Swimming Sterility

HUBRIS CONTEST:

I’m a fish, except I swim between kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom.

I sterilize, wash, wipe, dry. Watch episodes of Barry and Curb Your Enthusiasm, semblances of entertainment before the virus.

I’m swimming in sterile fishbowls.

Some nights, I open windows. I absorb tree branches shifting, the tenderness of a fleeting breeze. I absorb the thump of distant speakers. Wear widened eagerness, an expression I thought I suppressed.

Some nights, I try to step out among bars, laughter, bodies.

Some nights I make it a block. Two, even.

But I retreat. Wide eyes sink into submission.

Brave fish are always doomed.From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. A native of Idaho, Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, and Ariel Chart, among others.

Mob Mentality

Samantha watched the rioters at a distance, curiosity piqued. An hour before, they'd been a united front, marching to the sound of protested chants. The pepper spray turned them into a mindless mass. The desire for destruction and an outlet for their frustration the only apparent bonds.

The police closed in, weapons raised, their eagerness to engage obvious even through their riot gear. The demonstrators scattered like water from a rock, splashing in all directions, following the path of least resistance.

Samantha was surprised to realize she'd never actually been an observer, but had always been part of the mob.