Still Life - Zazie Anastasopoulos - 2024 Fellow

Still Life

Zazie Anastasopoulos

2024 Just Buffalo Writing Center Youth Fellow

2024 Just Buffalo Writing Center Youth Fellowship Cover Art: Zazie Anastasopoulos Design: Robin Jordan Fellow Mentors: Jaclyn Watterson, Bella Poynton, Christina Vega-Westhoff & Robin Jordan Fellowship Judge: Aitina Fareed-Cooke

Still Life Zazie Anastasopoulos 2024 Just Buffalo Writing Center Youth Fellow

Still Life

Alice bought her home because of the view. The house was small, the neighbors standoffish. But the bungalow had a large front window looking out on several maple trees whose massive fans of thick green leaves transformed to orange jewels in the fall as if the trunks were matchsticks and the canopies flames. Most days, Alice felt lucky. She had left behind family and friends the year before to take a position hours away at Forster & Forster and, sure, she was lonely sometimes. Her busy colleagues went home right after work, and her neighbors mostly kept to themselves, appearing only on Saturdays to tend their uniform lawns and manicured bushes. She wished they’d wave more often, but Alice didn’t begrudge their weekend routines. She understood the need for good habits herself: she’d followed her own strict routine since high school, then into college and grad school. And now here she was, a junior associate at a prestigious law firm, with a home she’d bought herself, and a lovely view to reassure her that her doggedness was warranted. Stay the course, she told herself, hold the path. As long as she could enjoy her view of the maples outside shimmering mildly in the breeze, Alice was content.

All that changed at 7am in the morning, not long after her alarm predictably went off. Though she’d followed a daily routine without fail since moving to Buffalo— 2

breakfast muffin in the kitchen, a quick shower before getting dressed, then coffee and checking her email by her favorite window—Alice was feeling unusually satisfied with herself after a week of good work. She’d settled several accounts, impressed her colleagues, and was in the running for a raise. It was time to reward herself and modify her routine. Today, she decided, she would have coffee first in the living room, instead of the kitchen. A small change, yet one she felt was important. But as she slid the French doors open and walked through the doorway, mug in one hand, she realized as she looked out the window toward her favorite trees that her day had taken a terrible, unexpected turn.

Just outside her window, someone had propped a human-sized, humanshaped pillow. If that wasn’t weird enough, the lumpy body shaped pillow was printed with a picture of her body, her face. She recognized the photo at once: it was a picture she’d posted on Facebook a few months back when she’d been a bridesmaid at a friend’s wedding. Her gut twisted uneasily as she stared, its gaze meeting hers with a familiar tipsy grin. The photo had been taken with friends, so whoever had set up the body pillow outside her window had not only found her Facebook page and connected it to her address in real life, but they’d then also taken the time to carefully crop her friends and the background from the image before ordering the damn thing

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and sneaking it onto her lawn. What the hell was going on? She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand straight up.

Alice didn’t know how long she just stood watching the lumpy pillow watch her back, her thoughts racing. She was overreacting, right? Surely it had been ordered by a friend as a prank to amuse her or give her a fun scare they’d laugh about later.

But which friend? Since moving to Buffalo, she’d really only made acquaintances, dated very little, and she doubted her friends from home would arrange a convoluted prank like this from so far away. How long had the pillow been standing there, Alice wondered? She hadn’t seen it yesterday, as she spent her Sunday afternoon marathoning a new series in bed—but she’d popped out in the early evening on a quick errand to the local corner store. Whoever had put the “gift” on her lawn must have done it after she returned and went to bed. Someone had snuck into her yard during the night—without setting her motion lights off—to stake a weird scarecrow pillow that looked like her on her lawn. If it was a joke, it wasn’t funny.

Alice continued to stare at the pillow—staring back at her with her own absurd smile—for long enough that she started to smell smoke coming from the kitchen. She cursed, and sprinted down the hall, burning her thumb as she took a freshly warmed muffin-sized charcoal out of the oven. She stood over the stove for a second, taking in

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a deep breath that scorched her throat, and decided not to bother making something else. The sight of that thing had dulled her hunger.

