Rachel T. Smith is an American creative writer and physical therapist living in Germany, temporarily.

Future Surgeons

The smell doesn’t seem to bother me, dries out my sinuses and burns my throat at first. Her face doesn’t seem to bother me like I thought it would, like it does my partner. The body, Her, has no name; an age and cause of death, but no name. There is a clear rule about not nicknaming them, but we all do, give them nicknames. And we all get attached, possessive even.

Of the fifteen bodies, I dissect one half of Her body with my partner. When we leave two more students share the same side of Her. Between the four us, in the first few weeks, we make a real mess. Occasionally, I get to cross to Her other side for organs like the spleen and descending colon but for the most part this one half of a person is mostly mine for two semesters.

I feel bad that I am not good at dissection. I severe Her cephalic vein before I can trace it down the arm.  I apologize for it, a soft whisper under my breath I hope my partner doesn’t hear. I take a needle and thread and sew the vein. My first surgery.

My partner cuts too deep with the bone saw, damages her right lung. Another first surgery. I apologize for this too. The needle and thread are not going to fix Her mutilated tissue.

We trudge on, following the instructions, pacing ourselves but not rushing.

The more I slice and scrape, the more accurate I become, the less apologies I make to Her. I learn I can grasp the edge of Her skin with my tweezers, pulling, while sliding my gloved finger through her spider-web of fascia. No need to cut.

I don’t always rush to use the scalpel. I feel things before I move them, recognize the slimy worm of a nerve, the coagulated pebble of blood trapped in an artery and I begin to say, thank-you.

The pearlescent sheen of Her iliotibial band brings tears to my eyes and I thank Her again.  I keep thanking Her at every new discovery, every new realization that I have read in a textbook but never really appreciated until she came along. Reciting the instructions aloud, I perform.

My partner says she just can’t when we arrive at the face. Her face. A towel my partner never worked without has been there since we rolled her supine. It is time I remove the shroud and expose Her beauty and Her boldness at allowing us our lessons. Her thin white hair is matted against Her cheek and I brush it aside. My partner, my friend, is pale and shaking whispering, “Why must we do this?”

 I tell her to get the guide, start reading. I stay focused knowing once we’ve started, our deconstruction will be easier. Her face will become muscles, nerves, landmarks to identify and be tested on.

If this part had been in the beginning, we would have mangled Her, made Her unidentifiable by bumbling fingers and careless use of the blade. But this is the end, we are all better, skilled even, in our abilities to flay Her without destruction.

Angel Baeza has transferred schools too many times to be good. Currently, he’s at University of Texas of San Antonio. He works as a waiter at a theme restaurant dressed in a Star-Trek costume. Fans frequently correct its inaccuracies. He is also a member of the Blind Tiger Comedy Club.

The Thing

The thing in the corner of the couple’s bedroom was dead. If ever alive. Gray fur grew into a shape as if a cloud of smoke covered their wall. Also, it had several horns and the man thought it smelled. The doctor person assured the couple the shape should have never been born, but after a frantic discussion, he admitted it could be brought back. “Genuine tears,” the doctor person prescribed. “Although, the tears will need to come from both of you.” The couple agreed, and set about next week making a schedule for who would cry when.

The first day was productive, as there were many reasons to cry. The woman would cry in the corner about the man, and the man would cry in the corner about the woman. The next day was more difficult, but the woman managed to find something sad in the weather. The man had it easier since he was berated that day at work. For the days that followed, both needed help since they could not cry alone. The woman would tear up about subjects such as the childhood dog, which the man knew she never cared for but would not interrupt since his turn was next. The couple would spend their nights wondering which subjects were most suitable for care, which would leave a better impression while also not reveal too much. Parents was a favorite, since a sour childhood made their lives look better by comparison. This continued, until finally, on a particularly good day of acting, the thing in the corner spoke up.

“Stop! Do you two have anything in common other than a love for fiction?” After which, the thing jumps out the bedroom window and landed several stories below. The couple, after many weeks of tears, found themselves quite relieved to be rid of it. Not that they let the other know.

Dan A. Cardoza’s poetry, nonfiction, and fiction have met international acceptance. He has an M.S. degree in education from C.S.U.S. Most recently his work has been featured in California Quarterly, Cleaver, Coffin Bell/2019 Anthology, Dime Show Review, Entropy, Five:2:One, Gravel, New Flash Fiction Review, Poached Hare, and Spelk.

The Cherry Box

Finally, the small box arrived with her cremations. With two failed marriages, he was experienced with death, but until now, not literally. Ole McKenzie had waited eighteen years for this well crafted cherry box to arrive, not one day less, not one day more. 

