killing butterflies by Gigi Prothero
Content warnings: self-harm, blades, blood gliding the blade across my left wrist, slowly, gently, just enough to hurt. tears fall like soft streams as i watch the red seep out of the thin, shallow cuts. sometimes, it’s a punishment. a motivator, a reminder that i’m not enough. sometimes, it’s a desperate attempt- to cure the emptiness, to feel anything at all. my friends worry. the few who know push back my sleeve while no one else is watching. one told me about the butterflies. whenever you want to cut, draw a butterfly on your wrist instead. you can’t wash them off, they have to fade, and they die if you cut them. i promised to try- i owe them that much. the ink bleeds into my skin, rough pen lines haphazardly sketched. wings patterned by the tiny cuts they cover up. my mind itches to cut myself- just a little bit, but i can’t. i’d be killing my butterflies. maybe i’m a horrible person for this, to murder innocent, beautiful creatures. the blood shreds their wings. i couldn’t even let them fade away. killing butterflies- something i never thought i’d have to say i’ve done. i tried to keep them alive, i really did. i’m sorry. Ladies Who Lunch by Peyton Harrill
Before leaving her apartment that morning, Beth-Ann meticulously practiced her facial expressions in the mirror—pleasantly amused, subtle disagreement and condescension (but never out-right disgust), and pearl clutching faux indignation. She would need all these expressions for her eleven o’clock brunch with Margaret, her best friend and arch nemesis. The pair met in Uni, when Margaret became acquainted with Beth-Ann’s past lover, Jimmy. As far as Margaret was aware, their meeting was by chance, when the two just happened to be volunteers at the same crochet charity event. Beth-Ann, however, had sworn to become friends with Margaret, and systematically tear apart her relationship with the man she once loved. Eventually, when Margaret’s relationship with Jimmy met a tearful end, it was Beth-Ann she came crying to. As Beth-Ann mumbled consolations and soothingly rubbed the back of her weeping “friend,” she couldn’t help but feel a depraved sense of satisfaction. Beth-Ann hated Margaret, a feeling exacerbated by their manufactured meeting and artificial friendship. She always assumed that, deep down, Margaret felt the same. Although, she could never truly be sure. The pair had mastered something that all women would come to learn—the art of bullshittery. This would come to be the foundation of their friendship, which bafflingly lasted much longer than Beth-Ann would have ever expected. About 43 years longer than expected. So, as a 64 year old Beth-Ann donned her handbag and black flats, she prepared all the best bullshittery for her monthly brunch with Margaret. The cafe this time was Margaret’s choice. Beth-Ann had made time in her schedule to account for some additional measures—arrive 20 minutes early, complain of the wait, make an off-handed comment about the importance of punctuality once Margaret arrived. The usual. But to her surprise, when Beth-Ann arrived she found Margaret lounging absent-mindedly on a couch in the lobby of the cafe, picking at her fingernail polish. When Margaret had noticed Beth-Ann’s arrival, she sprang to life like a plant sprouting out of the ground, and came to her feet in one swift movement. Glancing at her wristwatch exaggeratedly and then back at Beth-Ann, Margaret produced a lukewarm smile from across the room and signaled the hostess that they were ready to be seated. “I thought you would never come,” Margaret teased, her voice melodic and rehearsed. “Oh dear, I hope you weren’t waiting too long.” “That’s quite alright. You know what I always say, ‘on time is late!’” Beth-Ann bared her teeth in a smile and laughed, a quick, half-hearted laugh that sounded more like a grunt than anything else. “Bless you!” Margaret remarked, eyes wide, “You’re not coming down with something I hope? “I’m fine, but thank you for your concern.” Beth-Ann shedded her wool coat as they arrived at their seat, a small, circular oak table tucked in a narrow corner of the cafe. “Well, this is a quaint little place,” Beth-Ann noted dispassionately, “Cozy, but I suppose we’ll have to keep an eye on our bags.” “The more the merrier.” The pair leafed through their menus. Beth-Ann already knew what she was getting. “Everything looks just great, it’s difficult to decide,” she blurted, breaking the silence, “I’m considering the Earl Grey tea and a Caesar salad.” “Oh, I couldn’t. The croutons and parmesan. I’m watching my figure,” responded Margaret, placidly placing a hand on her stomach, “But more power to you. I think it’s brave that you don’t care about such things.” “Just be careful you don’t diet too much. I thought that you looked a little fatigued. That probably explains it.” “I appreciate your worry, but I’m not tired at all really.” Margaret paused for a moment before apparently coming to a realization, her mouth forming a round o and then fading into a pleasant smile. “Well, I never spend much time on makeup like you do, Beth-Ann. People just aren’t used to seeing a natural woman.” Beth-Ann gritted her teeth, grinding them from side to side. She just couldn’t stand Margaret—her vacant smile and her blasé attitude. Beth-Ann silently cursed her younger, naive self for bringing Margaret into her life. And she did it voluntarily! But how was she supposed to know how long their “friendship” would last? How was she to know that in 43 years she and Margaret would still be sitting at brunch together, spewing