Mechanically, she began to wash the few dishes in the sink trying to figure out what she just saw. Save for the chirping birds and the buzzing cicadas outside, her quiet suburb was never particularly lively. In the absence of cars or fireworks or kids shouting at each as they rode by on bikes, the muddier sounds of Alice’s home were subtle and distinctive: the scratching of the squirrel who lived in the space between the first and second floor; the high-pitched hum of the lights, and the ticking of the clock she’d hung above the sink, each arrived undampened and meticulously intrusive.

The sounds had never bothered her before, but as she stood at her empty sink beside the forlorn stack of drying dishes, the clatter and hum of her home now seemed to mock her, as if telling her to do something. She’d taken enough time to ponder the effigy outside her window. She should be brave and act. Yes, she thought, be brave!

Unfortunately, she was unsure exactly what action to take. Should she go outside and check it out? Call her neighbors? Better yet, the police? But what good would that do? The local cops were notoriously incompetent on a good day.

Dangerous on a bad one. And if she did try law enforcement, how would she explain her predicament? As she tried to rehearse what she’d say, the explanation sounded inane even to her. Here she was, a grown woman, terrified of a….pillow. Alice laughed 5

quietly to herself, shaking her head. Surely, she was blowing the problem out of proportion. The prank was creepy and tasteless. But it had to be a prank, right? An odd neighbor she hadn’t yet met? A bored teenager? Whoever it was, she needed to get rid of the damn pillow, then move on with her life. And get back the view of her trees that gave her comfort every day.

Taking the side door by the kitchen, Alice made her way outside, grimacing as she turned the corner of her home around a bed of hostas and the pillow came into her line of vision. The steps she took forward were apprehensive and wary, but she was determined. For the umpteenth time, she silently laughed at herself. Who would have thought Alice could be afraid of a pillow. A body shaped pillow that looked like her.

Ridiculous.

She approached the pillow warily, like a dog checking out another dog at the park and, finally, within a few feet, decided it would be prudent to first check the side facing the street before touching it. She held her breath, imagining all the embarrassing possibilities. But the backside of the pillow wasn’t her backside, thank goodness. In fact, it was blank, unprinted, so if her neighbors had looked over, they might have thought she was just putting up some kind of decoration. As Alice wiped her brow in relief, she discovered the prankster had secured the pillow with a series of neon green plastic cable ties looped through small holes in the pillow’s fabric to a long 6

stake driven into her lawn. Clearly, the pillow had been designed that way. It was just stupid internet junk. Maybe even the latest thing from Temu.

Somehow, the view of the backside of the pillow relaxed her, as if the sight of its factory architecture offered a confirmation—albeit devoid of any real reasoning— that the pillow really was just a sloppy, stupid prank and there was nothing to be scared of. For the first time, the tension drained from her body—she had been trying so hard to convince herself the life-sized doll was just a prank which it now obviously was—and Alice quickly went and grabbed a pair of scissors to cut the pillow free.

Snipping each tie in quick succession, the pillow slumped, face-first, in the grass. She smirked to herself. Take that, she thought, though she wasn’t sure if she was saying it to the pillow or the prankster. Both, she decided, and then kicked it. Screw you. She finally sounded brave.

Pulling the stake from her lawn, Alice then hoisted the pillow over her shoulder and started walking toward her garbage can, catching sight of her reflection in her big window. The pillow was just as tall as she was, and now slung over her shoulder, with her face facing up, she imagined that from far away her neighbors might think she was carrying a real, living person. The thought made her suddenly uneasy again and she walked faster.

