The stories in this volume compose FAB = -FBA, the second volume of SUM FLUX. See more stories, and check out the authors featured in this edition here.
Just so you know, the wall hasn’t changed. The Wile E. Coyote cutout of my hindside still yawns in the basement, lurking behind a faux Pollock monstrosity. When I’m threadbare and touch-starved I come down and peel off the Maxxinista’s scab to let our holy wound drink new air. Sometimes it winks and speaks with wet vowels, charming me close to finger its insulatory pink and relive the night I lost my balance.
You always said my memory’s shit but I’ll try my best. It was a Friday, I think—a Friday in the lion half of March. We got greasy spaghetti from the ramshackle food truck down the block. It’s late and the merlot has us jitterbugging to Rembrandt Pussyhorse. You’re giggling on your drink-stained high horse, “You can’t dance for shit!”
I gulp a mouthful and belch, “pshh, you’re just jealous!” Your eyes flash a sarcastic white yeah? as you stomp and twirl and salchow. You consummate your peacocking with a graceful and you? wrist flick. And I go. And I am great. You blow your raspberries and spurt more twists, and splits, and apple jacks. I raspberry you back and go. And I am rocket-fueled flesh but middlejitter my heel comes down hard on one of Tuna’s slobbery rawhides and there I go, backscattering down the sawtooth stairs.
I hit ass first. Butthole Surfers slam-dance the wall, jiggling my love handles. I’m bent forward, seated in Thinker pose with gypsum birdies pecking my temples. Tuna nearly trips on her jowls as she gallops down, haunching up to lick drywall off daddy’s cheeks. I go to scritch her head but my arms are pinned between studs. You’re upstairs in the threshold, pale light at your back, doubled over and cackling, an eel-sized spaghetto swinging from your nostril.
It’s all here.
It’s all gone.
Some things are stickier than others. Some give up the ghost on word one and others flip Time the bird hollering, MINE! MINE! MINE! as they flex inertia. Case in point: your seafoam Big Chill’s gone, but our brass pineapple’s still nailed over the porch door; their ersatz oak secretary sits where our STÄLL used to, but the east-facing bathroom still stinks of iron.
Do you think they know about the bathroom?
On Fridays, when the pup’s at daycare, I prop the window and sit in the tub interrogating the drain. Where did you take her blood? Is there some left in the septic? Did she cry? Was it quick?
Some days the drain forces me into a naked downward dog. I wait, ass-up for the drain’s clover leaf teeth to tickle my corneas into sight. Beneath the black sludge of strange hair is the pool of our dream home, its hydrant-red waters lapping at just-brushed coping as our pipe dream kiddies ride pool noodle Nessies. We’re side by side in matching recliners, cheesing through Cheshires. What did we agree on? For the boy, Liam? and the girl, Oakley? Mia? Molly?
Did you want me to find you?
I’m not sure what day it is, but I know it’s not Friday, and I’m at the wall, here, sitting Indian, staring in the dark punch of my old self, letting your breath queef from the maw to redden my winter frail cheeks. I know you’re in there. When I’m real still I see the red spec of your Newport buzzing in the void. When I’m real quiet I hear your music box laugh. When I’m—
…
I know, I know… it’s been too long, way too long and, shit, that's on me. I’m sorry, babe it’s just—well it’s been tough, and I’ve been putting it off because you know how I hate being a downer, but it’s—it’s just something you need to hear from me: our little Tuna’s gone. It was quick. She fought tooth and nail but this morning the lymphoma melted our poor girl into sleep. I guess you already know? Maybe you’re giving her some scritches right now. Make sure to get her ear for me. You probably—
…
What?
…
Yeah, she was hurting. She was a trazodone zombie these last few days, not herself, staring up with those—
…
No, I don’t want to dance right now. I didn’t come to be the butt of your jokes, not tonight—
…
Hmm?
…
No, babe, I’m not mad at you, don’t think that. It’s just—it’s pretty late, and I got to get up early.
I walk to the Pollock, stooping to get my hands around it. I lift with my hips and crabwalk the scab up against the wall listening for the twangy chomp of hanger jaw on frame wire.
That’s when I feel the Maxxinista’s breath on my shoulder, her hummingbird heart strumming her larynx as she whispers, “My husband says next time we’re calling the cops.”
The wire latches and I let go. The damned thing's askew. It's not my problem; it looks better this way. Her floral stench chafes the back of my eyes, sandblasts my nape with gooseflesh—you remember pulling up outside my place that first night?
…
Ha! Of course you do! I don’t know why I never told you this but when I was walking to your car, I caught you fixing your hair and picking your nose in the rearview. I’ll always wonder what you did with that booger when I opened the door and you jumped, and our eyes met, and we both knew. Did you wipe it on your pants? Under the seat? Do you think it’s still there?
“Or should I just call them now?”
I could overpower her. Throw her to the ground and drive my knee between those fake tits and vise my hands around her turkey bitch neck and squeeze and spit and crack her bitch skull against concrete,“WHERE THE FUCK IS IT?!” She’d gurgle up some bullshit “what?" I’d backhand her and hock a green one down her bitch throat. “THE MOTHERFUCKING FRIDGE! THE BIG FUCKING SEAFOAM-MOTHERFUCKING GODDAMN BIG CHILL!” She’d squirm and bawl and squeak nonsense about her kids, exchanging her guts for imagined mercy. When she said all there is to say I’d snap her bitch neck anyway and go upstairs and stay the night in the master for old times’ sake, but not tonight. I’m not in the mood.
I clench my fists and smile at her bitch face and start up the stairs. I’m in no rush. I’m running my hand over the unfinished banister—the one you were supposed to varnish but left nude. I’m sorry I yelled at you about that. You’re right. It’s lovely the way it is. Rustic even. I stumble up on limp ivy legs, eyes trained on the threshold, teeth tickling with the hope that when I meet the amber hardwood I’ll look down and find your writhing nose noodle racing towards me.
 | A guest post by
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This is a fever dream in the best way. The more times you read the more is revealed.
I really like what @Andrew Robert Colom and @Emil Ottoman are doing in terms of trying to raise the bar on conversation around work on Substack.
I liked "old times" so much that I wrote a whole poem about it! I hope it helps readers. I was very taken aback by "old times." I find it repulsive, a sick little pup I just couldn't touch. And then I read it again. And again. The charm of the language is Chaucerian and the density is Pynchonian. There: I said it. I think it’s true . . .
This is only one possible interpretation of Will's story. There are many other, equally valid interpretations/responses.
Chime in with other others. I could not put my response into words so I wrote a poem:
https://brocke.substack.com/p/not-friday