exponents
Jake Zawlacki
“Well, I heard the multiverse multiplied. So that statement did too, I guess.” She kicks a can on the ground a thousand million times.
He sucks down the smoke from the joint, the gradations of inhale pressure and dramatic flair the subject of the multiversal multiplication. “I heard that too. Feels meaningless.”
She looks up at him. “Which part?” with a strand of blonde, blue, brown, red, green, bleached, black, white, gray, or any other rainbowic variations draped over her eye.
“The part where we’re us, but we’re also ice cream cones, used condoms, lava rocks, rusty bedposts, glass beads, junked cars, or anything else having this same conversation and any other conversation at the same time.”
“Ahh,” she says and leans, sits, stumbles, falls, squats, timbers, collapses, dies. “That’s true, it is a bit meaningless.” For a second she sees, imagines, conceptualizes, dreams, manifests, invents a kaleidoscopic shattering of reality before her. Trillions of possibilities explode before the very moment she is currently in. “What’s there to do?” she asks in a lilt, a tone, a wist, an air.
He shrugs, smiles, laughs, frowns, despairs. “I don’t know,” he says, “want to make out?”
And in every universe, she shrugs and says, “Sure.”
For a second she sees, imagines, conceptualizes, dreams, manifests, invents a kaleidoscopic shattering of reality before her. Trillions of possibilities explode before the very moment she is currently in. “What’s there to do?” she asks in a lilt, a tone, a wist, an air.
He shrugs, smiles, laughs, frowns, despairs. “I don’t know,” he says, “want to make out?”
And in every universe, she shrugs and says, “Sure.”
Jake Zawlacki is a writer, translator, and scholar. His critical work on comics and animation have appeared in ImageTexTand Folklorica. His translations of the Kazakh poet Akhmet Baitursynuly will appear in Guernica and Asymptote. And his creative work has been published in The Saturday Evening Post, The Journal, Punt Volat, and The Citron Review.
PAPER MOON LANTERN
Jason Taylor
When Edwin looked out of his second-story window, the moon shook in a way that he hadn’t seen before. It was sudden and violent and just as suddenly, it returned to its normal position in the crisp night sky. The smell of earth rose in his nostrils, reminding him of when he was young and free. That night on the 10 o’clock news, there was a report about the moon anomaly.
Afterward, he went online. He found a strange site purporting that the moon was only a paper lantern, and that when the person who is tasked with holding it sneezes, it shakes. He found another site debunking the whole idea as nonsense, and on Twitter, a tweet from someone purporting to be the lantern holder who tweeted a simple “sorry” at the exact time of the moon anomaly.
The last one caught his attention. On further research, he learned that the lantern holder must apologize—some sort of universal law—every time the moon shakes, and thus, shakes our understanding of the universe.
After Edwin fell asleep, the lantern holder appeared in his dream. He was being interviewed on TV. Edwin couldn’t quite catch what he was saying, but the lantern holder kept clasping his hands together and making a deep bowing gesture toward the camera. The language was familiar somehow. Then the TV faded to static white noise.
The next morning he checked the lantern holder’s Twitter account, but it had been deleted.
On further research, he learned that the lantern holder must apologize—some sort of universal law—every time the moon shakes, and thus, shakes our understanding of the universe.
Jason Taylor is a dreamer and musician originally from the east coast. He has spent half of his life there and half of his life in Japan. Trained as a composer, moonlighting as a storyteller (if only in his dreams). Interests include talking to mermaids and healing with sound.
Martin Agee’s career as a professional violinist has brought him to the major concert venues, recording studios, and theatres of New York City for over thirty-five years. During his years as a professional musician, he has remained active as a writer of poetry, fiction, and critical essays. His works have been published in Belle Ombre, Jerry Jazz Musician, and The Daily Drunk, among many others.
Website: www.martinagee.com
a little dog
Martin Agee
It was quiet outside, and snow was falling. A little dog followed me out of the shelter. With each step, he placed a scruffy paw in the tracks of my boots as they crunched in the snow. No one would know he was with me.
When we arrived home, the little dog shook off the snow and looked around. Without a sound, he climbed up to an empty hook and hung on the living room wall, disguising himself as a violin. That night, I took him down and ran my fingers across the strings. I had no idea how to play. I put the violin back and left it there.
One morning I looked out my bedroom window and the snow had melted; it was spring. I went back to the living room, but the hook was empty. The violin had come down from the wall and was sitting on the table. Green leaves sprouted from its ribs of curly maple. I gave it some water and left it there.
By the time summer came, the curly maple had become a heavy book. I picked it up and flipped through its many pages. There were plays and sonnets, but their meanings were foreign to me—I couldn’t understand. I placed it on a bookshelf and left it there.
One day, when the leaves were falling, I went to the bookshelf, but the book was gone. I turned and saw a little dog curled up on the sofa, motionless. I sat down next to him. His eyes were dark; his coat was dust. My throat hurt.
Outside, an orchestra was playing. It sounded like Vivaldi. I got up to fetch my violin and brought it to the front door, but when I reached for my keys I noticed a large book on the side-table there. It was opened to Hamlet. I picked it up and started to read.
I stood there for a long time in the doorway, reading and reading. I couldn’t put it down. I glanced back at the sofa, and although the little dog had disappeared, I could feel a Great Dane romping on a beach inside me.