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With a grunt, she dumped the pillow into the bin, pushing its head down and backward into a twisted position until its legs buckled behind its neck. Satisfied with her work, she dropped the lid. The soft thump as plastic met plastic and sealed it inside gave her a quiet comfort. The pillow was gone. Her job was done. The sense of finality allowed her to think more clearly, as the subdued panic and adrenaline that had been clouding her thoughts ebbed away like the tide. She no longer felt in danger, but whether the pillow was a cruel joke or not, someone had cared enough about scaring her to find her Facebook account, track down her address, and then design the damn thing. These were not the actions of a sound mind, and Alice decided now matter how off the situation might sound to the police, she needed to file a report. She doubted the cops would actually do anything, but it would be good to have a record. For now, she was going to warm up a new muffin, then take several virtual meetings she had scheduled in her home office. She was not going to run panicked to the police. First thing tomorrow, she would head to the station. With a new sense of resolve, Alice went back inside, opened her laptop and went to work, proud of herself several hours later for staying calm and collected throughout the day who her clients respected. She was a smart, single, independent woman who could take care of herself.

The next morning, Alice got out of bed, stretched, then went downstairs to the kitchen for breakfast. It was best to return to her normal routine after what 8

happened the day before, she decided. She finished her muffin quickly, set the plate in the sink, and, as planned, began to make her way back toward her bedroom so she could get ready for the day. Just as she was about to head upstairs, she paused, a pall of apprehension falling over her as she purposefully prevented her eyes from landing on the French doors to the living room and her favorite window. The thought crossed her mind to check and make sure the pillow wasn’t there, but she ruled it out with a loud performative scoff, though there was no one around to see the theatrical scene in her hallway. Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. She’d thrown the stupid pillow away in the trash: where else would it be? Why then, she wondered, did she still have a sinking feeling in her throat? A weight that was driving down into her stomach, buckling her knees, and making her feel like sinking into the floor? Why did she feel the urge—the need—to check and see? Just in case.

Alice had always been serious about her morning routine. Keeping an order to her morning, helped her keep on the path of her life plan. It seemed like a silly thing to be hung up on, but changing the order of things—the way she felt things needed to be—had always made her feel vaguely ill, as though the universe had gone inside out.

Yesterday cemented this conviction, even though it was probably illogical. Still, she couldn’t help thinking now: what would have happened yesterday if she hadn’t broken routine and gone right upstairs instead of heading to check out her favorite view?

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And now she was considering doing it again. A sense of revulsion crept over her. Not only was she considering straying from her well-established custom a second time—a self-betrayal that compounded the initial prank—but diverting from her routine now also gave that thing power over her. She tried to resist. She held her breath in the hallway. But the fact that she’d been standing there in a state of dread for well over five minutes already proved that the ship in question had long since sailed.

By even considering another change in habit, she’d broken the routine again and, now, an inanimate body pillow had some measure of control over the situation. Alice didn’t know what to do next. If she went upstairs to her bedroom and kept to routine, it would feel like she was ignoring the monster under the bed and putting herself in danger. But changing routine to head to the window again made her seem like those horror movie protagonists who yell “Hello!” down a dark hallway expecting a ghoul to…what? Say hello politely back?

Both options stunk.

Feeling numb, Alice compromised with herself and realized, as she sat down on the stairs, that the fear gripping her now wasn’t solely directed at the person who had staked the pillow in her yard, but at the offending object too. Why? The pillow itself wasn’t scary. But it was crude. And its flaccid limbs and wobbly neck, not to mention its slightly off-kilter stance, made it look not just drunk, but a distorted broken 10

version of her. The most alarming part? Someone had gone to the trouble of making such a helplessly grotesque version of her. No amount of logic or reasoning made the god-awful thing seem less horrifying. Someone really didn’t like her. What could she have done?

Alice exhaled slowly, gritting her teeth and taking a swig of coffee that tasted more bitter than usual before standing up and walking toward the living room with heavy steps. The pocket doors to the living room were closed, and as she stood in front of them, her heart in her throat, she chastised herself for being so foolish. She, Alice, grown woman, junior associate—was acting like a scared child. She shook her head, trying to snap herself out of it, and anger flooded her system instead. She was going to find whoever was responsible for this mess and sue them—hard. Her prankster had a lot of nerve! She didn’t care who they were—a teenager, a stalker, an unhappy neighbor—she’d make sure they were punished.

