"The Plan" by Roger D'Agostin

I saw it when I was seven, when Joe Mitchell pushed me in the pool and laughed and
slapped his wet swim trunks until his hands turned red.
Not at first. After I sank, after Joe poked me with the skimming net.
There’s no light. People say that happens. It's not true. I did leave my body, though. I
watched Mrs. Mitchell turn me on my stomach and smack my back while my head hung over the pool filter and stared into the tangle of hair and bugs and leaves.
I saw everything.

***

At the trial, the lawyer told my mom if I crap not to change my diaper. But I didn’t go.
Even when Mrs. Mitchell said she hadn’t been drinking, and she checked for a pulse and
performed CPR.
It doesn’t matter. I’m never going to be me again. The only body part I can really
control is my right hand. But not my arm so I can’t scratch my nose. Or lift a spoon to eat
cereal.

***

Dad used to tell Mom the Lord works in mysterious ways. Mom would shake her head.
But it's true. When Mrs. Mitchell pounded my back I felt like I could walk right into that
tangled mess and begin to make sense of it all. But I didn’t have time. I rejoined my body. It's
like going down a water slide except there's no water which I now think is so ironic.

***

Mondays are bath days at the care center. Lately I’ve been the last one. That's good,
because the nurse isn't careful and I fall and see all this hair in the drain.

When it happened again and my hand landed over the drain I grabbed it. I held it the whole week until Saturday morning when Mom visited. She uncrinkled my fist and tiny white puffs of mold had blossomed like clouds. She screamed when she saw that paradise. Then she ran into the hallway to find Dad, so he could see too.

---

Roger D'Agostin is a writer living in Connecticut.

"Progress" by Arianna Smith

The skyscrapers pierced the close clouds; their reflections glittered on the surface of the bay.
“I don’t know anything about San Francisco,” the woman said. Her voice traveled on the water.
The guy pocketed his phone, and his face went dark. “You can learn.”
“Perhaps,” she said doubtfully. “SoCal will always be home.”
"Not for me.” His laugh was warm, even on this cold, damp night.
Your home is beautiful, she'd said at dusk, a year ago, up in that apartment on the fourteenth floor above downtown L.A.

It’s not home. It's just a rental for work, he’d murmured against her bare shoulder later, at dawn. “The place where I stay here is more beautiful,” he added now.
"You don't call that place home, either.”
"I would if you lived in it.”
She didn't blush at his words. Apparently she’d grown immune to the awkwardness of his raw honesty. The sole of her sneaker squealed against the dock railing. “If that's how you feel, then come back and live with me in Long Beach.” He turned his head toward her. The skyline was mirrored in the lenses of his glasses. His voice was low but warm this time. “Perhaps.”
She reached out to him and squeezed his hand.

"A Bug in the Design" by Simon A. Smith

My older brother, Jacob, announced at age eleven that he only desired two things in life. Harmony and affection. At twelve, he devised a meditation schedule that involved silent contemplation for one hour followed by another of “human embrasure.” He erected an elaborate tower of pillows and blankets, stacking them until the structure reached the top of his shoulders. Wiggling inside the fortress, he’d press tight to the walls, absorbing its downy clutches like a prolonged hug. The only thing visible above the padding was the top of Jacob’s head. His eyes fluttered. Somewhere beneath the puffy barriers, muffled cooing could be heard. While his theories were understandable, if not ingenious, the practice left us concerned and disturbed. Nobody knew how to approach him about it.

Last month, Jacob turned twenty-four. He still lives at home but leaves daily to visit the outdoor exercise stations at the local park where he trains himself to walk backward across balance beams and lie flat atop the monkey bars without flinching. On the way home, he asks strangers if they’d like to come over and join him for lunch. He told me that he offers to cook them whatever they want, and still nobody has ever accepted his invitation. This confuses and wounds him, which makes me feel like crawling into a giant hole and covering it with dirt.

A few days ago, Jacob noticed that our kitchen table was leaning to one side. He pulled a book of matches from the junk drawer and wedged it under one of the legs. When it continued wobbling, he added some napkins. He dragged it a couple feet to the left, thinking the floor had grown crooked. When it still teetered, he went mad. He taped a pin cushion to the bottom of one post, then sawed the bottom off another on the opposite side. He kept calling us in to show us his handiwork but then turning us away at the last second, realizing he still had more tinkering to do. He cursed and slapped himself. All night long we heard hammering and chiseling followed by anguished moans.

Yesterday, he hollered for us to come quick! He’d found the perfect solution, some mixture of locational stability and affixed materials for equilibrium. We rushed to the kitchen door, ready to fling it open in celebration, but something blocked our entrance. Jacob had slid the table against the frame for support.

“Come in!” he yelled. “You’ll be so proud!”

“We can’t,” Dad said. “You’ll have to move the table.”

“Impossible. It’s perfect. Wait until you see,” Jacob said. “You’ll love it.”

It went on like this, rattling and ramming the door for an unbearable amount of time. After several exhausting minutes, we gave up. Dad stepped back and slumped against the wall, sliding down to the carpet. I sat next to him.

  “I’m sure it’s incredible,” Dad said, “we can see it in our minds. Tell him," he whispered, elbowing my arm.

  “Yes,” I said, “I see it. It’s really something.”

  “You guys are coming, right?” Jacob said. “Guys?” 

 “It's incredible,” Dad said again. “That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s it...”

We closed our eyes. Dad grabbed my hand. Together, we took deep, shuddering breaths.

Simon A. Smith is a Chicago teacher and writer. His stories have appeared in many journals and media outlets, including Hobart, Whiskey Island, Chicago Public Radio, and NewCity. He is the author of two novels, Son of Soothsayer, and Wellton County Hunters. He lives in Rogers Park with his wife and son.