Not This Time

Hannah Bowman

He always had it turned on. He had been so proud, bringing home the brand-spanking-new 32-inch flatscreen, finally able to kick the old cathode-ray monstrosity to the curb. It didn’t matter what was on, the pictures on the screen secondary to the proof that he owned it and could have it on whenever he liked.

Today, a crime procedural drama illuminated the screen. He liked to have his dinner in the living room, and she could hear the show from the kitchen where she was reheating the leftovers.

“That was when it happened . . . he just . . . snapped, and then I was on the ground, and then-”

The sizzling in the saucepan drowns out the rest of the actress’s story. He doesn’t let her reheat his food in the microwave, accuses her of trying to give him cancer.

“We can’t help you unless you tell us who he is. Where is the man who did this to you?”

“I-I can’t . . . He’ll kill me.”

“We’re here to make sure that doesn’t happen”

Bringing the plate to him, she carefully sets it down on the fold-out tray, putting the knife and fork beside it. As she goes to leave, he snaps his fingers, the soft click echoing in her skull. Without looking away from the television, he points to the empty beer bottle sitting on a stained coaster.

On the screen, the detective and his partner lock eyes as they stand on either side of a door, guns drawn. She goes back to the kitchen, opens the refrigerator.

“Freeze! Put your hands above your head!”

As she walks back in, the detectives wrestle the sus- pect to the ground. As he’s being handcuffed, the man has a grin on his face that makes her stomach turn.

“You can take me away, but she’s still mine. She’ll always be mine.”

“You can’t hurt her anymore. You’re gonna be locked up for a long time.”

She hands him the beer. She is just about to leave again, to return to her place in the kitchen and be as quiet as possible, when her wrist is grabbed by a larger hand.

Moving the tray aside, he pulls her onto his lap. She goes still as his hands wander, grasping fistfuls of flesh. She can still see the television out of the corner of her eye.

The trial plays out quickly. The girl takes the stand, jury watching as she shakily tells them what he did to her, hiccups bubbling out of her throat. They are swayed by her story, and the sound of the gavel booms through the surround sound speakers.

“He got the maximum sentence. You won’t be seeing any more of him ever again.”

The girl on the screen thanks the detective with tears in her eyes, as the girl in the room remains silent, eyes wet.

Versatility 1

Annabelle Brown

Welcome to the Thunderdome

Sara Reed Wilson

Delectably, delightfully the cool slips by my tongue. Forgotten memories and a malicious state of fright. Find yourself afraid, inside a bowl, inside a cave. Oceanic waves caress your every page. Smashed against the shore and always longing for more. Be careful there, bather, try not to wade too deep. Glass walls and waterfalls, cerulean balls, the jester stalls. The burnout and the exotic dancer ran away to Timbuktu. Eyes so opalescent, you’ll wish that they were blue.

Clickety clackety snip snap sop. Inside the mouth beyond the throat there’s words that can’t be bought. Penny for your thoughts? Not for every shilling in this barn. The palace sits empty and abandoned, a spooky and melancholic place. Twisting the knife in my chest, deepening the wound, masochistic delight. Morphine clings to my eye sockets.

Trophy wife and endless strife you stretch above your limbs. Reach for the celestial beings that call from the great beyond. Enchantment and frivolity seep through my every pore. Welcome to this hellhole, try not to be a bore. Encased within the glow prances a facetious fictitious frog. Her- oine of nighttime fog and spinner of the leaves. Magnolia blossoms and sighs of upheaval brought upon by mental exhaustion.

Doing backflips, one, two, three.