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INRE: Sea Monkey Miscarriage

Martha Webber

Sea Monkey Division
Transcience Corporation
P.O. Box 809
Bryans Rd., MD 20616

INRE: Sea Monkey Miscarriage

Dear Sir or Madam:

Not two days ago, I experienced a devastating loss and the promise of microbial joy has slipped from my fingers like so many golden leaves fallen from an oak during autumn, nature's death rattle before the onset of winter. I fastidiously followed your fine company's competent directions to hatch my precious aquatic monkeys: treating the water with the solution provided in packet #1, waiting for that magic temporal window between twenty-four and thirty hours after the treatment (although it seemed like an eternity, it was actually twenty-six hours, thirty-eight minutes), and finally gently stirring my precious monkey eggs (packet #2) into the loving, watery wonderland I had created for them.

Alas—nothing. No Proustian burst of animation upon the hydration of those tender freeze-dried lives, instead—nothing. They held promise, those monkeys—pure potentiality possessed on the tip of a pin, for naught—for nothing. 

Instead of woefully racking my brain for the reasons as to why this morose miscarriage of monkey life occurred, I turn to you, Transcience Corporation, for an answer—why? I fear that my motivations may have been impure—perhaps there was a part of me that wanted to hatch them merely to name so many little juniors after myself and parade the aquatic joy I knew I would experience in front of my monkeyless friends—but I cannot bear the solitary weight of blame any longer.

I anxiously await your reply and I am happy to send in the soulless water and debris resting sadly in its final sleep at the bottom of my monkey pen if your company requires an autopsy. If only I could be given another chance to experience the joy of creating life.

Included below is the signature of an associate of mine, [NAME REDACTED], who functioned as a midwife of sorts during the unfortunate events. Although he is not a notary public, he can attest to our procedural propriety during those unfortunate moments, when the entire world seemed to sound a knell for the loss.

Respectfully yours,

Martha A. Webber

Martha Webber is an assistant professor at California State University Fullerton where she teaches writing for the Department of English, Comparative Literature, and Linguistics. Her nonfiction has appeared on Paper Darts online before in 2011. She is currently working on a memoir that explores questions of materiality and knowledge-production, which is just a highfalutin way to say she's writing about her past as a Wikipedia vandal.

Illustration by Meher Khan.


Get Dumpt!

Jillian Capewell



On the day I first called Jacob, I was out looking for dachshunds. I chose dachshunds because they were some specific thing I could probably find in this city that was not my ex-boyfriend.

Without them, my mind didn't wander so much as hone in. It used to be like this: Every pair of forearms I passed could have been his forearms. I'd check strangers' wrists for a faded racing-flag tattoo—Art's—like a customs officer looking for the right passport stamp. Deny, deny. Art, who had lived up to the exact opposite of his name, leaving me gracelessly some average day of the week while we were both sitting on the couch.

My mind was racing then with thoughts of dogs with little legs. Perhaps I'd even find one playing fetch, which meant incredible luck for the rest of the week.

Instead I ran into Jacob's sign.

GOT DUMPED? It said, so forcefully, the visual equivalent of getting very close to someone and shouting in your ear.

The second line: GET DUMPT! I inched closer. Dumpt!: removal services for the brokenhearted and bereaved. Burn it, bury it, ship it—we can help!

Dumpt!: removal services for the brokenhearted and bereaved. Burn it, bury it, ship it—we can help!

When I got home, I pulled out my cell phone before my brain could stop me. No one will pick up, I said. This has got to be performance art.

It wasn't.

Jacob's disembodied voice promised he could come by and rid my apartment of all the things that had reminded me of Art. I responded that I didn't normally call strangers' numbers off telephone poles. Seeing his, it must have been a sign.

"I'd call it a flyer, really, but sure," he answered. I remembered the strips of paper at the bottom, waggling like fingers. Introductory offer: first session free, they promised. Then: "So next week, at four?"

Now this guy's in my doorway, medium-height with a thick mustache, like he's recently had a full beard and lost a bet. He has a tote bag slung on his shoulder and several enormous cardboard boxes in his hands, empty. There's a baseball cap on his head with two words embroidered on it: Get Dumpt! I think of the whirring machines at the mall hat kiosks, spelling out Number-One Grandpa or I'm With Stupid while you wait.

