Being Twenty

By Liv Abegglen

Is waking somewhere round three to the gray owl’s cry, sand gritting your cheek and teeth and hair; is unzipping and slipping from the tent as all the others rest; is watching dying woodsmoke trail to join the bleak black sky; is seeing cold stars spill on still dark water; is looking up and asking how can this be my one same life; in younger youth believing that the heavens held clouds of cats, that that was called love, that the world was a bad bad place; is swiping sand smooth and wondering what next shape your footsteps will make.

Liv Abegglen is twenty; she wrote this by the fire.

Photo by Jason Thayer.

You Live

By Stephen Bush

You wail, you curl, you seek, you suckle, you sleep, you wake, you soil, you repeat; you hurt, you near, you soothe, you fear, you endear, you develop; you gabble, you toddle, you snatch, you waddle, you wonder, you ponder, you wander, you trust; you assert, you object, you acquire, you inspire, you enthuse, you refuse, you fizzle, you flare, you elate, you frustrate, you rage, you enrage, you disengage; you learn, you bond, you gauge, you wound, you spaz, you mong, you suffer, you swear, you slam, you sneak, you smoke, you prickle, you drink; you meet, you cling, you cleave, you meet, you yearn, you spurn, you split, you meet, you date, you greet, you detonate, you hate, you meet, you err, you wait, you meet, you desire, you admire, you strike, you like, you admit, you couple, you cleave; you graduate, you settle, you rent, you buy, you build, you adorn, you indebt, you adore, you inflate, you wait—you exult, you inhale, you hold; you hope, you bear, you nourish, you brandish, you bustle, you hassle, you wait, you educate, you intermediate, you pay; you blink, you grieve, you continue; you earn, you enjoy, you rue, you employ, you relinquish, you ache, you tire, you retire, you regret, you accept, you forget; you slip, you rupture, you sicken, you slow, you depreciate (you jest), you gladden, you plan, you recall, you speak, you aspire, you see, you cease.

Stephen J. Bush was born in Bath, England, and lives in Xi'an, China, where he works as a biologist, although also writes fiction on occasion, with stories published or forthcoming in Bending Genres, Five on the Fifth, Lost Balloon, and Oyster River Pages, among others.

Art by Karen Walker.

Jeff

By Joey Hedger

My name is Jeff and so is his, the guy who sells tomatoes at the farmer’s market, as well as his and hers, though he spells it Geoff and she goes by Tina, and that guy’s name is also Jeff, who’s over in the corner wearing a tuxedo, and so is the guy’s we call Jefe because he’s the man, and so is my manager’s at work who we normally call Manager O’Neill but who’ll sometimes let it slip, and so is everybody’s at the office, actually, and the Uber driver’s that I had coming over and the person’s who lives next door, and I have a cousin named Jeff and an uncle named Jeff too, and you know, there’s a lot of Jeffs in my life, because my dad is named Jeff and so is my mom and so is the mailman and all the guys who empty the recycling bins on my street, and there’s more Jeffs being born each minute, and more Jeffs dying too, dying from car accidents, cancers, and other Jeffs; there’s Jeffs everywhere you look, here, there, and there, and Jeff is what I call my friends when we’re having fun, and Jeff is what I call baristas and bartenders when they make me my drinks, and Jeff is what I call my wife when I dial her phone on the way home and what I’ll name my kids if I ever have them and the characters I’ll write about in books, and Jeff is what I call God, what I call Mister President, what I call the people on TV—hell, I’ve never met someone who isn’t Jeff, someone who isn’t already me.

Joey Hedger lives in Alexandria, Virginia, and writes from a fire-damaged apartment on a hill overlooking the train tracks.

Photo by Joey Hedger.