Roaring by Jen Knox

The piercing came before the crunching, which preceded the sticky, pastiness of the yolk. Crying out, Ann hurled down a hammer fist, which ended up hurting her more than it did the marble counter top. The pain was coming from both extremities now. The limp body below her seemed to feel nothing. She plucked tiny pieces of glass from her heel. The frying pan was still on its hook. “Thank you, Jess,” Ann said, “Thank you for passing out before you turned on the burner. This is the last night I’ll put up with this shit. Hear? The last night!” Ann plugged in the vacuum and flipped the red switch. If they would have purchased the two-hundred dollar version Jessica wanted, it would be releasing a soft hum. This one was roaring. After all the glass and egg shells were sucked from the floor, Ann pushed it up near Jessica’s ear. A pasty cheek quivered but did not move. With clean, tingling feet, Ann closed the bedroom door, pushed herself under a thick blanket and tried to drown the noise of her thoughts. She settled herself into the rhythm of the roar, thinking that as soon as next week she would finally leave. It would be best for both of them, she was telling herself, when a delicate arm draped over her; tiny fingers tucked under her ribs, holding onto her gently, insistently.

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Wave by Jen Knox

The thing about a corner like this is that it doesn’t matter what city it’s in. It’s that corner from which you stand and see only a few bars, a convenience store, and a series of signs that promise if you buy two of something—boxes of cigarettes, bags of potato chips, two-liter bottles of soda—you get the third free. The thing about a corner like this is that if you drive by, or you’re stopped at the light and you glance out your car window, you can only think about the light turning green and where you need to be because that place is suddenly waiting for you. Because the thing about a corner like this is that it’s not going anywhere. It’s too common, too anonymous to loom. And if you live on a corner like this, at the core, you are too common, too anonymous to loom. So, if you live on a corner like this, wave at the people who drive by, smile at them, and take heart when they look surprised.

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Pose by Jen Knox

(in response to an impending Texas law) Legally-bound to pose for a picture, she was at a loss. For this moment, everything that led her here was erased. She knew that if she looked, everything would change. These were the odds. To now, she’d been vocal, fighting for a choice she never thought she’d have to make, alone, in a cold room. There was a simple image available, black and white; a simple sign outside, held by a sweet-looking elderly man she didn’t know; a simple guttural, emotional protest, both from within and imposed. There was all of this, and so she looked like she knew she would. This was her “choice.” The clustering of shades and the curved lines seemed to evaluate her. And it was here that she drowned, here that she realized no matter her choice, she would now live in that murky place where nothing was right because there were no rights. For this moment, she was in a cave, watching shadows, expected to make a decision as the shapes began to change meaning, if only ephemerally.

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