Until the night we’re cooking dinner, and I’m watching
the water boil, and I can’t stand it anymore: We need
a bed. I don’t know why this is such a thing with you.
And Jacob, knife poised over a tomato, says, It’s not a
thing.
Don’t play dumb—I’m tired of this.
And you think a mattress will help? he says.
I pick up the nearest bowl and fling it at the floor.
Jacob jumps a little and says, What the—
It’s a bed, Jacob. Why is that so fucking hard for you to
understand? I start to cry—I don’t want to—I can’t help it.
He puts the knife down and stoops to pick up the pieces
of the bowl. We’re both barefoot. He gets the trash, throws
the bigger pieces in, gets the broom. I stand there, sniffling.
Like a girl.
He puts his arms around me, strokes my hair.
I should’ve kept my word, I say.
He steps back, takes my chin in his hand. About what?
Not letting you touch me till we got a mattress.
He sighs, and my whole body stiffens at that sigh, and
then he says, I’ll get you a mattress. I’ll get it tomorrow.
I’m pregnant, I say, and he steps back like it’s contagious.
We stare at each other, in this awful way, all my tears
gone, and what I’ve suspected for over a month, and known
for sure since yesterday, settles around us.
What about—? he says.
What about it? It’s not foolproof,Isay. But who’s the fool
here, him or me?
What are we gonna do, he says, and he sits down.
What I am going to do, I say, is go to the clinic, and—
We should talk about it, Jacob says. He takes my hand,
tries to pull me closer.
I already made the appointment. There’s nothing to talk
about.
Jacob knows this, I know he knows this, but his head
sags. He flexes and unflexes his hands—they’re so elegant,
like bird wings—and says, Just tell me what you need.
I need a bed, I say, and he nods, like maybe he finally

ntil the night we’re cooking dinner, and I’m watching
the water boil, and I can’t stand it anymore: We need
a bed. I don’t know why this is such a thing with you.
And Jacob, knife poised over a tomato, says, It’s not a
thing.
Don’t play dumb—I’m tired of this.
And you think a mattress will help? he says.
I pick up the nearest bowl and fling it at the floor.
Jacob jumps a little and says, What the—
It’s a bed, Jacob. Why is that so fucking hard for you to
understand? I start to cry—I don’t want to—I can’t help it.
He puts the knife down and stoops to pick up the pieces
of the bowl. We’re both barefoot. He gets the trash, throws
the bigger pieces in, gets the broom. I stand there, sniffling.
Like a girl.
He puts his arms around me, strokes my hair.
I should’ve kept my word, I say.
He steps back, takes my chin in his hand. About what?
Not letting you touch me till we got a mattress.
He sighs, and my whole body stiffens at that sigh, and
then he says, I’ll get you a mattress. I’ll get it tomorrow.
I’m pregnant, I say, and he steps back like it’s contagious.
We stare at each other, in this awful way, all my tears
gone, and what I’ve suspected for over a month, and known
for sure since yesterday, settles around us.
What about—? he says.
What about it?It’s not foolproof,Isay. But who’sthe fool
here, him or me?
What are we gonna do, he says, and he sits down.
What I am going to do, I say, is go to the clinic, and—
We should talk about it, Jacob says. He takes my hand,
tries to pull me closer.
I already made the appointment. There’s nothing to talk
about.
Jacob knows this, I know he knows this, but his head
sags. He flexes and unflexes his hands—they’re so elegant,
like bird wings—and says, Just tell me what you need.
I need a bed, I say, and he nods, like maybe he finally