His modern kitchen was meat locker cold.  He placed the brown shipped box on the onyx counter the granite as cold as a morgue. Utility bills, not a priority.  With his pocket knife, he cut the taut sinewy twine.  McKenzie at sixty-nine looked worn beyond his age. So he was thankful he’d have less time to grieve, now that the 7x7x7 box arrived.

If nothing else, ole McKenzie was organized. He thought it convenient he could now complete his life’s mourning all at the same time. His oncologist on Monday, “Your liver is a pound of burgundy Swiss cheese. I know, I enjoyed it for dessert last summer in Annecy, France.”

As for the dying, it would be soon. He toasted his last glass of cognac at the cherry box.

~~~

On the way to his beloved Ancil Hoffman Park, built more like a Forrest, he did most of the talking. After all, it was well known, Purrdy was never one for chatter or meowing. 

~~~

Regrettably, he’d purchased Purrdy from a pet store, too common way back then. It was eighteen very long years ago. So-called animal shelters were just other names for Auschwitz, Treblinka, and Dachau. Picking was scarce, the offseason for kittens.

How could he forget? Purrdy a kitten shared a moderate enclosure with two older cats. As we approached the cage, she rose straightened her tail like a stove pipe. Then she bowed, swirled her tail into smoke, her purr a guttural low howl. She was theatrical and full of the apropos feline drama, as she sold her affection to his second wife.

Sally pleaded, “I can’t live without her. You know the loss of the two late-term babies I buried. Please, she purrs like a furry base harmonica?  Jack, I’ll have someone to nurture.” 

In less than one week, Purrdy never let anyone pet her again. Took up bivouac under their second marital bed.

~~~

Signing the divorce papers was awkward.  Sally’s attorney had written, “Sally doesn’t want her. Besides, she’s too damned feral.” McKenzie read in disbelief and silence. The truth is he never wanted Purrdy, or Maddy the dog either. That is until they needed him.

~~~

In his beloved park, near dark, he released her ashes from the box into the windy spring evening. He didn’t mind that some of her dust settled in his white hair. He’d grown to love her.

He bawled alone, except for the attending woods. He wished her well, begged her to never change, to stay brave and wild. Stalk lions, tigers and bears. Enjoy bloody rabbits. Roam the banks of the river for fall salmon; stamp the dirt of her paths to dust in the forest.

McKenzie died one week later. 

Having recently completed his first novel, The Fiddler in the Night, long-listed for the 2018 Dzanc Book Prize for Fiction, Christian is currently working on a collection of short stories and a second novel, The Monkey King. His short stories have appeared in a number of literary magazines and collected works, including: Chaleur Magazine, Wilderness House Literary Review, Litro Magazine, Spark: A Creative Anthology, Liars’ League London, .Cent Magazine, among others. Christian was a columnist and the fiction editor at the Prague Revue.

Sugar

She walked out the door, her flip-flops smacking her heels, her white short dress tight all the way down.

She reached the gravel driveway and looked at the kid’s toys, her cigarette burning down between her fingers. She looked away, somewhere, and took a drag of her cigarette. She tossed it to the gravel, toed it out, and opened the drive-shed door.

Her eyes adjusting to the dim light she walked to the fridge and grabbed a beer. She opened it and walked to the workbench and pulled herself onto a high metal stool. She crossed her legs, her one foot bouncing—a nervous energy of how she was hinged, much like this place itself. Why won’t you put that greasy thing down and come over here? Why won’t you?

She took a sip of beer and leaned back, her thin milky-white forearms resting on the workbench, her dress high up on her long legs, and she tilted her head, the thickness of her blonde hair falling to one side and catching the light, just right, and she knew it, and did so without having to.

She looked at her chipped red nail polish.

She looked out the small window. At the scrubby land. At the coming heat.

A small bird came to the outside of the window. Maybe a starling. She didn’t know. She did once, when she was just a little girl.

Baby, this day is gonna be a hot one, it’s comin.

He stepped out from under a jacked-up ’69 Firebird and grabbed a rag from the workbench and wiped his hands.

He took the beer from her and took a sip.

Here, don’t take all of that.

She got up and walked to the fridge and grabbed another beer. She closed the fridge door and looked at the calendar hanging on the wall, some girl with less than little on draped over the hood of a shiny red car. They make good money, ya know. She opened the beer and looked back at the poster. A blonde, like her. It’s not just the money, it’s the connections. Ya know that, right?

She walked back to the workbench and sat on the stool.

He pushed himself forward and turned and faced her, his hands reaching past her to the workbench.

The small fan in the window rattled and blew warm sticky air.

Sweat from his forehead dropped to her thigh.

She looked at her leg, at the drop, and she put her finger to it, and it ran, like a tear.

The smooth touch of her dress, moving up, and she pushed herself forward on the stool, just a little, just enough, a lazy southern cat stretching its underbelly to the warming sun.

Sugar.

I know, baby, make it good, make it right. She looked back out the small window. Like it could be.