Solvie the Spoonbill

Once upon a time there were three young spoonbills: Saejang, Scala, and Solivagant. All three belonged to the same colony, but they came from different nests. Saejang was the most beautiful. Her pale pink plumage hinted at the brilliant rose-reds blooming underneath. Scala was clever and liked to show off, especially when there were adults around to impress. Solivagant was the quiet one. She preferred the company of damselflies to the clicking, clattering flock, and she was often seen wading along the edges of the marsh. Her friends called her Solvie, and this is her story most of all.

The spoonbills were fledglings, which is a very exciting time in a bird’s life. Every day, they practiced stretching and flapping their wings, building the muscles they’d need to pull their heavy bodies aloft. They took turns launching themselves on short flights from branch to branch, then branch to ground. They flew greater and greater distances until one day, they were strong enough for the real thing.

Scala went first. A few beats of her powerful wings, and she was airborne. Saejang and Solvie watched her zoom across the water, dipping low over the reeds before turning back and landing with hardly a splash. Her face showed how impressed with herself she was, and as her friends congratulated her, her eyes darted around the flock to see who else who might be.

Saejang was next. As she pumped her wings, her splayed feathers revealed a stunning underdown of crimson that so perfectly matched the sunset, no one noticed the wobbly tilt in her takeoff. She briefly disappeared, blending seamlessly into the reddening sky. Then she was back, braking hard in a dazzling flash of pink. Scala and Solvie clapped their bills in applause, and Saejang blushed happily.

It was Solvie’s turn now. Her friends moved back to give her room, and she took a step forward to prepare. But rather than spread her wings, Solvie froze. She looked at Saejang and Scala. She looked out at the wetlands, teeming with other juvenile spoonbills, all learning the art of flight. She looked up at the sky, wide open and boundless with possibility. Nothing was in Solvie’s way. She’d been practicing for this moment for weeks. And yet she not could fly. After a few miserable moments, she turned and walked away, leaving her friends at the water’s edge.

- - -

Time moves quickly for all young spoonbills, and so it was in the marsh. It wasn’t long before all the fledglings were expert fliers—Solvie included.

After that first disappointing day, she had practiced just as much as the others. But she did so alone, on the far side of the peninsula, when the rest of the colony was roosting. Solvie couldn’t explain why it was easier to learn on her own. It just was. In the subdued sounds of dusk, when the turtles and muskrats had settled down for the night—when not even the gentle buzz of damselflies could distract her—she mastered lift, balance, and steering. And because she did so without the guidance and correction of the elder spoonbills, Solvie developed a special talent the others didn’t: sustained flight. For with no one around to tell her when to stop for the day, she learned how to not stop at all. Without realizing it, Solvie had taught herself to fly further than any other young spoonbill in the colony.

Scala and Saejang didn’t know this, though. And they didn’t ask her about what had happened. They were just relieved to see she’d gotten her wings under her at all. There was no place in the colony for a bird who couldn’t fly. And anyway, today it was time to move on to the next crucial skill: foraging.

The spoonbills gathered in the shallows, forming several loose semicircles. Adults bookended the juveniles, who watched them carefully, copying their movements. Dozens of silvery-grey beaks poked into the water, sweeping left to right, right to left. The movement stirred up shrimp and snails and tiny fish, which the adults deftly snapped up in their sensitive bills.

Scala caught on quickly. She mimicked the adults with precision, soon finding her rhythm and a comfortable pace. After getting the basics down, she experimented with technique and style, loudly offering unsolicited tips to the other juveniles.

Saejang too was successful, though for other reasons. Everywhere she waded, she was surrounded by young male spoonbills who bumped into one another constantly. All the commotion kept a continuous stream of food going in Saejang’s direction, which let her get plenty of practice.

Solvie, meanwhile, kept getting stuck in the mud. She grew frustrated, and it didn’t help that the other spoonbills seemed to be watching. But this time she knew what to do. Heaving herself from the shallows into the warm spring sky, she flew away from the colony. She dropped down in a small side pool, thick with cattails, to forage alone. Because there weren’t any others to help flush out the food, it was hard at first. But she kept at it, and eventually she figured out a way of shuffling her feet in the sticky mud to dislodge prey. It wasn’t how the others did it, but it worked for her.

- - -

Before long the fledglings were equipped with all the skills and knowledge they needed to grow strong and independent—which is exactly what they did. Saejang, Scala, and Solvie drifted apart, as friends often do on the way to adulthood. One year passed, then two. And then suddenly they weren’t fledglings anymore, and it was time for the next chapter of their lives.

Courtship dances broke out all across the colony. The young adults bowed to one another, swinging their magnificent spoons back and forth. Saejang was presented with so many twigs by potential mates that she didn’t know what to do with them all. Scala, meanwhile, greatly enjoyed correcting the eager young males on their skypointing form.

No one noticed that Solvie was nowhere to be found amidst the chaos.

And no one noticed that fall, when the marsh grew crowded with hundreds of new nests, that none were hers.

And no one noticed the following spring, when Solvie wasn’t among those chasing a brood of hatchlings around the reeds.

No one would have found her had they looked, anyway, because she wasn’t there at all.

- - -

Now, Solvie and the others were roseate spoonbills—that’s a waterbird that doesn’t migrate. Everyone in the colony knew there was no need to leave. Everything they could ever want for was right there, exactly where they’d been born. Solvie knew that, too. Yet gone she was, and had been for some time. And here’s how it happened:

Remember how Solvie had accidentally gotten really good at staying aloft for long stretches of time? Well, she used this skill often, because since she usually foraged alone, this meant a lot of exploring the peninsula to find all the hidden feeding grounds. And the peninsula was vast, so she needed to fly quite high to cover the distance quickly. Solvie could often be seen soaring far above, a tiny dot of pink against the blue. It was on one such occasion that she caught a powerful atmospheric current—a current she planned on taking only so far as the marsh’s northern border.

However, and this might be hard to understand unless you’re a bird, when she reached the northern border, Solvie didn’t want to stop. It just felt too good. The air at that altitude was deliciously cool and crisp, totally unlike the humid, muggy wetlands below. Solvie knew she needed to drop out of the current soon, otherwise she’d find herself in unknown territory. And yet she just could not bring herself to do so. Something inside of her pushed her to keep going. Her curiosity had been awoken. What was beyond the marsh? What was beyond the only place she’d ever lived? She needed to know.