ntil the night we’re cooking dinner, and I’m watching
the water boil, and I can’t stand it anymore: We need
a bed. I don’t know why this is such a thing with you.
And Jacob, knife poised over a tomato, says, It’s not a
thing.
Don’t play dumb—I’m tired of this.
And you think a mattress will help? he says.
I pick up the nearest bowl and fling it at the floor.
Jacob jumps a little and says, What the—
It’s a bed, Jacob. Why is that so fucking hard for you to
understand? I start to cry—I don’t want to—I can’t help it.
He puts the knife down and stoops to pick up the pieces
of the bowl. We’re both barefoot. He gets the trash, throws
the bigger pieces in, gets the broom. I stand there, sniffling.
Like a girl.
He puts his arms around me, strokes my hair.
I should’ve kept my word, I say.
He steps back, takes my chin in his hand. About what?
Not letting you touch me till we got a mattress.
He sighs, and my whole body stiffens at that sigh, and
then he says, I’ll get you a mattress. I’ll get it tomorrow.
I’m pregnant, I say, and he steps back like it’s contagious.
We stare at each other, in this awful way, all my tears
gone, and what I’ve suspected for over a month, and known
for sure since yesterday, settles around us.
What about—? he says.
What about it?It’s not foolproof,Isay. But who’sthe fool
here, him or me?
What are we gonna do, he says, and he sits down.
What I am going to do, I say, is go to the clinic, and—
We should talk about it, Jacob says. He takes my hand,
tries to pull me closer.
I already made the appointment. There’s nothing to talk
about.
Jacob knows this, I know he knows this, but his head
sags. He flexes and unflexes his hands—they’re so elegant,
like bird wings—and says, Just tell me what you need.
I need a bed, I say, and he nods, like maybe he finally

gets it. Not that it matters right now. All the padding in the
world won’t make this landing any softer

Jacob holds the front door, so I go in first. There, in
place of our sleeping bags, is a bed. A mattress and
frame and quilt and matching pillowcases.
Big, I say.
He goes over and pulls back the covers. He says, Get in.
And even though my whole body aches, even though
I’m crampy and bleeding and more exhausted than I’ve ever
been in my entire life, I don’t move.
Jacob’s face betrays nothing like sadness or shame. Do
you like it? he says.
Where’d it come from?
He walked through the protesters with me, sat in the
waiting room, still clutches the sheet of care instructions. If
you develop a fever. If you bleed through more than three thick
pads in three hours. If you pass gray, green, or white tissue.
Dan brought it, Jacob says.
He bought us a bed?
I bought it, Jacob says. He delivered it.
Takethe antibiotics you weresent home with. Take over-thecounter painkillers as needed.
I know I should say thank you. But my mind’s stuck on
the story Jane told me over the holidays, about a mother of
hers whose baby stopped moving inside at seven months.
How the woman carried it to term, how the labor dragged
on, how the baby arrived blue-lipped, with ten delicate fingers and ten delicate toes. And I think of how long the woman waited, just to have that still form placed in her arms.
Jacob says, You need rest.
He unlaces my shoes and pulls my feet out of them. I get
in between the sheets. Blue. They smell brand-new, creased
in perfect rectangles.
He says, Do you need anything? and when I shake my
head, he lies down behind me.
Resume your normal activities the following day.
You made the right choice, he says.
Avoid anything that causes pain.

You’ll be a good mother someday, he says.
You’re not helping, I say.
He loops his arm around me, rests his hand on my belly.
But it causes pain, and I move away.

---

This selection comes from What Shines from It., available from Alternating Current Arts. Purchase your copy here! Our curator for this selection is Gokul Prabhu.

SARA RAUCH’s fiction and essays have appeared in Paper Darts, Hobart, Split Lip, So to Speak, Qu, Lunch Ticket, and other literary magazines, as well as in the anthologies Dear John, I Love Jane; Best Lesbian Romance 2014; and She’s Lost Control. She has covered books for Bustle, BitchMedia, Curve Magazine, Lambda Literary, The Rumpus, and more. In 2012, she founded the literary magazine Cactus Heart, which ran through 2016. She holds an MFA from Pacific University. Sara teaches writing at Pioneer Valley Writers’ Workshop and Grub Street and also works as an independent editor and manuscript consultant. What Shines from It, which won the Electric Book Award, is Sara’s first book. She lives with her family in Holyoke, Massachusetts. Find her online at sararauch.com, on Twitter at @sararauch, and on Instagram at @sara__rauch.