Emboldened by her anger, she slid one pocket door roughly to the side, spilling her coffee on the white carpet in the living room. Usually, she would curse and run to get cleaning supplies to blot the offending liquid before it dried. Not today.

Today, she couldn’t move an inch as she met her own vacant gaze staring back through the window.

The pillow was back.

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The damn thing was dirtier than before and leaning slightly to one side. But it was back. The pillow stood there with its shit-eating, wedding-tipsy grin now stained by coffee grinds, ketchup and what she took to be a fibrous residue of banana peels on its face. As before, it was tethered to the stake, if now looming drunkenly with vague malice. Alice hadn’t actually thought it would be there. Sure, she’d wanted— needed—to check. But her need to peek through the window was the same feeling you get when you double check if the stove is off even when you already know it is.

Shocked, she prepared for the wave of horror to hit her, but as she watched goosebumps pucker up on her skin, she only felt the strange chill that washes over you when you’re actually numb.

Alice stood there for a while, coffee growing cold, as she stared at her own, grimy, 2-D visage. She was under siege and needed a plan. Her eyes not straying from the uncanny doll blocking her view, she called out of work, telling her boss about a sudden “family emergency.” She could have told him the truth—the effigy on her lawn was ample proof of her predicament and its legitimacy. And she knew her boss like her, thought of her as a hard worker who was consistent, diligent and always on time. Yet, the thought of him knowing about the pillow filled Alice with a sense of shame and dread. She didn’t want to be the person in the office who caused drama—even if she was the victim of it. Alice was still the newcomer to town, had no boyfriend or family, 12

no one to stand up for and with her. What was a woman alone to do? It wasn’t her fault that a deranged lunatic had decided to go through all this trouble to what? Scare her?

Was that the goal? Well, she thought, it had worked. The pillow was right there, obstructing her view, interrupting her life. And now it had made a liar of her.

Alice needed to go to the police station. Now. Faster. Someone had planted the pillow, then gone into her trash (ew) and staked it again in her front yard. Whether the cops listened to her or not, it would be stupid not to report it. She definitely did not want the cops to come to her home; she didn’t need the neighbors wondering why police had shown up at her door.

Fifteen minutes later, Alice was still standing in her front yard, looking at the now ruined body pillow with a mix of disgust and wariness. She wrinkled her nose. The doll smelled like trash in the way all trash did: thick and sour, no matter what was in the garbage can because, in the end, it all mixed together into the same gross, indistinguishable scent of rot. She grimaced, circling to the back of the pillow and cutting the ties to the stake once more. This time, she noted, the cable ties were a bright pink color. For a brief moment, Alice wondered if the color meant something, like a code or a message, before shaking her head in disbelief at her continued desire to make sense of what was going on. What a mess she was.

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The night before, she’d simply thrown the offending pillow over her shoulder and dumped it in the bin. Now, she was so disgusted by the pillow’s stench that she contemplated whether she should bother taking it to the police station all, and just settle for showing the officers photos. No, that wouldn’t work, she decided. They needed to see it in person to understand how oppressive it was. She lined the trunk of her car with trash bags. Then finding some disinfectant wipes in her back seat, Alice returned to the pillow, now slack as a murder victim in her yard, and used them as a barrier so her flesh would have to touch its fabric as she dragged it to her car.

Awkwardly making sure her fingers didn’t slip and touch it, Alice put one hand around the pillow’s neck, the other under a thigh, and, with a heave, threw it into the trunk with a moist thump.

The drive to the police station was thankfully quick. After she parked, she went straight to the trunk, putting a hand on the latch to open it, but then hesitated. Should she bring the pillow into the station with her? If she didn’t, they wouldn’t understand how frightening the stuffed doll was. But if she brought the slimy pillow inside, they’d probably think she was crazy. Alice finally decided she’d split the difference: she would calmly let them know that the pillow was in her trunk and ask them to please take it off her hands. She clicked her tongue; she should have parked in the shade. Now the heat was going to make the smell of the thing linger long after it was gone. Alice cursed at 14

her stupidity, but instead turned to cross the parking lot. She wanted to put the entire situation behind her as fast as possible.