Solvie flew north for a very, very, very long time. In fact, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you how long. I barely believe it myself. She flew so far that the landscape beneath her became unrecognizable. The familiar flat wetlands dried out and became grassy plains, which became shimmering lakes, which became a windswept tundra. Solvie wanted to explore it all. But something was driving her on, still further north. Then one day, the earth rose up to meet her and invite her down from the sky at last—or so it seemed to Solvie. Because before her, out of nowhere, was the most beautiful island, with majestic cliffs and verdant, rolling hills. Something about it called to Solvie, though she didn’t understand why. She’d never seen anything like it, but she already knew she was going to love it.

She coasted downwards slowly, taking in the sights. The island’s features came into focus. She saw great foamy waves battering the jagged cliffs above the coastline. And as she got closer, she saw hundreds and hundreds of funny little birds on the cliffs. They had black backs, white breasts, and bright orange beaks and feet. Solvie knew they must be waterbirds, for their feet were webbed, like the cormorants back home. They were puffins of course, and it must have made for quite a scene when the giant pink spoonbill touched down in their colony.

You’re probably curious about that first meeting between Solvie and the puffins. Well, so am I. And we’re going to have to stay that way, unfortunately, because Solvie never told anyone about it. She didn’t tell the osprey about it, when she first shared the story of her many adventures. So the osprey couldn’t tell the flamingo who heard Solvie’s story next. And since the flamingo never heard anything about the meeting, the tern he told didn’t know about it—which means the penguin who got Solvie’s story from the tern couldn’t tell me, when I met him in a pub in Cape Town.

We’ll have to use our imaginations.

But I can tell you this: Solvie did love the island she landed on that day. She stayed there all summer, fishing along the sandy shore and navigating the turbulent coastal winds. And when summer ended, she headed south to the shimmering lakes she’d seen on her way up. At the lakes she met a gaggle of geese, who invited her to spend the fall with them. (This of course was an exceptional compliment, as everyone knows geese are highly territorial and wary of strangers.) Come winter, Solvie headed off again, letting the wind take her south, then east to a cluster of tiny islands along a temperate coast. Here she made more wonderful friends: piping plovers and oystercatchers and sanderlings, to name a few.

Solvie flew north and south and east and west, and saw many incredible things. And from each of the waterbirds she met along the way she learned something new—a new way to fish, or something different she could forage for, or even the best way to fly in that climate’s wind. But always, eventually, she felt the tug of wanting to be alone again. She could only stay in one place so long before she needed to spread her wings and feel them touching nothing at all.

One day, Solvie decided to visit the peninsula. She wanted to see it one last time before she headed back up north to the rocky island cliffs she’d decided to make her home for good. It might be nice to reunite with Scala and Saejang before bidding them farewell forever, she thought. I wonder how they’re getting on. It was a short flight this time. She arrived at the tail end of breeding season, to the cacophony of hatchlings chirping and squawking everywhere. The tiny, fluffy white spoonbills tottered and stumbled around the marsh, their parents following close behind.

Solvie scanned, sure she’d be able to find her old friends easily. Saejang would of course stand out in all her beauty. And Scala would no doubt be nesting in one of the best spots. But though she looked and looked, Solvie could not pick them out from among the massive colony. Every spoonbill she saw looked exactly like the next.

Solvie retreated to her favorite secret cluster of reeds, to rest for the night. She’d find her old friends tomorrow, surely. Tonight she would sleep—sleep and dream of the very long flight to come.

Poll Shows Gen Z Regrets Initiating Trend of Inward-Facing Elevator Rides

CHARLOTTE, NC - A new Gallup poll indicates that a majority of individuals ages 15 to 29 deeply regret their role in contributing to a recent trend in elevator ride body orientation. According to the April 2026 poll, 87% of Gen Z respondents feel remorse for adopting the new and unconventional stance, wherein riders face the interior of the elevator car as opposed to its doors, as has been standard practice since the technology was introduced in the late 19th century.

“Okay, look. We didn’t really think this one through,” admitted 22 year-old poll participant Finley Chastain. “We just felt so weird staring straight ahead, like zombies or something. But this is so much more awkward. I think we should switch back to how it was before.”

Experts suggest that the 90-degree rotation is preferred by riders seeking to ease the psychological discomfort of standing still by repurposing elevator walls as seating for the duration of the ride, which lasts on average twenty seconds.

“That way they can look at their phones while assuming a position of studied insouciance,” explained sociologist Evie Blarth. “Otherwise they have to tilt their heads down sharply, to see their phones so close to their bodies. Much less cool looking. Honestly, I get it.”

In a related poll, Gen X individuals were surveyed on their reaction to the trend. Of those responding, 68% said they ignore the inward-facing riders, while 32% confessed to “glaring contemptuously” in hopes the riders would look up and feel the scorn they so deeply, if wordlessly, wished to convey.

Anomie the Alchemist

Once upon a time, there was a powerful alchemist who could turn tears into stars—brilliant, everlasting stars. Her name was Anomie, and she lived deep in the forest, in a treehouse so high up that at night, she could work by the light of the moon.

Anomie’s laboratory was filled with many mysterious vessels and instruments, and books were stacked everywhere. The shelves were lined with dozens of curious wooden boxes, none much bigger than your hand. Some were decades old, and worn smooth from handling. Others seemed newer, their cedar sides still fragrant. Each was fashioned with a tiny lock that opened by the same key—a key which Anomie wore on a silver chain around her neck. On the ancient oak table where she performed her distillations sat a gleaming glass alembic beside a bright copper basin that bubbled with something dark and smoky. From the table to the wide window that opened to the night sky, the floor glittered with a permanent trail of stardust.

