by Stella Lei Chris Chow 1) Stabscotch. Bishop. Nerve. A million names for pressing our palms in dirt and stabbing between our outstretched fingers—an interlocking of sharpened air. We graduated from pencils to pocketknives as crabgrass choked our feet, our backyard a minefield of wounds. Knees denting against gravel, we danced our blades faster and timed how long we could go before metal met flesh and blood watered the weeds, sky splintering on our necks. Our emptiness flaye