When she entered the precinct, a high-pitched chime rang out and a bored looking desk officer gestured her over. He was about fifty: tall, stout, and cursed with male-pattern baldness. She sat down in the empty chair across from him as he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and looked at her expectantly as a bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

“Hi, um, my name is Alice. Alice Crosby. I’m here because–” He rocked back in his chair as he listened to her and the springs shrieked in response.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “Needs oil.” He paused and waved at her. “Go on.”

She shifted in her chair, a feeling of mild nausea washing over her as she struggled to find the words to explain exactly what had happened without sounding deranged.

“So…yesterday, I looked out my window at my front yard,” she took a shaky breath, “and there was this…body pillow. Of me.” She coughed. “I mean, there was a picture of me printed on it. And it was left there. Tied to a stake so it could, like, you know, face my window.”

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He was frowning, trying to understand. She cleared her throat and tried again.

“The picture is of me from a wedding. Like, I was cropped from a photo I posted on Facebook. So to get that photo of me, someone would’ve had to…” she paused “you know, found me on social media, edited it and then printed it onto the pillow, so–” He sat up suddenly and clicked his computer with some excitement.

“Where do you live?” He was typing something.

“31 Hartnell Avenue,” she said, surprised. “I’m the house with the big maples.”

He stopped typing and looked at her. “I know those trees.” He nodded. “Nice neighborhood.”

“Yes, um.” She coughed. “I’m lucky.” She waited expectantly but he didn’t say anything more. “Ok,” she waited a beat longer. Then as he kept typing she continued.

“I don’t know anyone who would have put the pillow on my lawn. It’s creepy.” She paused again. “It looks like a scarecrow, kind of, but of me.”

He made a noise of acknowledgement. And looked at her again as though he were waiting for the real story to begin.

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She wasn’t sure what else to say. “Look,” she added more sharply than intended. “It’s terrifying me. Who would have put it there? Why?” Alice threw up her hands and sat back in her chair.

The smile had left his face. “No need to take that tone.” He stared at her.

“What?’ She was stunned.

“No need to take that tone.” He said it again as though she were a child.

“I’m not taking a tone,” she said. “I’m terrified. Maybe I’m being stalked.”

“Stalked by a body pillow?” Now he sounded mildly amused.

She stared at him and he stared back, his eyebrows knitted together in doubt.

Asshole, she thought to herself.

“Stalked by the person who left the body pillow.” Her tone was curt. She couldn’t stop herself. But she needed him to see, to understand, that she wasn’t off her rocker.

Alice knew she had to change tactics. “I’m scared,” she said, making her voice small. “Can you please help me?” She tried to smile. All women knew how to do this.

It grossed her out.

But it worked. The officer’s posture changed, his chest puffing out over his belly.

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“Look,” he said. “Let’s take a report. And I’ll make sure to have an officer drive by your house a few times every day this week. Make sure nothing’s amiss.” He was pleased with himself.

She smiled. “Thank you.” She coughed. “But how do we find out who did it?

And what do I do with the pillow?” Alice had more questions, but the cop raised his hand up to interject.

“Do you own an outdoor security camera, Ms. Crosby?”

She shook her head. He raised his eyebrows as though she’d made a big mistake.

“You know,” he said, “Most people have Ring cams these days. You might want to consider getting one.”

Alice nodded. It had occurred to her to install a camera on the drive over, but that would take days. She’d have to hire an electrician and her situation was urgent.

“I will,” she said. “But what do I do until then?”

He smiled. “Do you have a friend you can stay with?” And when she shook her head, he added comfortingly. “I’m sure it’s just a prank. You’ll be fine. Just make sure your doors are locked.”

What a waste of time, she thought.

“And what about the pillow? I put it in my car. Do you want it as evidence?”