He adjusts everything, manages to stick out a hand, and says, "I'm Jacob. Are you ready to work through this together?"

I think of what my mother might say, me allowing a stranger into my apartment, living alone. Perhaps: "Lucy, the only way to forget a man is to bring in a new one." The loneliness had started to become comfortable, good, even. I told myself this every quiet afternoon in the apartment, every dish I would wash and put back exactly in place.

I think of what my mother might say, me allowing a stranger into my apartment, living alone.

My plan was to continue on as if certain parts of my apartment didn't exist: the corner next to my nightstand, the kitchen shelf where he kept breakfast tea, the whole right side of the bed.

It's a second before I realize I’m explaining this out loud.

"Let's sit, and I'll tell you how this works," he says. 

I motion to the couch and we both do as he suggests, settling in with the throw pillows. Jacob looks at the clipboard, then back at me. I imagine him as a reporter and me, the bystander who just happened to see a crime, like they do it on late-night cop shows. Could you describe the perpetrator, ma'am? No, I barely got a look at his face. But here, I managed to memorize his license plates.

"Now, tell me, did you share your dwelling with…" Jacob flips through the papers on his clipboard. "…Art? People are still named Art?"

"Yes. Well, yes, people are still named Art, and yes, he lived here. Maybe about like, eight or nine months." He'd made it from the end of his lease to the end of mine. It doesn't sound very long at all. I don't feel like looking up at Jacob anymore. I become very interested in my fingernails.

"So it was yours until he moved in?" Jacob asks, making notes on his clipboard. I nod. Was yours, I think, knowing my allotted 400 square feet was caught somewhere in the middle, no longer mine and Art's, but not quite mine again. And I had let it happen. 

"We broke up in this apartment, too." I say, my fingers now working a loose thread on the couch. I pull it until it snaps. Maybe now would be a good time to pull the curtains closed and turn a flashlight on my face, like I'm telling a ghost story. Jacob turns towards me.

"Tell me more," he says. "This is important. I'm here to listen." I am a celebrity, and he is a columnist from People magazine. 

I tell it fast and quick, a Band-Aid rip of a story: caught off guard on pizza night.

"He left me for his improv troupe." Hearing it aloud makes it sound too dramatic, like I am reciting daytime-soap synopses from the TV guide. Art had been "getting serious" about it, as if seriousness was something you run out of easily, like singles for the laundry quarter machine. He told me this, and then told me I'd gotten some sauce was on my cheek. Not that one, the other one.

The next day when I came home from work, I nearly tripped over his suitcases. The efficiency of it all made it seem like it was always supposed to happen, for one of us, at least.

Jacob makes a mark on his clipboard. "And how long were you together?"

"Um. A year? And a half? Give or take." I shift a little, trying to remember why I ever thought this couch was comfortable. "Do you do this a lot?" What I want to ask is, How can you do this for free? But what if I do and he disappears in a puff of puppies' tails, or something? I've taken a leave of absence from risk-taking, and asking that question seems to qualify.

"It's been picking up," he says. "We should move on to the bedroom."

"This is already going better than most of my first dates." The mood feels thirsty for a joke. Jacob tucks a nonexistent hair behind his ear. 

We walk in, and I try to see my bedroom as he would. It looks, from the outside, like it just belongs to me. In my head it's more like modern art: too much negative space, not enough explanation. I guess this is why you hire help.

In my head it's more like modern art: too much negative space, not enough explanation. I guess this is why you hire help.

"Let's sit," says Jacob.

"You first." I watch as he sinks onto the comforter. I make a private joke to myself: a rare sighting of the male Homo sapiens on the vast plains of a continent called Bedsheet. I sit next to him. There is a moment where I think that all it would take is moving a few inches to the left and staring at Jacob's chin long enough for him to move in and kiss me. Sometimes you can just tell who is kind enough to do that.

But a part of me knows doing anything like this would be the emotional equivalent of diving head first into a bowl of Lucky Charms. Satisfying in the short term. Bad for your teeth in the end. And that mustache.

"Where would you like to start?" Jacob asks.