Gokul Prabhu is a graduate of Ashoka University, India, with a Postgraduate Diploma in English and creative writing. He works as an administrator and teaching assistant for the Writing and Communication facility at 9dot9 Education, and assists in academic planning for communication, writing and critical thinking courses across several higher-ed institutes in India. Prabhu’s creative and academic work fluctuates between themes of sexuality and silence, and he hopes to be a healthy mix of writer, educator and journalist in the future. He occasionally scribbles book reviews and interviews authors for Scroll.in, an award-winning Indian digital news publication.

After the holidays, a cold snap turned the sky to flint.
Kellie’d gone home for break, and I paced the apartment, my window open a crack to blow smoke out of.
After a few days of waiting, I went downstairs and knocked
on Tommy’s door.
He answered, said, Oh, you’re here, I didn’t realize.
Though he knew I’d only be out of town for a week, same as
him.
Can I come in?
He hesitated. I’m about to get lunch. He backed into the
apartment, and I followed him, the door banging shut. I’m
going to Burger King, he said. Then I have stuff to do.
I said, I’ll go with you. I could use the air.
Fine, he said. Where’s your coat?
Upstairs.
I’ll meet you in the lobby, he said.
We walked, he a little faster than I, toward Broadway.
It’ll snow soon, I said.
You think, he said.
I listened to the weather, I said.
I got a table while Tommy ordered. He sat and unwrapped his food, and I studied the people around us—a girl
younger than me bottle-feeding a baby; an old man in a
newsie cap; two cleanup workers huddling over their trays,
the fluorescent lights magnifying the shadows beneath their
eyes, the corners of their mouths pinched down. I wanted to
be anywhere but here.
Tommy ate his Whopper, watching the wall of televisions behind me, before he said, How long have we been seeing each other?
I counted back, said, Two months next week. Why?
Because I don’t want to anymore, he said. He shoved the
last bite into his mouth, finally focusing on me as he chewed.
There’s no arguing with that, is there, I said. I grabbed a
napkin and folded it into a loose cherry blossom.
He plucked it from my hands, examined it, let it flutter
down onto his tray. You’re an unusual girl, he said.
Did I do something wrong?
He removed his glasses and wiped them and put them
back on. I’m just—not feeling this anymore.
You don’t get points for honesty, I said and crossed my

arms over my chest.
He said, Are you ready to go?
I said, I’ll stay here.
He stood and walked out.
I moved to where Tommy had been sitting. The TVs
were all tuned to the same channel. On the screens a blond
woman with upswept hair stood beside images of the Towers belching smoke, her hands and mouth moving without
sound. Then images of Afghani men with kufi on their heads
crouching on desolate earth. A ticking scroll of names and
numbers beneath.
For a long time, I watched the frames flicker and repeat.
The thing that transfixed me was the smoke, how it billowed, blackening the air. How the people stepping out of it
covered in ash appeared so unsolid that an exhale might
blow them away. How that dust still hung suspended in the
air, how it slipped into the slimmest of spaces. How it clung
to each of us.
Back outside, enormous snowflakes blew down like
scraps of paper. I stood and let them pelt my cheeks. Then I
lit a cigarette and, bowing my head, made for home.

Last suitcase packed, set by the door, you drift through
the empty apartment, one final sweep. Running your
fingertips along the windowsill, you think you will not
miss this place. You will not miss this dust.
But the ghosts have become hitchhikers. You will discover them unpacking in another borough, another city, another state. They prefer the folds of hoodies, the grooves of
shoe soles, the corkscrew and bottle opener. They travel
light, with no particular destination.
Ghosts are like seeds that way, and they’ve sewn themselves into you.
Your body a field ripe for planting.
You wait, biding your time, until you burst into bloom.

---

This selection comes from What Shines from It., available from Alternating Current Arts. Purchase your copy here! Our curator for this selection is Gokul Prabhu.

