SORRY, WE'RE CLOSED

A Collection of Shorts on Close Confidants and Secrets Shared in Public Spaces Now Shuttered as Civil Liberties and Lives Lived in Previously Precarious Situations Ripe with Bitter Herbs that Burn Suddenly Collapse in Ruin. Coffee Shops Close. Close Confidants Cancel. Friend. Help. 

by Jen Schneider

Abortion rights advocates asked the Supreme Court on Saturday night to overturn part of the Texas governor’s sweeping ban on abortions during the coronavirus pandemic—the first of similar restrictions to reach the high court. Texas and several Republican-led states that have long led the legal battle to restrict abortion have sought to cut off access as the health crisis escalated in recent weeks, contending the procedure would drain medical resources. —Politico, April 11, 2020. Graphic: a frame from the comic strip “What We Do In a Crisis” by JB Brager at The Nib.

Three weeks late…

Can you talk? It’s urgent. 

Sure, let’s meet at 2. The usual spot.

Thank you, friend.

Secrets shared around tiny, cluttered wood tables. Laden with initials

etched as markers of time and trust, steaming mugs of cocoa—decaf, 

of course,—circular plates of rectangular toast, and square pats of butter. 

Nearby, glass cases protect cinnamon glazed pastries, petit-fours in pale

pinks, greens, and blues, and everything bagels with smears of chive

and onion cream cheese. Origami folded napkins stacked high. Ready.

All perfectly posed and poised for patrons, confidants, and shared secrets.

Public spaces 

pull necessary truths 

outward in shared spaces 

built of security and safety.

Steam soaked air shields salt-soaked tears and paves a path for pure 

talk. Honest voices pour over real options. Plans. Denim clad legs locked 

to silence shaking knees. Brown eyes close quickly as pent up breath 

releases pressing Truth: I need help. Now. A weekend away, one meant 

to heal wounds and smooth scars, turned soft tissue into hard calluses. 

Weak spots and weaknesses for lost laughter and sentimental talk, yield 

decisions with consequences. My regular clock stopped ticking. New life beats.

Now I know. I am in trouble. With bills already unpaid and tempers

that flare daily, I need help. A life in fear of daily taunts, weekly affronts,

and constant slights is a life mine own but not one I choose for the life 

that brews within when the capacity without is full.

As words whimper and fade, secret codes speak clearly. Pointer finger 

taps twice for Yes. Ring finger taps once for No.

Code conveyed on coffee-stained napkins as speakers stream classic rock 

tunes and patron chatter fuels and fires blankets that shield fresh wounds.

Have you told him? Yes. 

What did he say? No.

Are you sure? Yes.

I’ll go with you. 

Thank you, friend.

Three weeks later...

Can you meet? Please. 

I can’t. Nor can you. 

Are you safe? Can we meet online?

Let’s try. Thank you, friend.

Secrets mouthed over cluttered linoleum tabletop piled high with envelopes 

hosting bills overdue and pot-filled sink backdrops. Dog howls and television 

talk filter through climate-controlled air. Shadows loom and linger in adjacent 

room out of view—beyond reach and touch.

Private spaces 

push necessary truths 

inward in shared spaces 

ripe of insecurity and fear

Fingers fiddle chipped coffee cup—a gift from years prior—as laptop screens 

twitch and glitch. Friendly face emerges in pixelated view. Fingers lock and unlock 

in solitary fashion. Seek fodder, find fear. Newfound fears simmer like the skinned potatoes that drop, then boil, on the electric stove. Naked. Alone. Words mouthed 

in hushed whispers. When words endanger, secret codes speak clearly. 

Right eye blinks twice for Yes. Once for No. 

Procedures deemed no longer urgent as domains of urgency morph 

into spheres set for others to determine. Appointments stalled then paused.

Now ceased. Fears of drained medical resources drain safety nets—and sanity. 

Office shuttered. Governor said No.

Wait. What? Say that again. I can’t hear you.

Drained safety. Drained sanity. Don’t know what else to do.

Messages flick across digital screens. Internet connections also unstable. 

Now lost. Faces freeze. Blink. Blip. Disappear. Shadows from rooms 

adjacent loom larger. Closer. Close. Here. 

Three o’clock. Today.

As thoughts and lives beat on—consumed with an unplanned and uncertain 

future—the usual turns extraordinary and days marked by patterns etched 

in previously fine-turned moves and moods—turn unpredictable, close 

confidants and coffee shop camaraderie turn essential though forbidden.

Civil liberties in question. 

Threads fray as ropes tighten. 

Throats, Bellies, Hearts ache. Help.

Jen Schneider is an educator, attorney, and writer. She lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Philadelphia. Recent work appears in The Popular Culture Studies Journal, Bat City Review, Zingara Poetry Review, Streetlight Magazine, Chaleur Magazine, LSE Review of Books, and other literary and scholarly journals. 

BETRAYAL

by Beth McKim

by EvanOfTheYukon at Reddit.

To think I trusted you all that time.
From the first, I revealed intimacies:
what I ate (and with whom), where I went

(and with whom), my sacred political views,
the deaths of my parents, birthday greetings,
family photographs, reunions with friends,
exotic travel plans. In other words, touts

of the good parts of my life. You seemed
to be my friend, asked only for a personality
test, occasionally, to display my narcissism.

You were sterling, helped me renew friendships,
introduce beloved newborns to our world,
confirm my wit and smarts to everyone.
Now I am shocked, baffled by your betrayal

of my love. You apparently sought the money,
sold my secrets to the most lucrative bidder,
placed my finances in jeopardy,  traitorously

sabotaged a presidential election, made fools
of us all. And suddenly, you want me to pay
for protection against thieves.  Not on your
life.  I’ll miss you the way we miss habits

thwarted . But I won’t have the pressure to record
my life for the world to admire. You’ll never know I’m
gone. Goodbye Facebook, my unfaithful friend.


Beth McKim is a writer and actress. Her poetry, essays, and  short stories have been widely published in anthologies and literary magazines.

GHOSTS IN THE MACHINE

by Devon Balwit

There are so many ghosts in our machines—their locations so hidden, their methods so ingenious, their motives so inscrutable—that not to feel haunted is not to be awake.  —Walter Kirn, The Atlantic, November 2015

                                                                                                         
We dish dirt over drinks—husbands, work,
yearnings—the room so crowded I yell

to be heard, but still wish our phones
elsewhere, mics disabled, wish everyone’s

locked away, apps always asking
for locations, each talking to the other

in a digital chorus, strands in an unseen web,
vibrating. When the photos in my feed

echo, the upflung arms of child mirrored
in an abstract painting, or when memes

ripple outwards, themes kaleidoscoped
myriad, this is no accident,

the fancy of my poetic nature. Like a
kook in a backwoods cabin, I mutter

about the eye in the sky, but know
my needle port already inserted,

perhaps now running saline, but
at any time opiates or annihilation.

Each keystroke resonates elsewhere,
saved in cold storage by the NSA

in Utah or somewhere in Russia, fodder
for the clever, data points in the on-going

experiment. We’ve been turned inside out,
pockets filched of coin. A single finger

can undo us, and, like any with a knife
pressed so intimately, we obey.

Devon Balwit is a writer/teacher from Portland, OR. Her poems have appeared in TheNewVerse.News, Poets Reading the News, Redbird Weekly Reads, Rise-Up Review, Rat's Ass Review, The Rising Phoenix Review, Mobius, What Rough Beast, and more.