The photos, I figure, should be the first to go. Above my bed, there are a handful of them taped where a headboard should be. There is the Polaroid of the sunrise from his old apartment's rooftop—you can tell, because his right pinky-toe is in the frame—and it's next to a few of faded advertisements on brick buildings from around the city that we liked to collect. Had liked to collect.

Jacob doesn't know this, but there's also the black-and-white strip of photobooth pictures that I shoved at the bottom of my mess of a jewelry box shortly after the improv pizza night. Art and I are still smiling in the dark somewhere under my necklaces and rope bracelets, still intact as my own personal what-if contingency plan. There is some part of me that wants to keep it, the part of me that smiled at blinding flashes and felt like things were finally settling together.

The pictures come off easy, the old tape beneath them creaking slightly as I pull them from their places and hand them to Jacob. I pull out books Art loaned me and never asked for back, the wig he wore to an '80s party and shoved in my closet. There might be his Parmesan in the fridge, still, probably going bad.

There's the shirt Art told me he once won in grade school as part of a math competition. Acting on habit, I put it to my face and breathe in, first detecting the expected few-days-old laundry smell that reminds me I need to drop off a wash after this is all over. 

"This is the hard part. You're doing great.” Jacob says. He’s so sincere I want to punch him in the stomach, which affirms my decision not to kiss him. 

He's so sincere I want to punch him in the stomach, which affirms my decision not to kiss him. 

The bedroom finished, the rest of the apartment goes quickly. Even the mouthwash from the bathroom, which I thought I might use someday. The objects barely take up a box. "Now you just take it all away?" I ask. In my mind I see Jacob riding a forklift up and down aisles of photo albums and socks. On a lucky day he might get a microwave, a whole set of silverware.

"You'll just need to sign this inventory," he says, handing over the clipboard. The sheet of paper on top is crisp as a graphic designer's business card, all clever fonts and clean lines. I messily write my signature where he has drawn an X. 

"This feels really good," I say. Then I start crying. "Sorry," I sniff. "I never hide bodily functions well. I once threw up right in front of a flight attendant." 

Jacob doesn’t hug me, and I'm not sure if it's because he's a stranger or if it's the fact that I am completely off-putting to the opposite sex. Or maybe I'm the off-putter. Here I am, giving away all the vestiges of my best chance at a shared life to a man with a lost-bet mustache. The mouthwash. I need a few more weeks to think about the mouthwash.

"Come on, it's okay." he says. "I bet they see that all the time. Flight attendants, I mean."

"Let me show you out," I say, grabbing my keys and the box of Art's things and pushing him, perhaps a little roughly, towards the door. I hop down the front steps and towards the bus stop, but Jacob turns the other way. "Over here." he says. "I drove."

Something compels me to hold these things until the very last second, so when Jacob unlocks the car, I put both the box and myself in the passenger seat and slam the door. Every single one of my friends would have said, Lucy, do not get in that car. Or is it every one of my single friends?

They watch all the late-night cop shows, too. But I'm not afraid. It's fall, early enough in the season that the sun is still up even in late afternoon, nagging me once again to appreciate it before it goes. The seatbelt goes over my chest and I hear it click satisfyingly. Being in a car is the ice cream cone of my adulthood. An unexpected treat. "You can just leave the box," Jacob says, staring across at me, oh shit written on his face. "I can take it from here."

You can just leave the box, Jacob says, staring across at me, oh shit written on his face.

"I want to come." I say. "I'm a paying customer." 

"Actually, you aren't."

I sniff loudly, as if I am going to cry again, though I'm not. "I'm already here," I say, voice wobbling like a kitchen table with a missing leg. "I'll tell you the rest of the story. Take me to wherever you are taking me." There's the line, almost. "You're going to drop this off at headquarters anyway, right?" I lift the box a little, as if to remind him.

"Jesus," Jacob whispers to himself. There is a moment where I think he is trying to ignore me away. Then, "Well, I guess you're here already. Sure, yeah, let's go. This boyfriend really…affected you, didn't he?" His seatbelt clicks. The car departs from the curb.

"After our first date, he invited me out for breakfast," I say to the windshield, because this explains everything. Jacob turns onto a wide avenue with unfamiliar houses on each side and a bicycle lane bisecting it, a spine. It would be a good place to walk, despite its unknown dachshund demographic. "Real, 24-hour diner breakfast.” I have few, but particular, standards.

