. Bohicket, in walks Dr. Lear.

The sound of her heart is suddenly loud in her ears, and her throat collapses as she pushes her body up the small examination table. She presses her back against the wall and pulls her knees to her chest hugging them tight enough to leave finger marks on her skin. Dr. Lear lets out a booming laugh.

“I heard about your little day in court,” he says, “seems like they got you good for what you did to me.”

She stares at him blankly.

“Seems to be one problem though…They seem to think you’ll be good and pregnant soon.”

Vomit lingers in the back of her throat as she reaches for the strap of her bag, dragging it toward her. “I’m just not sure I got you all that good. We need to make sure that you are nicely fertilized. I’d hate for you to be put in the forced insemination program,” he says, “Don’t want a cold machine doing what should be done by a man.” He begins to pull on the drawstrings of his scrubs with one hand while grabbing her ankle with the other. She lets herself be laid out on the table in front of him. She forces herself still, counting her breath as she slips her hand inside the bag. Her fingers search past the firm apple, a slick tube of lipstick, and finally, the ice-cold of steel. As he leans back with the pleasure of his thrust, she lunges forward, using the paring knife to separate the man from his manhood.

I’m baffled that we’ve come to issue 59. I’m also a little baffled that it is February 2023. Going back in Umbrella Factory Magazine history to February 2010, we were getting ready to launch our first issue. At the time, yet to even produce a product, some of the UFM staff had very lofty ideas of what the future would bring. There were others on staff that considered one issue a success. As for me, I think 59 issues is a massive feat, but I think we can do 59 issues more.

I enjoy the idea that something so simple as a small online lit mag can be a constant. It’s a constant in that we’ve quietly been procuring magazines in much the same way as we’ve always done, and many a magazine before us, as the world around us has changed. I don’t remember the ethos of 2010, much like I probably won’t remember the ethos of 2023 many years from now. But what I do know is that the things we write ultimately become the things we read, and the things we remember and accept as the fabric of our times.

I put forth the content of issue 59 for your consideration. New poetry from Sarah Daly, Patrick Meeds and John Tustin. The merits of each of our poets and of each of their poems would take more conversation than available to me here, but the work of Patrick Meeds resonates with me, especially “Good Advice.”

New prose in this issue from an old friend Yuan Chingming (editor of Pacific Poetry) and new friends Dylan Gilbert, Alan Swyer and Jozzie Velesig. When I think about fiction being the truth of what’s on a writer’s mind and perhaps on our cultural mind collectively, I think all four of these pieces define what’s going on right now. I found Jozzie Velesig’s “Charlotte” to be utterly disquieting and thrilling with the sense of impending doom. As far out as “Charlotte” is, I think it seems not far off from possibility. I have to wonder how much this issue of UFM defines the ethos of our times.

Thank you all for your support of this humble magazine. We’re grateful for all of our readers, our writers and those who stop by randomly. Read. Submit. Tell everyone you know.

Stay Dry, Anthony