Every evening at dusk, Anomie set about her work. She paced slowly alongside her rows of wooden boxes, lightly tapping the shelves with her fingertips. She walked and watched and waited and listened until eventually, one of the boxes would begin to shake and jingle, like a bell. Anomie would take the box down then, and bring it over to her table. Slipping off her silver necklace, she’d unlock the box and measure a small amount of its contents into the alembic. She needed to use more or less, depending on what was in the box. Lies and broken promises were potent enough to use in very small measure. So too was cruelty. In fact, some of Anomie’s most glorious stars had begun as the tiniest drops of unkindness and selfishness. Heartbreak and loss, on the other hand, required larger doses as time went on. These were what the oldest, most touch-worn boxes contained, and Anomie’s hands knew every groove and knot of them by heart.

Anomie distilled the sadness contained in the boxes down to a single teardrop. Sometimes this step took just a few minutes. Other times, it took days. When the tear appeared, she purified it with clarity and perspective. She then added an owl’s hoot of wisdom and, variously, a tail’s wag of love or a frost’s bite of revenge. These she combined with varying measures of humor and grace, depending on what sort of star she intended to make. Anomie could make every kind of star you can imagine, from red-hot supergiants, luminous and unmissable, to cool blue dwarves, softly pulsing at the edge of the horizon.

But there was one ingredient so mysterious that even Anomie didn’t know what it was. She didn’t know whether it was something she could pull from the earth with her own hands, or something she could catch in the wind. She’d never been able to see it, much less capture and bottle it. It was just a kind of silent, invisible magic that somehow always manifested in her recipe at exactly the right moment, in exactly the right amount.

Anomie worked slowly and with great concentration. Always she began with the same incantation:

Athanor and aludel
Mary’s Bath of tears
Crucible of words will fill
The days, the months, the years

Heavens bright, moon’s delight
Pain we hold so dear
Crush to dust this you must
For starlight, true and clear

She occasionally made mistakes, and would have to dump her potion’s contents out the window and start over. And she was not successful every night. Often, despite her best attempts, there would be no star. Sometimes the hurt—no matter how thoroughly she dissolved it—simply would not produce a single tear. Other times the tears were there, but the mysterious invisible element was not.

But on those nights when everything was just right, when the calculations were sound and the formula correct, Anomie created stars of dazzling depth and light. They burst into existence with blinding force, always catching Anomie off guard, for she never could predict the exact moment it would happen. And when it did, she had but a moment to look at it, before the star zoomed out the window and up into the sky.

It was rewarding but exhausting work, that somehow both replenished her spirit and depleted it. She knew that she was brightening the night sky. She liked to think that all across the land, people would look up every evening and enjoy the sight of something she’d helped make a little more beautiful. She hoped that seeing her stars made them feel a little less alone, and reminded them that they all slept under the same vast—and sometimes terrifying—darkness. So despite the mixed emotions it gave her, Anomie kept at her alchemy, making hundreds of stars over many years.

Then one day, the wooden boxes suddenly stopped ringing. She walked amongst them as usual, waiting and listening for one of them to call to her. Nothing happened. Gently she shook each in turn. Perhaps they were empty? But no, she could tell from the weight of them that they were not. She waited a few days and tried again. Nothing. She waited longer. Still the boxes stayed silent.

Anomie sat at her great ancient table and thought aloud. “Surely the sky is full enough of stars anyway? Surely I can stop and it won’t matter?” But the thought of doing so made her feel a little lost and hollow, and it was with a heavy heart that she fell into a fitful sleep.

Now, you’ll remember that Anomie’s laboratory was deep in the forest, hidden at the top of a very tall tree. Well, it just so happened that a clever old crow lived in this same tree. Everyone knows that crows love shiny things, so you’ll not be surprised to learn that he had enjoyed many years of seeing Anomie’s stars come streaking out of her window and into the night sky. Unbeknownst to Anomie, he’d been watching her alchemic endeavors with great affection and admiration for a very long time. And he had grown worried when so much time had passed with no new stars, so he’d been keeping a closer eye on the laboratory. The crow had heard what Anomie had said that day.

The crow kindly waited for her to have a nice long nap. Then he flew through the treehouse window and onto the distilling table. He hopped around a bit, peering in the copper basin and tapping curiously at the alembic with his beak. Anomie, who was sleeping only lightly, awoke to the sight of him and jumped in her chair, startled.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the crow. “I’ve been watching this operation you have up here for quite a while, and I’m mightily impressed.” His black eye twinkled. “You’re a one-woman star factory.”

Anomie, who’d always been surrounded by magical things, wasn’t the least bit surprised to hear the crow talk. She was completely at ease, as if she’d known him all her life.

“Not anymore,” she replied. “The magic’s gone. Dried up, I suppose. Nothing speaks to me anymore.”

“Nonsense,” said the crow. “You’ve got thousands of those little magic boxes. I bet there’s hundreds of them that would be ringing themselves right off the shelves, if you gave them a chance. I never see you up there, though.”

Anomie frowned, confused. “What are you talking about? I don’t have nearly that many. And what do you mean, ‘up there’? Up where?”

The crow cocked his head. He hopped a little closer to Anomie. “You really don’t know, do you? Why, girl, you’ve got an entire library in here!” And with that, he took wing and flew up to the treehouse ceiling, turning in gentle spirals as he flew higher and higher. Only, as Anomie watched in amazement, she saw that there was no ceiling to her laboratory, and that in fact, as far as her eye could see, the walls just went up, up, up in an endless sea of shelves—all filled with thousands and thousands of small wooden boxes.

Anomie could hardly believe what she saw. “What is this? What are all they? Why did I never see them before?”

“Have a look for yourself!” called the crow. He landed atop a polished cherrywood ladder with shiny brass casters attached to the shelves. Anomie laughed, delighted but somehow unsurprised at this moment, which felt like strangely familiar magic that she’d simply forgotten existed. She started climbing. As she got closer, she saw that most of the boxes were old—much, much older than any of her others. And something about them was different, though she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what. And as she gazed up at the expanse of them, she knew the crow was right. They would ring for her. Maybe not right now. Maybe not tomorrow. But if she was patient, and if she persevered—if she listened in a way that maybe she’d never listened before—they would ring for her. And best of all, she could tell just by sight that her key would open them. They were hers alone to unlock.

- - -

A few months later, the crow stopped by Anomie’s laboratory to see how she was getting on. He chose the evening of a new moon for his visit, since he wanted his black body to disappear against the darkness. He had no wish to interrupt her work, which he knew was new and different and challenging. He perched on a nearby branch and watched.