"You get it," I say to Jacob.

Out the window now I let my eyes focus in and out of the houses rolling past. I have the box on my lap, Art's belongings curled around each other like puppies we are going to abandon. "And what about you?" I say. "Was Dumpt! your idea?" I say the company name like it's spelled: with an exclamation. The thing I don't mention, but want to know: did a breakup fuck you up even more than it did me?

Jacob smiles to himself. "A couple tough relationships, you know." He shrugs. "And I'm just…I'm just interested in people's stuff. I used to be a construction worker." 

"I don't think I follow."

"Last job before I quit was a high-rise hotel in Midtown. You wouldn't believe the things people in apartment buildings do with their curtains open: play cards in their underwear, microwave rice, have sex. Nobody cares." Jacob continues: "There was one couple, 12:45 p.m., like clockwork. I think the building's foundation shifted, everyone was craning for a look."


"Pervs, right? But I wanted to know—do they like each other? Does she grind her teeth inher sleep? I guess I just like the story of it." 

"Are they still together?"

"That's my point exactly."

He pulls a cigarette out of his pocket, rolls down the window. The cool breeze hits us, a rush of sky and the lingering smell of salt water. 

"We're almost there," he says, lighting up and pointing towards the skyline. "You see it, up ahead?" The looming, lit sign of a self-storage warehouse approaches. He turns his hands into air quotes, ash flicking off the cigarette as he says, "'Headquarters.'"

I feel a little like I did as a kid when a book ended and the ducks hadn't found their mother, that sense that things should end nicely but rarely do. I tilt the box of Art's things away from me and read where someone has written PLATES on the side. He couldn't have written that today. I didn't give away any plates. Slowly, I begin to get it.

"Jacob," I say. I pull out Art's old yellow shirt. I make my best cop-show face. "You were just going to keep Art's stuff. In a storage locker."

I am speaking now to the box, to Art's mouthwash, his pinky toe and the sunset, his dumb '80s wig. I am saying, why didn't you protect me from this. I wanted the science fiction of a company that could take the messy things out of my life in neat boxes. One neat box, rather. There is a lesson I could pull from this scene, about following a strange man on promises he can't keep.

"Better than it being in your house though, right?" I guess. "And, you know, this is just the beginning. Temporary." He takes a drag and lets it go. "This has the chance of getting big."

This has the chance of getting big.

Jacob turns left, heads into the parking lot. Finds a spot in front of a row of faceless gray doors.

"What am I doing here?" I am so angry, so foolish. I slam the box of Art's stuff against the dashboard. My right hand finds my jeans pocket, and I wrap my fingers around the keys there, making sure the pointed parts go in between my knuckles. Protection is a feeble thing when you realize you might actually need it.

"You got in the car." Jacob answers. Helpful. "Come on. I want to show you where it goes." We coast into a parking spot. We are the only ones here, one vehicular hiccup among the endless concrete. He's out of the car, walking towards a door. 

"Okay," I call from my seat. My hand grips my keys harder, a squeeze of confidence or insanity. "I'm coming." 

I imagine two scenarios: that after tonight, my story will be a cautionary tale, or a charming anecdote at holiday parties, the ones I tell when someone asks what it's like to live in the city. I’ll start with the bit about the flyer and end with the lesson: you're never alone, and you're never the weirdest. Whoever I’m with will laugh, and so will I.  

Jacob's arms strain to lift the door, and inside I see it: piles and piles of boxes so wilted they seem to be frowning, balanced atop wooden furniture in various states of distress. Tennis rackets hang from nails in the concrete. A newspaper sits atop a stack towards the front: the day the Mets won the pennant, in 1969.

I hold my breath, wanting to sigh with relief at the lack of severed body parts, but I'm afraid it will all crumble on an exhale.

"My first customers, kind of," says Jacob, scratching his head, as if he barely remembers getting all this stuff here. From a dresser drawer, he pulls out a faded Boy Scout guide. "This was all my grandfather's. And my father's. Over there, that’s the person who called before you." He indicates a slumping laundry bag in the corner.

I nod. There is still the chance he literally means the person before me is inside, but it is growing smaller. "That's nice," I finally think to say. "It's nice that you're keeping it."