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He chucked. “Honey,” he said. “You’ve been watching too much TV. But if you like I’ll come have a look.” Again, the tone like she was a child.

She stood up abruptly. “Never mind.”

“Look, I understand you’re…worried.” His eyebrows had knit together in a frown. “But just take a photo of the body pillow and get the camera installed ASAP. Video is evidence we can use.”

“But what if they come back tonight?” She exhaled in frustration.

He smiled. “Exactly.” If he could have pat her on the head like a dog, then, he would have. “That’s why you should get a camera ASAP. Because they might come back again.”

He couldn’t have been more pleased with himself.

Alice looked around. There was no one else she could talk to, no one else in the waiting room to even share a sympathetic glance.

Alice left the station a few minutes later after signing the report and taking the business card of a “good electrician” the officer recommended. He reminded her that he’d send a car past her place over the next few days. She wasn’t sure what good that would do. But it was something. She hoped.

Alice rarely drove fast, because she was never late. But that day she sped home, the thought of taking even an extra minute in her car now made her feel sick.

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The putrid smell of garbage filled the small space, and the rage boiling beneath her skin made her feel like she needed to claw it off. It was as if a thousand little ants were burrowing into her and the only way to cleanse herself was to get rid of the rotting culprit who resembled her stuffed into the trunk of her car.

When she opened the trunk a few minutes later, the disgusting pillow was even more rank than it had been that morning after simmering in the stew of her car.

Holding her breath, she grabbed it by the neck and hurled it onto her lawn, right by the wooden stake that had been holding it up. Alice didn’t care how dirty it was, she just wanted it gone. She quickly ran inside and grabbed a lighter and a jug of cooking oil from the kitchen. Sweat beading her forehead when she returned, she unceremoniously poured the entire bottle onto it. For the first time in the past day, there was no hesitation in her actions, only instinct driven from fear and anger.

She needed to purge the cotton stuffed look-alike from her mind. Her body.

Her yard. She wanted her life back. Her perfect view back.

It was the middle of the day and most of her neighbors were no doubt at work. No one was outside. Still, she could see movement through a few of the windows at nearby houses. If she burned the pillow here, everyone would see. She knew she should wait, but Alice couldn’t bring herself to care when the prospect of life returning to normal was just in reach.

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Had it really only been two days since she’d first seen the pillow? It seemed like an eternity.

With the click of a lighter, the body pillow lit up at once. The smoky fumes, blended with the smell of garbage, made her head throb, but she stood firm and watched it burn. She was determined to see the pillow go up in smoke.

It seemed like hours, but the pillow burned in just a few minutes, leaving behind a pile of oily, foul-smelling ash. Did she feel relief? She couldn’t say. She was trembling, not from a chill—the fire should have warmed her. And her body ached as if she had the flu, her head thumping at the temples. It’s over, she thought to herself.

She almost laughed out loud as she turned and looked around the neighborhood. It’s over, she shouted to herself again. No one had seen what she’d done.

The thought came to her, then, that she should take a hot shower, get some rest and prepare for her clients tomorrow, but she quickly rejected it. No, this time, she was going to stay and guard her home, her yard, her trees. Whoever had put the damn pillow there in the first place would likely come back to check on it again. After all, they’d returned the previous night and fished it out of the garbage. This time, if they returned, she was going to catch the culprit in the act, film them with her phone so she’d have the “evidence” the police required. All routines were off. Alice was going to fix this herself.

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Walking quickly to the garage, Alice fetched a lawn chair and a blanket and sat down next to the stake, now a harmless monument, a grave marker even, over the pile of ash. Settling in, she pulled the blanket high to her chin. Her back popped and her hips protested, but Alice was determined. We got this, she told her body, as she stretched then curled into the chair. After a moment, she took out her phone and began to read a book.

Alice couldn’t say what time she fell asleep. Only that when she woke it was earlier than usual, even for her. The sky was a light gray and the sun winked a pink shimmer above the maples, trimming their leaves with a golden light. It must be just after dawn, she reasoned. The birds chirping above her still sounded sleepy.