Inside, Anomie was bent over her table, making notes for a formula. She’d been testing the contents of some of the new boxes and she was excited about the results. She was confident she could still make stars. The same basic steps would be required, and the same fundamental additives. All her concentration and care would still be required, too. But this recipe relied on something other than tears for its base—something even more ephemeral, but much more precious. She wasn’t quite sure how it would all pan out, and what her new stars would be like. But she was determined to try and make something even more beautiful than she ever had.

“I just hope that when the time comes,” she mused softly to herself, “that mysterious, secret ingredient is there for me.”

Outside on his branch, the crow hopped left, then right again quickly—the crow equivalent of a dog wagging its tail. For he knew that mysterious, secret ingredient would be there for Anomie, just when she needed it. He could guarantee it, in fact.

Letter of Recommendation

To Whom it May Concern,

It is with great pleasure that I write today to offer my unqualified endorsement of candidate Bristlebrat Jootjunk for the Spring 2027 Sploggsville Trollternship Program.

I have had the privilege of getting to know Bristlebrat from my daily bridge crossings here in Sploggsville. She lives directly below the Flafstern Avenue bridge, in what appears to be a pile of empty donut boxes, moldy beach towels, and crumpled concert posters. Though perhaps “nest” is the better word? You’ll have to excuse my ignorance here, as I am somewhat unfamiliar with the habitats of trolls and try not to stare.

At any rate, Bristlebrat is the very picture of trollishness—truly a credit to her species. Not once has she responded to my morning greeting with anything friendlier than a peevish grunt. And if I’m not mistaken, she almost always turns to some hidden companion to snicker and sneer at my attempted civilities. I’m unsure as to whether trolls keep pets? Then again I suppose she could be talking to herself. Whatever it is she’s saying, and whoever it is she’s saying it to—her response is positively ill-mannered, if not downright nasty.

What’s more, Bristlebrat has shown herself to be an immensely unhelpful little troll. There was the time when, hurrying to cross the bridge in a rainstorm, I lost a shoe. The blasted thing tumbled down out of reach, directly into the weeds near where Bristlebrat sat punching buttons on a broken Blackberry. “Pardon me!” I called as politely as I could, loathe to disturb. “Pardon me, Bristlebrat? So terribly sorry to bother, but could I trouble you to throw my shoe back up?”

Good sir or madam, you’ll be impressed to learn that young Bristlebrat looked up to offer me a most baleful, disgusted gaze before pointedly returning her attention to the trash in her hand—and outright ignoring my request. That, you can be assured, is the kind of unmitigated rudeness which she will bring to the trollternship.

In sum, never in my life have I known a more unfriendly and less cooperative troll. I urge you to seriously consider her candidacy, for she will no doubt reflect and demonstrate daily the values of impudence and incivility which your program seeks to instill.

Yours in Civic Parternship,

Elouise N. Cubbysquare

Second Self

I built a second self for you
the first was much too me
I built a second self for you
that’s all you’ll ever see.

My second self is hardly real—
a shadow of my first.
She won’t get mad, she can’t feel sad,
and nothing ever hurts.

I learned the way you flinch and hide
when things fall out of place
So trouble, then, I’ll never be—
I’ll never need your grace.

You’ll never have to worry now
You’ll never have to try
You’ll never have to find kind words
Or comfort when I cry.

You’ll get your dots, you’ll get your Ts
You’ll get polite—get “thanks” and “please”
But all that’s real and all that’s true—
what’s me—I’ll never show to you.

Your games and jokes, your phony care
are noise I just tune out
I’ll never join, I won’t be there
the bounds I’ll push, the rules I’ll flout

And every time I turn away
what fun to see your face
I know that you cannot abide
when rats decline to race.

I built a second self for you
my best you’ll never know
My spirit’s safe, my soul intact
Enjoy your status quo.

A Win's a Win

I was just getting some Clostridium botulinum shot into my face, as you do, when my doctor asked how work was today.

And I guess I made kind of a funny noise, because she started laughing. And then I started laughing. And we could not stop. And you have to understand—I love this woman. I’ve been going to her since I moved to Chicago, and we have the kind of relationship where when she walks into the room and sees it’s me, she does this cry of recognition that just makes my day. For three years now, I’ve been regaling her with my inappropriate stories, because our running joke is that she makes me look so young that I’m able to trawl skate parks for a good two weeks post-injection. She’s cool as hell and I take it as a huge compliment that I’m simpatico with a board certified surgeon.

Anyway, there she was, trying to stop laughing long enough to load her syringe, and I was like, “You don’t understand. I actually sat down and did the math this weekend. This is my first job, Lorri. I got my first job at forty-seven, and it’s haaaaard.”

Still laughing, she turned and looked me. “What on earth are you talking about?” So I broke it down for her. She already knew about the dancing.

“Well, I danced from age twenty-one to thirty-two, remember?” She nodded. “Okay, well I don’t know about you, but I don’t count that as real work. That was a couple days a week, and often off for weeks at a time. Then I got married. Rich husband. Didn’t work for a few more years. Did some passion projects, but nothing full time. Mom died. Inheritance. Dad died. Bigger inheritance. Didn’t run out of money until I was 40 years old. Worked as a personal assistant for a few months. That was just riding around in his car keeping him company. Not work, not even close. Finally got a go-to-the-job type job. Restaurant counter service. I eventually managed the place, but it never really felt like work. Some long hours for sure, but mentally extremely easy. On my feet all day, so tired in a good way—you know? I was never, ever too tired on those work days to work out, or go out, or write. Plus it was working with hilarious fun people, who were some of my best friends.”

“Put your head back. Hold still. Go on.”

“Okay, well that company went under, so I moved to Chicago to manage that coworking place.”

“Wait, what coworking place?”

“Just this place on LaSalle that went under. Doesn’t matter. But all I did at that job was sit around and work on building my website all day. And study French.”

“What do you mean? What were you supposed to do?”

“I didn’t have to do anything, because there was nothing to do. I just had to make sure the tenants had coffee. I just had to be onsite to turn the damn lights on and off and make sure the temperature was good. It was a joke. Easiest job ever. But then that place shut down, and that’s when I met the people I work with now. They invited me to come work with them in an admin role, so that’s what I did. And it’s full time in an office, and not super hard, but it can be kind of stressful, and it’s a full eight hours a day of actual working.”

