The child was born whispering. I am recycled. I am recycled. No one knew what it meant or why a child fresh from the womb could speak. It arrived with the preformed face of a ghoulish man—a dark receding hairline, deflated cheeks, and two catatonic eyes the color of charcoal. When it smiled, its lips converged forcibly like sewn skin, and the expression fell flat without extending to its eyes. Though technically toothless, its grins left a lingering impression of fangs. The parents weren’t so sure they wanted this anymore.

Scarlet's lover called her a witch the day he ended things, even though that wasn't quite fair—she only knew the one spell. She whispered it to herself as she sharpened the point of her favorite fishhook, scraping it against the strop over and over, until the steel fairly glimmered with its own light.

A worm has chewed an exit through the body to your left’s eye. It slinks up the nose and out through the right nostril, tail only lost for a moment before its pink head reappears.

On the night it happened, my son asked me to tuck him in. It did not sound cute or small, it did not contain the faint echo of what his voice as a baby had been. Instead, it twisted into what it would become: I heard its rigid hardness, the rigid hardness of a man. It was like the voice of a twenty-year-old calling his mother to tuck him in, and it unsettled me.

I was fourteen the first time I considered killing my father. Every night, I’d steeple my raw, red fingers and pray for him to die. I didn’t care how. I didn’t care why. I just wanted to be rid of him. To go just one day without his silver belt-buckle biting into the skin of my back.

A darkness pooled in the pit of my belly that summer, as mean and tarry as a gator pit. Cut me and it could have slid out.

Sun-punished and rain-starved, berries withered on the bush like shrunken heads. They were sour and tough as leather, but young Torsten and his older sister Estrid ate their fill. When the berries disappeared and the creeks ran dry, food became scarce. There were no salmon fat with orange clusters of eggs, nor red squirrels thinning in their summer coats. The siblings grew hungry. Meat melted off their ribs, leaving their bodies feeble. Prayers to the Old Gods went unanswered.

i. before

At first, there’s nothing. The world is black and cold, a pulsing throat, and you’re stuck right in its

center.

No operations are conducted to pull you out. No tweezers delve into the universe’s gullet, or try to

drag you out alongside strings of blood and tissue. But you still know when you’re not welcome:

when you try to curl into yourself, the world tries to swallow you down in turn; a burning, breathless

pressure. When you try to stretch, it scrambles to spit you up, spasms like an exposed nerve.

$5 Face Paint. A sign is etched into a rotten framework; the letters are peeling, flaking, in the summer heat. A small business, situated between the ring toss and a donut stand—nestled in the yellowing grass. The days are long; the shifts are longer, but she weathers them all the same.

One evening there are simply strings. Suspended from the sky, undulating on the currents of the air. Thin, ethereal tentacles like pendulous orange nerves draped between skyscrapers. Moving on the wind, but not just on the wind. Searching, groping of their own will. Like maggots in the dark.

The young woman is sacrificed to the sea monster. Rich in detail, they clad her in silks that expose her nakedness, rather than hide it. Silks diamoned with salt. Silks fresh and pink as cherry blossoms. Her hair is done up in three braids that braid each other. They put her in chains, or they do not put her in chains, but she feels them tight around her wrists still. They pull her arms away from her body, stretching her muscles to pastures. Her body an enemy. Her body a continent.

Viviane watched from the end of the aisle as the child hid inside the racks of clearance-priced clothing. She watched as the girl’s mother stretched a long spindly arm between the folds of tweed and cable-knit and pulled the kid through as if from the Narnia wardrobe.

A dish of strontium. A whiff of your brew. A drop of your semen. You’ll show the world sexuality doesn’t mean you’re barren. You will have your children. If even they’ll kill you.

A calloused fingertip catches at my coiled skin. I shiver then hum, my voice a flat warble. A screw turns, stretching my sinews.

The first rains come to freeze my bones. I wrap my hands around the last soap ball I’ve made--the last one to tide me over for a while. When a bar of soap shrinks down to just a sliver, I crush it and hold it in my palm. If I find a new bar, I use it down to its last sliver as well and add it to the first until I’ve formed a larger ball, all pink and blue and white and green—my last bits since the stores closed down, and the windows blew out, and I cut my work clothes into makeshift curtains to hang.

It began with a drop of blood. She hadn’t been thinking. In fact, she hadn’t been sleeping or eating. It had been seven months since her last hair appointment, when she had gone, globe-stomached, and sat in a chair feeling the knead of the hairdresser’s fingers on her scalp as The Baby’s kicks thrummed against her, casting bumps on the smooth expanse of her flesh.

Cindy didn’t have much, but she had a book. Every night Cindy’s mother would read the book to her and show her the pictures, pictures of stars burning bright, meteors roaring through space, and far away planets where no human had ever been.