by Justin Karcher Trude Jonsson Stangel and squeeze into it in the fitting room. Walking out I feel like a better man everyone rubbing my stomach in praise. At the register the cashier exclaims it’s a special day where dashed dreams cost nothing at all. They glue an umbilical cord of wilted lotus flowers onto my belly button and then I’m pulled back into reality. In the parking lot the country is falling apart. This old woman is scooping up snow with a dustpan. I can hear her

by Justin Karcher Nicolas Caetano After the cast party, I’m walking with James and he points to the old house at the end of the block. “That’s a widow’s walk,” he tells me. “Sailors built them so their wives could watch for the return of their ships. The wives would watch and wait.” There isn’t a body of water nearby, but I don’t bring it up. Maybe there used to be. Maybe there was this terrifyingly large rain puddle that refused to evaporate. Maybe it took years for the sun