I looked at her and started laughing again. She started laughing again.

“So you didn’t take this job until you were forty-seven?” she asked.

“Correct. I basically had a reverse retirement. This is the first time in my life I’ve had to have the kind of 9-to-5 grind most people do, for decades. And I’m not handling it well, Lorri.”

(We are practically in tears at this point.)

The conversation went on, and I filled her in a little bit on what those years were like. The travel, the festivals, the writing, Chaucer—I gave her the broad strokes. And I’m kind of holding my breath, because this is a highly successful woman with years and years of education and work experience under her belt. I’m thinking she must think I’m an absolute twit. But she just leans back against the counter with her arms crossed, and shakes her head.

“I think that’s amazing. I love that so much. Good for you. You got to do all that stuff and enjoy it, at the right time in your life.”

I exhaled. “Really? Because I was trying to blog it this weekend, and I don’t know if I was explaining myself well at all, but that’s what I wanted to say. I think I’ve been so unbelievably lucky. But I don’t know if it just sounds crazy to someone else.”

“No,” she said. “I think that’s amazing.” And she just kind of held her smile then, for a few extra seconds, in a way that made me think she understood I’d needed to hear that.

When I checked out, my bill was almost $250 less than usual. I have no idea if it was an accounting error on the part of the receptionist or because I made my doctor laugh, but a win’s a win.

Sick Tune, Bro

And now, my impression of what it’s like for every long-suffering, endlessly patient, heroically supportive but heartbreakingly insecure girlfriend to listen to every single shitty, comically amateurish attempt at songwriting from her covert narcissist boyfriend’s latest “album”, which was mixed on a ten year-old laptop whose keys are so sticky with malt liquor residue that keyboard malfunction is the only possible excuse for its utter incomprehensibility, and which she is too afraid to admit she can’t understand a single fucking word of, because to do so would send him into a Level Nine Sulk from which he will only emerge when he feels he has adequately, if passive-aggressively, punished her for “not getting it”:

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███ █ ██ ██████████ never never ever███ ████ ████

█████ ██ ██ ██ ████████ ████ ██ to youuu█

And in case you are confused because you are one such boyfriend, let me explain that since your music is produced like dogshit, no one can make out the lyrics you undoubtedly think are genius, and instead (and this is the joke part coming up) it’s the auditory equivalent of trying to read a redacted brief (that’s a law term).

Hope this helps.

party-pooperism

Welcome to the party!

We are so glad you’re here. Well, that’s not really true. Most of us are completely indifferent to you being here. But here you are, so we need to inform you of a few rules relating to your arrival and departure.

On the subject of your arrival, we ask two things:

One, that you do not ask why you are here. None of us has any clue, and it’s something you’ll have to sort out for yourself.

Two, that you direct any anger you have about ending up here without your consent inward. It’s considered quite gauche to blame those who are actually directly responsible. Depending on your age, you may feel compelled to cut those two individuals more or less slack. The younger you are, the more understandable your rage. But again—keep it to yourself.

Now to the subject of your departure.

It is imperative that you only leave the party in the company of an escort. We cannot stress this strongly enough. You must not leave the party until someone comes to fetch you. Under no circumstances are you to leave the party of your own volition. We understand that at some point, you may grow tired of the party and wish to go. Indeed, there may be reasons for which you are desperate to leave. However, it is absolutely, positively forbidden for you to depart before your escort arrives.

And should you do so, know that you will be forever regarded with pity at best and contempt at worst. Please listen carefully, for this is very important: no matter how happily you make your exit, no matter if you are veritably dancing as you head out the door, full to the brim of wonderful memories and experiences but just, well, partied out—you will be forever seen as a tragic figure. However much joy and radical acceptance you leave with, we will not celebrate your attendance. We will cluck our tongues and shake our heads and think only of your departure.

Is that understood? Good. There’s more.

We also ask that if thoughts about leaving the party creep in, you do NOT share them with the beloved, trusted individuals in your life (i.e., your friends and family). IF you are experiencing Departure Desire, you may ONLY speak to a complete stranger about it, and you must be prepared to pay money for that conversation (or, series of conversations). It is seen as a most heinous breach of decorum to disturb your loved ones with any hint of Departure Desire. Indeed, it is thought downright cruel to expect anyone without an advanced degree in party-pooperism to so much as listen to such thoughts.

Now for the most crucial point. If, despite all these admonitions, you’ve decided to leave the party on your own, you must—ABSOLUTELY MUST—do so without informing anyone. You must make, as they say, an “Irish exit.” Do not say goodbye to a soul, no matter how deeply you love them. To have a farewell forced on us by another partygoer is the most excruciating thing we can experience, and you must not put any of us through it. Again—these rules apply no matter how in command of your faculties you are, no matter how long you have been planning to leave, and no matter what precautions you take against disrupting the scene.

It’s a party, after all. We are trying to have fun.

bandaged

I got a pedicure today. As the nail technician was filling the bath, she tapped my foot and asked, “Okay if I take?”

I looked down in horror to see a Band-Aid I’d completely forgotten about, clinging determinedly to my second toe. I’d sliced my foot open on my own door the day before, rushing to meet a grocery delivery driver and tripping on the ridiculous, too-large folding cart I fight with each time.

“Oh god, yes, of course. I’m so sorry about that.” Carefully, she peeled off the fraying brown plastic, revealing a small but nasty gash she would have been well within her rights to refuse to touch. She held up the bandage, and without an ounce of revulsion or judgment asked if I wanted to keep it.

“No, no! Gosh, no. Thank you. Thank you so much,” I gushed, mortified that her interaction with my medical detritus was still ongoing.

She threw it away and the pedicure continued. I was glued to my phone all the while, and when I finally looked up to make sure I’d given her my polish, I saw that she’d applied a fresh bandage to my toe.

I nearly lost my breath.

I hadn’t felt it. She hadn’t asked if I wanted one, or announced that she was going to give me one. She’d just quietly, kindly attended to my still-tender wound. I’d come to her a bit bloodier and more torn up than really is appropriate for a setting where scrubs are not involved. And she’d just navigated around my hurt so gently I’d not even noticed her leaving it in better shape than she’d found it.