Beside her, the body pillow was still a pile of ash. The stake looked forlorn without its stuffed decoration. Grimly, Alice smiled to herself.

Take that, she thought. She’d won.

Rising, she stretched, her hands reaching for the ever-brightening sky, and took in the quiet neighborhood. All the houses around her were dark, their windows reflecting the mild light outside. The only other sound was a faint rumble from the main road a few blocks down. Is this what peace felt like? How quickly she’d forgotten.

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Leaning on the stake for support, she turned to study her home. She’d been lucky to find it a few months after taking the position at Forster & Forster. Her pride and pleasure at being a single independent woman was slowly returning, like a cool breeze rolling across her skin. She admired the front door that she’d painted red. The blooming hydrangeas cascading their blossoms beside the front porch. Even the living room window with its curtains neatly pulled back which offered the stunning view of her maples.

Inside the living room, she was surprised to see someone sitting in her easy chair. The television was on. But her guest wasn’t watching the movie. It was staring at her. The reflection in the glass must have distorted her view, because it looked oddly animated as it stood there, still studying her as she stood outside, its stance intent and alert though the body’s shape was lumpy and wrong, like a marionette loosed from its strings.

It grinned the same stupid grin she’d once grinned herself.

When Alice rushed to the side door, it was locked.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR Zazie Anastasopoulos is a senior at Nichols High School who writes poetry, prose, and plays. Stories are her passion, though, and her fiction has won First Prize in Nichols’ Purdy Prize for Fiction several times and, last year, a Gold Key in the National Scholastic Writing Awards. Her project, Body Acts, is a collection of feminist medical horror tales in the vein of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein or Shelley’s Jackson’s Half Life and she’s excited to keep writing weird women’s fiction this summer and in college.

“Still Life” is one story in my collection Body Acts which considers women’s bodies and pain. The collection is informed by fictions from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (the first feminist medical horror) to Jeff VanderMeer’s Southern Reach tetralogy, and even the recent TV series Dead Ringers starring Rachel Weisz. One of my favorite lines in the series comes when the protagonist Elliott Mantle declares “There should be beauty contests for the insides of bodies.” Each story takes up uncanny interactions between women and those who oversee their bodies: doctors in particular, but also bosses and even the beauty industry. When I learned that Mary Shelley’s mother (Mary Wollstonecraft) died from an infection passed to her by her doctor during Mary Shelley’s birth, I started thinking about how women’s bodies have been historically neglected, even unintentionally. Writing these stories is the first step in my journey to consider how that neglect might be showcased in fiction as I hope to study creative writing and health advocacy in college and find ways to bring my two interests together.

While all of the stories in my collection are uncanny or a-real in nature, “Still Life” is meant to be darkly humorous “body” horror story too. I hope you enjoy it!

— Zazie Anastasopoulos, 2024 JBWC Youth Fellow

ABOUT THE JBWC YOUTH FELLOWSHIP Open to WNY-based youth (ages 15-18), the Just Buffalo Writing Center Youth Fellowship offers 1 motivated young writer a paid opportunity to develop their craft and explore professional avenues within the literary arts.

Working with mentors, the JBWC fellow presents a creative writing project to be completed over the course of the fellowship.

ABOUT JUST BUFFALO LITERARY CENTER Just Buffalo Literary Center’s mission is to create and strengthen communities through the literary arts. We believe in the love of reading, the art of writing, and the power of the literary arts to transform individual lives and communities.

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“Consuming and consumptive, ‘Still Life’ calls to mind early works of Shirley Jackson, Lisa Tuttle, and Carmen Maria Machado, among other masters of the macabre. Through both mundane and dazzling detail, cut through with incisive observations of contemporary life, Anastasopoulos reminds us that sometimes our wildest fears are our most reasonable, and that everything we assume about the nature of reality may be illusion. I look forward to future work from Anastasopoulos, a searing talent.”

— Jaclyn Watterson, author of Ventriloquisms