insincere comments and phony compliments at the other? Out of all the relationships Beth-Ann had in her life, this was surely the longest and most taxing. The rest of the brunch went, somehow, without incident. A few passive-aggressions had almost pushed Beth-Ann past her breaking point. When the pair got up to pay, Margaret had made a vague remark about her handbag, something or other about how she was surprised that it was still “hanging on” after owning it for so long. Beth-Ann was glad to let Margaret know that she believed in frugality, and that she “couldn’t just spend her husband’s money on absolutely everything!” As Beth-Ann approached the door of the cafe, she felt a wave of relief wash over her body. The afternoon sun flooded in from the windows like a divine message, letting her know that the end was nigh. “Well, it was absolutely delightful seeing you!” Margaret exclaimed as the pair reached the door. “I couldn’t agree more. Give my best regards to Paul and the kids.” “Of course. This time next month?” “As always. I can’t wait!” "Western Boot Roundup at the Mercantile", Courtney McKenna
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"Furmillion", Elina Wang
Cosmic Interruption by Raycer Verrecchia
Today, across the hall, I saw you walking away, and without a sound tectonic drifts ripped apart the continental shelf. A giant sequoia, home to all, crashed to the ground, killing more than he harbored. And in the midst of his masterpiece, a famed composer glances up for a moment, losing his place in time. Beyond what is known to us, seventy-five million light years away, two black holes the size of our own galaxy collides and vanishes, leaving only a small green blip on the radar atop the void of my empty heart. "Master Copy of David Chapple's 'May Afternoon'", Angela Wang
On Tiger Balm by Audrey Nguyen
When I was little, the scent of Tiger Balm would always linger around the house. One could count on it decorating a low shelf, alongside dusty wedding pictures and my sister’s most recent art projects. Instead of candles, each room was equipped with a glass jar in case of an emergency. You get headache, you use Tiger Balm. You get mosquito bite, you use Tiger Balm. You get stomach ache, you use Tiger Balm! I’m sure if I asked her, my Bà Nội would tell me it could fix a heartache too. For those who have never experienced its wondrous works, the best way I can describe it is as a glorified Vicks Vapor Rub, almost exclusively used within the Southeast Asian communities. It’s quite simple, actually. There are only four ingredients: camphor, menthol, eucalyptus oil and clove oil. Yet my Bà Nội swears there’s something more to it—beyond the balm’s physical properties—that heals the mind and body. Maybe it’s the magic of Vietnamese grandmothers and the residual powers that lie in their leathered hands. Maybe with each gentle swipe of a finger, they enchant the balm with their ancient knowledge. Maybe that’s the true difference between a new jar and one that’s been loved to the point you can see through the bottom. Regardless, there’s something potent lying in those balms. As a child, it was never a point of pride for me. I always took care to screw on the lid as soon as possible before it would overwhelm the air with peppermint. Middle school me often left it to rot at the bottom of her backpack, though I don’t blame her. Children always look for something to point their fingers at, and my biggest fear was to be the subject of their intense curiosity. I’m certain the packaging wouldn’t have helped either; a gold lid imprinted with characters I still cannot read; a hexagonal glass jar with a label that’s even harder to decipher; a poorly designed tiger slapped right in the middle. Anyone could admit that the Tiger Balm shelf in the back of the supermarket looks like something right out of a dynastic medicine shop. Yet as strange and archaic as it might appear, I also cannot deny the relief it brings me when I do use it. Along with the harsh cadences and broken tones of the Vietnamese language, the household is never complete without the punch of Tiger Balm. I can still remember my mom crouching next to me, lifting it to my nose as I keeled over the toilet. Nothing felt better than the cooling sensation of her slender fingers tracing it in circles along my stomach as pain dissolved into numbness. I can still feel the skin of my back drawn tender and pink from my Bà Nội kneading the Tiger Balm in with her Gua Sha tools—a classic attempt to exorcize the flu from the body. And I’m sure there are many more memories that I’ve forgotten along the way. So even if it is embarrassing at times, like the clumsy sounds of my native tongue, there is always something nostalgic about the magical potion of my childhood. The funny thing is, I doubt there’s any scientific explanation for Tiger Balm’s miraculous capabilities. Yet I choose to indulge in the ritual of it nonetheless, like the habit of hushed hands clasped around a rosary, simply for the sake of believing in something. I hope to be the little old lady scowling at my grandchildren, even if my only proof is the words that were once whispered down to me. You get headache, you use Tiger Balm. You get stomach ache, you use Tiger Balm. You get heartache, you use it too. Because maybe it’s not actually about what is, but the hope for what can be. Maybe it’s in our shared, often blind devotion, that we can find comfort in the fact that we know very little. If nothing at all. "The Veins of Venice", Wilson Zhang
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