If that’s not a philosophy of life, I don’t know what is.

Bank of Karma

The news that you’d ruined your life came to me by telegram.

MONUMENTAL MISTAKE. POINT OF NO RETURN. HOPING FOR BEST.

At first I didn’t believe it. I ran to the telegraph office, bursting breathless through the double doors.

“This can’t be right,” I panted to the operator. She took the slip of paper, peered through her bifocals, and checked her notes.

“Cable authentic stop,” she said. “Message accurate stop.”

“Are you absolutely sure?” I gasped. “Because never in the history of history was there a human more wildly unsuited to—”

She raised a hand to silence me, then pointed over my shoulder. I turned and walked across the street and through another set of doors. A prim man in tweed was dusting cabinets.

“Welcome to the Hall of Records. How may I help you?”

I held up the announcement. “Can you confirm an ID?”

Drawers slid open. Files were shuffled. Document after document, the man set the evidence down beneath my gaze. “Exhibit A, names. Exhibit B, residences. Exhibits C & D, photos and profiles.” He looked at me expectantly.

“Thank you,” I said shakily. “That’s what I needed.”

Back outside, Spring was still new—still cool and clean. I sat on a park bench and closed my eyes, smelling rain. I thought about you then, with a sense of judgment I had never allowed myself—which had never felt necessary.

I thought about your lies, and your sneering callousness when I asked for truth. I thought about your needless cruelty, and the pleasure you took in ruining things for me. The subtle put-downs and sabotage. I realized that you probably thought I was too dumb to see all of it, because I let it slide again and again. I wasn’t dumb. I was just giving you an addict’s grace that you never deserved.

I thought about the brutal wave of reality about to drown you. About all the things in you that are about to get squeezed harder and and harder until there is no air for them to breathe, and they die. I thought about your bone-deep selfishness, and your recklessness about the feelings of others. I felt sick thinking of the tears and trauma you are assuredly going to cause.

I thought about the pain you’ve created, and the pain that’s coming for you.

At last I stood and walked through one more door.

“Hello,” I greeted the teller who looked up. I waved the telegram. “I’m here to cash a check.”

tiger, tiger

Tiger, tiger
Show your stripes
Some get pats
And some get swipes

Monday, Tuesday
Bare your claws
Wednesday, Thursday
Hide your flaws

Friday comes
and shows the truth
You don’t have
a single tooth

Tiger, tiger
We all see
To save your skin
You bend the knee

good boy. no, the other good boy.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

“Uh yeah, hi, I just watched the wrong Good Boy.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, would you repeat that?”

“I just watched the wrong Good Boy. I meant to watch the 2025 American horror film that everyone has been talking about, but I accidentally watched the 2023 Norwegian horror film of the same name. I wouldn’t even call it a horror movie, to be honest. I mean maybe. I’m definitely horrified, which is why I called. But the Amazon Prime tagline said ‘supernatural horror’ and since I’ve been purposely avoiding any discussion of the American film I had no idea what to expect. It looked like a newish release so I just figured, ‘Oh shit it’s Norwegian? Okay, cool, whatever.’”

“…..”

“Are you still there?”

“…yes.”

“Okay good, because I am traumatized and I need to speak to someone about what I just saw. What is your name?”

“Ma’am, this is an emergency services line. Do you have an actual emergency?”

(muffled reply)

”Ma’am! I said, DO YOU HAVE AN EMERGENCY?”

“Sorry, I stepped away for a sec. I’ve got you on speaker. Just need to grab you some screenshots. Can I text to this number?”

(deep sigh) “Okay, ma’am, I can tell you’re having some kind of episode, so I’ll make this my good deed for the week and hear you out. You have five minutes.”

(from a distance) “JUST GIVE ME TWO SECONDS, THERE’S ONE SHOT IN PARTICULAR I NEED TO OFFLOAD FROM MY BRAIN TO YOURS…JUST GOTTA FAST FORWARD TO FIND IT…”

“What did you say this movie was about?”

“The one I watched? It’s about a psychopath who forces some guy to live in his house and pretend to be a dog, and then the psychopath meets a girl on Tinder, and—look there is no justifying the existence of this film, in this life or next. And no words I say to you will return to me the earthly time I sacrificed, so—what did you say your name was again?”

“Well, did you try Reddit? It’s Leila.”

(from a distance) “WHAT WAS THAT?”

“I said, MY NAME IS LEILA AND DID YOU TRY REDDIT? Surely someone on the horror subreddit did the same stupid shit. Can’t you, like, commiserate with them?”

“Great minds think alike, Leila, as that was the first place I went. It would appear not, however. It would appear I am the only dumbass on the planet who sat through the entirety of this monstrosity without once stopping to question if I was in the right filmic universe. Did you say I could send photos to this number?”

“You can, yes, but we only use it for actual emergen—”

(far away) ”OKAY GREAT JUST GRABBING ONE MORE SHOT REAL QUICK HERE…UGH, ANOTHER COMMERCIAL, SO SORRY, ALMOST DONE…”

“Didn’t you say you watched it on Amazon Prime?”

“YEAH WHY?”

“Isn’t ad-free, like, only two bucks a month?”

“…."

“Ma’am? You still there?”

“I’m trying to cut back on screens, okay? I thought if I forced myself to leave ads on I’d watch less and write more—look it’s not important—MAN, TAGRISSO’S SIDE EFFECTS SOUND REALLY BAD, I THINK AT THAT POINT I’D JUST RATHER—OH OH! THERE IT IS! HOLD ON JUST GOTTA SEND YOU THESE…”

(sigh) “Listen ma’am, I’m gonna go ahead and disconnect, but you can call us back next time you have a real—WHAT IN THE GOOD GODDAMN—”

“Did you get it? Yeah sorry, I figured I’d start with the worst one. That’s where the psychopath spanks the bare ass of the human-dog for trying to warn the girlfriend about him. It’s right after he beats his cage with a bat and makes him bark. Do you see that ass? That’s a grown man’s ass, Leila. A very hairy grown man. I invested an hour and a half of my life into what I believed was the thought-provoking, must-see horror movie of winter 2025 only to come away with that seared into my mind’s eye.”