He stretches over the pile and points out a rocking chair, upturned over a dusty costume trunk. "One day I'm going to polish this up really nice, put it in my living room. I just…needed reminders to come back and see it." He turns to me. "I hoped bringing other people's junk would give it some company." He steps out, hands in his pockets. "Sorry. I don't mean junk. But I couldn't do what you're doing, getting rid of everything all at once. Takes guts."

I get an urge to hug him until I remember he didn't hug me before. We are a fine pair, a hugless duo.

I wonder if this is how it will always go. I will still see Art on my corner, at the deli, in the cop shows, and whether or not his T-shirt is in my hamper won’t make a difference. I will practice my best disaffected stare-downs in the mirror and never get to use it on him. I will want to do this again, probably, if I ever feel human enough to let someone share my comforter again. And that person will leave, and I will call Jacob again and say, don't come this time. You can lead your heart to a storage locker but that's about it.

Back at the car, Art's box is still waiting, still falsely advertising PLATES. I pull it out and run back to the locker. "For you," I say, handing it to Jacob to add to his pile of things. "You might be able to get some use out of the mouthwash."

When he closes up the locker, we get back into the car and head out. Jacob pulls something from his jeans pocket. A card.

"I have a website, you know," he says. "Write a review, okay?"

As we get in, he asks if I want to be taken home or if getting dropped at the train is better. It is dark now, the orange-glow of streetlights unfamiliar. If I squint they look like gems, close enough to grab. Jacob stalls at the exit for a second, forgetting which way to turn until he remembers.



Jillian Capewell lives, writes, and co-hosts the long-running Pete's Reading Series in Brooklyn.  

Illustration by Dan Forke.



Coop Lee



you who swayed on stoop-steps and picked bits of teeth
from your knuckles, your fantasies, your crouched in blood 
giggles; monologues.
you who wrapped knives around tree hides, & in carvings
found your way back to the days of love
& dead wet leaves.
you who rattled in hate of sweaty girls but
smeared out on the boulevard for girls anyways
& made those girls sweat.
you who pissed in snow & wrote the names
of all those far-fallen friends & sisters, in one stream;
pacific coast highway.
you who soaked back in trans-fat pools to grip at tips
of teets & taste employment in its finest phase
of fermentation.
you who came hurtling down from hills & hallways
with navajo sidekicks, battle axes sweetened
in sugar powder flecks;
for flavor-waves while dying.
you who peeled skin from your fingertips in protest
of the war on whales, warping you irrevocably
down the path 
of a whisky avocado diet.


Altered Beast 

dad is in the garage.
weeks with the spark-light and piles of plastic
grandaddy laughs,
rattles the icebox for more beer.

the homemade android.
the thing
like a toy polished, it
dances for us in the kitchen. the dog
barking his endless barks in the backyard.

the thing, eyes wide, overheats
circuits popping into a limp body heap.
it dies
& molds in the garage.

the days.
the rain.
the cats under trees across the street.
the dog barking, chained, &
beneath a truck.

dad is in hysterics.
dad is in the garage,
for weeks, his soaked red knuckles.
mom drinking with grandaddy.
the dog.

the dog dances for us in the kitchen,
reboots and sits.
it digs a pit all night & buries three cats there.
he dog sleeps on that mound.
it never barks.
it waits there in the backyard, still
& staring into the trees.
the trees.



Coop Lee is currently packing up his belongings and moving to Oregon. He will get more writing done there. At least in dreams it goes that way. And maybe he'll meet a girl there. A terrible and lovely girl.

Illustration by Riley Burrus.



The Dead Kids of Hennepin County

Eric Magnuson



The boy's mother assumes God is an asshole. The girl's mother says the boy is an asshole. The girl's father blames:

This half-frozen lake. Global warming. But also, not enough global warming. Himself. Teenage dreams. The neighbors for not seeing. The night for not letting them see. The sundown. Time. In general. He should have told her how to be young.

Pulling the bodies from beneath the ice is complicated. And yet.

Most of the kids at the party could still count every beer they've drunk in their lives. Tyler, 56. Madison, 11; didn't like it, though she'd pretend.

The diver's glossy black scalp emerges from the frosted hole. The sheriff, his deputies, firefighters, some ill-prepared volunteers; all attentively wait at the edge. The diver pulls the oxygen from his mouth, spit stringing off his lips. The sky distressingly clear.