“Okay lady I’m hanging up, but—OH MY GOD WHAT THE—”

“Yeah in that next one you can really see the full body costume. The character just walks around on his knees in that dog suit the whole time. At first it’s absurdist and kind of hilarious, especially the first time he shoves his hood back to scream-whisper a warning at the girl. But then the only horror is dread, because you realize ‘Oh yay, this is going to be more gratuitous violence against women. Feel like I haven’t seen that in ages’, and then yep, sure enough, violence against a woman. Nothing supernatural or particularly creative other than the weird premise I guess, but again, I can’t tell you how UTTERLY FUCKING STUPID and ROBBED OF TIME I felt when I realized I’d plum watched the wrong Good Dog.”

(dead line)

“Leila? Leila, are you there? I took a video. Leila…?

creation story

The first of the Knowable Things were Grass below and Sky above. In the beginning, Sky could touch Grass but not see her, for color had yet to be born. Then one day, Sky pressed so hard on Grass that millions of blades pierced his belly, and Color came gushing out.

Color saw that she was going to flood the world, so she sent her two favorite children, Green and Blue, to become the souls of Grass and Sky. The rest of her children then had enough room to run and play and fill in everything else.

Green was soft and safe. It was laughter and secrets and laying flat on your back. Blue was calm and quiet. It was learning to be curious and listening with widened eyes.

Grass wanted a companion closer than Sky, so she rubbed two blades together until they hummed and sparked—so was born Dragonfly. Dragonfly ruled Grass, but he had no throne on which to sit, so he flew up to Sky and pinched him over and over until Cloud formed. Dragonfly pinched Cloud until little bits of fluff started to rain down. One bit of fluff landed on Yellow, and that became Dandelion, whose seeds became Wishes and Dreams. When Dragonfly flew, the flashing of his wings became Magic and Mystery.

So came to be Yard, the foundation of safety and love, wonder and delight.

- - -

Yard was the great father. He stretched out his arms and legs, and these became the tree branches and roots that encircled and protected Grass and Dandelion and Dragonfly.

Beyond Yard was The Unknowable, where time stretched and shrank and then stretched again. The Unknowable tied itself in knots, and the knots stretched and shrank and stretched again until they broke off and became The Outcomes.

The Outcomes were violent and hungry. They floated close along the edge of Yard, wanting to devour all he contained.

Yard said to The Unknowable, “Let us make an agreement. I will offer you a sacrifice if you’ll leave Grass and Dandelion and Dragonfly alone forever.” The Unknowable agreed to the terms.

Yard said to Dandelion, “Lend me your children, Wishes and Dreams. I must send them on a journey.” But Yard would not say where or why, so Dandelion said, “Then you must also send Magic and Mystery to protect them.”

Cloud came down and Yard whispered to him. Yard then whispered to Wishes and Dreams, and then to Magic and Mystery. Cloud carried all four spirits up and away, far from Yard and deep into The Unknowable. When they reached a great, cold island, they jumped down into the heart of a woman and the mind of a man. Wishes and Dreams and Magic and Mystery spun themselves around and around until the mind of the man and the heart of the woman knit together and became a bluejay.

The bluejay flew up into Sky, who guided it through the Unknowable until it reached Yard. Dragonfly flew up to meet the bluejay, who was so tired, she could fly no more. The bluejay fell through Sky and Cloud, neither of whom could catch her. Dragonfly swooped down and caught the bluejay and set her gently on Grass.

The bluejay, who had sprung forth from the mind of a man and the heart of a woman, with Wishes and Dreams and Magic and Mystery to tie them together, then became Girl.

Yard said, “Girl, we must sacrifice you to The Unknowable to protect Grass and Dandelion and Dragonfly. We must feed you to The Outcomes.”

Girl said, “If you wait until I am grown, I will have knowledge to feed The Unknowable. If you wait until I am grown, I will be fat with potential for The Outcomes.”

Yard agreed to keep Girl safe until she was grown. Girl lay down on Grass and looked up at Sky. Dragonfly buzzed and Dandelion danced. Girl felt Green beneath her and stretched her hands up to touch Blue.

Girl sighed, and the breath that escaped her became Story.

igloo

For Ann, who shook something loose.

---

Someone has been building an igloo, in the field beside my building. I watched him from the warmth of my sofa for a little while, the day he started. The field is situated between two high-rises, and it was mid-morning on a Saturday. I have to imagine there were at least a few others like me, who’d gone to their windows to check the weather, then stayed there to watch the scene unfolding below.

Shuffling around on his knees, he gathered snow by the armful and packed it into a black plastic wastebasket, which he then flipped and carefully flexed the sides of, until a smooth, white block appeared. His placement was impeccable: once deposited, none of the bricks needed adjusting. Experienced architect or geometry genius, he knew what he was doing.

I’ve caught the sight of him working at it twice more. Once, I watched as a woman walked her dachshund over to the construction site. I was terrified the dog was going to piss on the igloo, but it just sniffed around a little bit. The woman and the builder (who didn’t stand up) had an animated exchange. Laughter, big hand gestures. She was no doubt complimenting his work—maybe his work ethic, too. It’s been about a week, and I’d estimate it’s less than halfway done. I had no idea igloos were so labor intensive.

The problem is, it’s getting warm. Tomorrow is the last day it’ll be below freezing. If he doesn’t finish it quickly, there’ll be nothing but a circle of slush to prove he’d ever tried. I don’t think it’s going to happen.

And I want so badly to tell him it’s okay. I want so badly to leave a note that says, “This was delightful to see, if only for a few days. Thank you for creating something charming in our backyard.” But snow doesn’t make for a very good bulletin board, and I’m probably projecting, anyway.

Most people like when the sun comes out.

Loyal and Neutral

Loyal and Neutral are playing musical chairs along with Angry, Stupid, Selfish, and Mean. (Kind & Giving were playing, too, but naturally they were the first two out.)

The music stops and the scrambling starts. Stupid gets hit with an unseen elbow and calls out, “Ow! That was mean!”

Mean snaps back, “Wasn’t me, but I wish it was!” Selfish tries to straddle two chairs at once and is disqualified.

The music starts again: more jabs and jostling, and this time, Loyal takes an elbow from Angry, who gets a high five from Mean, who gets a meaningful look from Loyal, all of whom are watched impassively by Neutral.

By the time the music ends, Stupid has forgotten the rules and freezes in place. “Not it!” he cries. “Simon says ‘not it!’” Stupid is eliminated from the game.

It’s down to Angry, Mean, Loyal, and Neutral. The music runs for longer this time. The four players circle the chairs slowly, watching one another warily, ready to pounce.

When the music stops, a melee ensues as everyone dashes for a chair. Loyal finds herself between Neutral and Mean. If she goes for the chair to her left, Neutral will be closer to a seat. If she takes the one on the right, Mean will. Remembering the elbow jab and the high five, she drops into the left-hand chair. Neutral throws himself into the one beside it.

Mean pivots and lunges for the last chair, along with Angry. Angry, a fraction of a second faster, gets it. Mean fumes, his lip curling with spite. “You don’t deserve it, you know. I just let you have it.” He stalks off.

The music starts again. Loyal, Neutral, and Angry follow one another around and around and around. When it stops, Angry suddenly hooks his leg around the front of Loyal, tripping her and sending her tumbling. Loyal rolls over and looks up, wincing. The last two chairs are taken. Angry looks angry about it, somehow. But Neutral is placid, unbothered, mute.

Loyal gets to her feet, shaky and bruised. When the music starts one last time, Neutral and Angry stand up, ready to play on. But Loyal just limps off, not looking back.

”Where are you going?” calls Neutral. “The game’s not over!”

But Loyal doesn’t need to play anymore. She already knows who lost—and it wasn’t her.

Cordelia's Self-Evaluation

Middle class though I am, I cannot heave
Self-aggrandizement into my mouth. I love mine employment
According to my salary; no more nor less.
Good my supervisor,
You have hired me, onboarded me me, train’d me; I
Return my duties back as are right fit,
Obey you, support you, and most respect you.
Why have my colleagues work-life balance, if they say
They love you all? Haply, when I shall retire,
That shareholder whose value must make my payout shall carry
Half my IRA with him, half my care and duty.
Sure I shall never strive like my coworkers,
To love my manager all.

The Bouncer is Bored

The bouncer is bored. Oh my god, the bouncer is so fucking bored. And here you come along, and you’re anything but. You’re hyped. You’re jazzed. You’re buzzing with nervous, anticipatory energy. Well fuck you, because Jayson is working tonight, and he has no use for you or any of the other boots-’n-cats losers you’re in line with.

Did you think you were different? Oh god, you did, didn’t you? You thought that just because you’re not in a gaggle of screeching, miniskirt-tugging girls, that you’re any less contemptible? That because you’re quietly, attentively waiting with all your documentation ready, loathe to present even the slightest speed bump to the smooth, efficient entry line that Jayson is overseeing, that you’re an exception of some kind?

Look at him. Look at that ruddy beard, that Viking physique, those icy, appraising eyes. Does that look like a man who wants to discuss tonight’s coat check availability? Do you know how many work t-shirts Jayson has? (All of them are desperately unequal to the task of containing his arm meat.) He has seven. Seven. Jayson has worked here for two fucking years, despite the fact that this was only supposed to be a month-long gig while the other thing got sorted out. Two years of Saturday nights full of shivering, chattering idiots, and incessant, blaring beats pouring into the alley where he checks IDs.

You are all the same to him. And all the electricity you have been generating for the last hour is going to short-circuit the moment Jayson tells you that no, you can’t pay with a credit card. Your choices are

1) pay with cash (which you did not bring)

2) scan the QR code on the poster to pay online (only, you didn’t bring your phone, because you didn’t want to hold it while you dance)

3) use the ATM to take out cash with your credit card, because you did not bring your debit card (but you never set up a pin to take cash off your credit card, did you?)

And when it dawns on you that you are fucked, and that you’ll have to trek the 30 minutes back home to fetch the kind of legal tender this motherfucking bar will actually accept, and another 30 back in order to catch a performer you’ve seen half a dozen times already but would still really like to—Jayson will be impassive. He will be the very picture of apathy. Because nothing could be more boring than someone with whom he has nothing in common getting bounced by their own failure to plan, from a place that means so little to him, he won’t even keep their shirts when he quits.

Which will be soon. It fucking has to be.

Project 2025 Leak

Whoa, you guys. This is crazy. A phone number I don’t recognize just sent me this over Telegram?! It looks like some kind of leaked page from Project 2025, like an addendum maybe??

Goodwill, Grace, Grievance & Grudge

Goodwill and Grace were strolling along, enjoying the sunshine and each other’s company. They noticed another pair coming down the path towards them; it was Grievance and Grudge.

“Good day!” called Grace.

”How do you do!” echoed Goodwill.

But Grievance and Grudge just glared, twitchy with anger.

“Good?!” sneered Grievance.

”Good?!” jeered Grudge.

”What’s good about it?!” they barked in tandem.

Grievance pointed at the clear blue sky. “Just look at that cloud,” she said. “That monstrous, beastly, stupid, puffy cloud!”

Grudge nodded vigorously towards the same patch of empty sky. “Ruining everything, it is!”

Goodwill and Grace did not wish to be rude. But for the life of them both, they could not see even the wisp of a cloud on the horizon.

”Er,” said Goodwill, casting about for something kind but true to say. “Erm…”

Grace jumped in, ever ready with one of her soft landings. “Ah yes, of course. It rained yesterday, no? That must be the cloud you’re thinking of! Beastly indeed,” she agreed, smiling. “Quite glad it’s gone now.” Goodwill sighed with relief.

But Grievance and Grudge ignored Grace. They stood staring at the bright, cloudless blue another moment then stalked off, roughly bumping Goodwill as they did. (Goodwill said not a word.)

“Horrible, terrible cloud,” they heard Grudge mutter.

”Miserable, lousy thing,” Grievance growled.

And just as quickly as they’d come, so they were gone, forgettable and unimportant as the wispy remains of yesterday’s clouds. Goodwill and Grace shrugged and resumed their stroll, each thinking to herself how glad she was that this was her companion, and not another.