Antics. One kid was very unoriginal: His vomit melted the backyard's snow. Another kid repeated jokes from a movie. Madison gripped Tyler's hand like he'd leave her for internet porn. The kids were good with their shitty jokes. The kids were good with their alcohol. The kids were good.

A week earlier, the sheriff stepped onto the ice, a satchel full of police flyers at his side. The surface pooled at noon in the sun, forming wet constellations between icehouses—the plywood boxes filled with men and fishing holes. Spring came early: The sheriff trudged from one icehouse to another for last warnings. He tacked notices to each door: Thank you for your timely removal.

A table cluttered with a Polaroid's last photos: Tyler happy enough, obviously happy(?), but Madison's smile always strained and awkward, seeming to know that he'd end it before graduation beat them to it. Somebody snapped the wet snowfall, all of the beer bottles spread about, and a girl named Brianna, catching the glint of her braces as she stepped out of the guest room door. She told Madison that she just saw Tyler's dick in Catherine's mouth. I saw it!

The diver's eyes are much bluer than the water rippling around him.

Madison didn't move, then moved, then didn't move, then peered through the guest room door, Tyler sitting on the bed, his legs hidden over the edge facing the opposite wall. A blonde head hovered just past the mattress's ridge. Madison may have spoken, she didn't speak, she panicked toward the living room's sliding glass door and stepped out. The air halting, but no longer deepest-winter cold—degrees above average. She crunched through crusty snow toward shore. Yet just past the guest room's bed, a second head rose. A third. Boys and girls. A boardgame laid flat between all four. Beers left watermarks on play money.

At sunrise, the couple's tracks still dotted the snow, leading to the middle of the bay where ice turned damp and gray. At 2:00 a.m., when winter returned out of breath and frigid, their footprints briefly froze in the top-layer of slush. Then the footprints stopped.

The game finished, every beer down, Tyler went looking for Madison, but left the room only to cheers and laughter. Jealousies became pranks became word quickly spreading; word became incredible rumor; rumor became everyone's reputation come Monday morning. Distraught, Tyler picked up Madison's coat and jogged outside. Beneath a half-crescent of moonlight, he saw a silhouette holding itself tightly, walking unsteadily, already fifty yards onto the ice.

Two sets of parents wait in cars on the shoreline. Each vehicle puddle-splashed and idling. From the hole, the adults are only dark shadows behind windshields. From the cars, the hole is unseen; only uniformed men and women standing on water. Then a lump is pulled from the ice. One car pulls away. Then the other.

No neighbor heard the boy screaming for the girl. Nor the girl for him. In the basement's music, no kid heard the watery pop that engulfed both in a widening rim.

Parents and police ask. They get muddled answers. The kids are too embarrassed to admit why Tyler and Madison crossed the ice. They let the community blame:

Teenage drinking. Budweiser. The 22-year-old coworker who bought kids alcohol. The Johnsons for not being home. Movies. Movies about teenage drinking. Pop stars.

The kids are still embarrassed by love.


Eric Magnuson
's fiction has appeared in Camera Obscura, The Los Angeles Review, and Midwestern Gothic, among others, while his journalism has been published in many magazines, such as Rolling Stone, The Nation, and The Art Newspaper. He is writing a novel based on "The Dead Kids of Hennepin County." Follow him at @EJMagnuson.

Illustration by Lydia Fusco.


Charcoal fiber-optic lore

Tom Pescatore

they chalked my
mature rating up to
word count, text recognition
bullshit, slapped the reverse
cuffs on my skinned wrists,
left me locked down
in the internet stockade
without a key, languishing
in my gentle obscurity, my
self-imposed anonymity, or
am I, was I, supposed to realize that
too late—? Hell, it's worked so
far for the mainframe locusts
popping all my shattered balloons,

I'm not even sure you can read this—
how does it translate from my head
to the keys to the screen to the save
to you, how do I know they don't alter
the meaning before it's too late—?

how do I know I'm even typing?
How do I know I'm not someone else?


Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia dreaming of the endless road ahead, carrying the idea of the fabled West in his heart. He maintains a poetry blog: amagicalmistake.blogspot.com. His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he'd rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia's old Skid Row.

Illustration by Meghan Irwin.