SARA RAUCH’s fiction and essays have appeared in Paper Darts, Hobart, Split Lip, So to Speak, Qu, Lunch Ticket, and other literary magazines, as well as in the anthologies Dear John, I Love Jane; Best Lesbian Romance 2014; and She’s Lost Control. She has covered books for Bustle, BitchMedia, Curve Magazine, Lambda Literary, The Rumpus, and more. In 2012, she founded the literary magazine Cactus Heart, which ran through 2016. She holds an MFA from Pacific University. Sara teaches writing at Pioneer Valley Writers’ Workshop and Grub Street and also works as an independent editor and manuscript consultant. What Shines from It, which won the Electric Book Award, is Sara’s first book. She lives with her family in Holyoke, Massachusetts. Find her online at sararauch.com, on Twitter at @sararauch, and on Instagram at @sara__rauch.

Gokul Prabhu is a graduate of Ashoka University, India, with a Postgraduate Diploma in English and creative writing. He works as an administrator and teaching assistant for the Writing and Communication facility at 9dot9 Education, and assists in academic planning for communication, writing and critical thinking courses across several higher-ed institutes in India. Prabhu’s creative and academic work fluctuates between themes of sexuality and silence, and he hopes to be a healthy mix of writer, educator and journalist in the future. He occasionally scribbles book reviews and interviews authors for Scroll.in, an award-winning Indian digital news publication.

Solstice morning dawns drizzly, and still no word about the baby. I’m starting to wonder if Stella doesn’t plan to mention it at all while we’re here. We’re packing to head to Bolinas when Agnes says that I’ll have to be careful this year. I must look confused because she continues, The veil is so thin on this night. It’d be really easy to slip through, and end up in a life you don’t want. She smiles and hands me a holly wreath. You have to resist the temptation to let things happen to you.
I carry the wreath out to the borrowed Toyota, wondering if I’d have more of a backbone if Agnes had been my mother. I head inside to grab my own bag—double-checked to make sure the flask was still inside—thinking that if Agnes were my mother, I wouldn’t have to tote such a silly
talisman around. Not that it matters. We all have our attachments. Even Stella, who thinks she’s transcended the power of objects, can’t go anywhere without her zafu. Comfort, my
ass. She calls it practice, but I know an avoidance technique when I see one.
Once the rusty wagon is loaded, we drive up the 1, singing along to old Joni Mitchell cassette tapes. Wolf drives because Stella doesn’t want to, and Agnes, like me, doesn’t have a license, though I would guess hers didn’t get revoked because of crashing a friend’s car into a tree at the age of 19
after a night of heavy drinking. I haven’t driven since and have no plans to. Stella doesn’t know about the accident or how I was told I was lucky to survive. She thinks I let my license lapse after moving to the city, and I’ve never felt any need to enlighten her otherwise. If we move west, I wonder,
will I have to come clean?
As we unload beneath the redwoods, I feel, like I always
do here: tiny. An ant. Like I’m the most insignificant creature ever to step on this earth.
Ocean waves crash below, the tide rolling in, the noise
rising to the yurt where we’ll be camping out for the night.
Agnes’ friend, Jade, is a longhaired widow with watery green
eyes and a wavering smile. She looks as if the damp air has
entered every pore and plumped her from the inside out, no
wrinkles on her placid face. We’re the first to arrive for the
celebration, and she takes Agnes’ arm and leads her up to
the main house. Something about yarrow poultice.
Stella and Wolf carry everything into the yurt, and then
Stella comes out with her face vacant of any emotion, which
is, truthfully, how she’s spent most of this trip in regard to
me, and says, Let’s go for a walk.
Sure, I say and remember the seal from the other day. I
never told her about it, but given that she won’t meet my eye
as we head down to the shore, I can’t see that I want to now.
I keep a lookout on the water, though, hoping for more.
About the wine, Stella finally says.
I didn’t drink it, I say.
She rubs her forehead. Was I imagining the smell?
I— but what can I tell her that doesn’t sound ridiculous?
I took one sip. I choked. I’m sorry.
Stella looks out over the waves, wind whipping hair
across her cheeks. You’re pregnant, and you promised.
So did you.
Stella blends with the landscape, her shirt the same
silver-green as the beach grass. Even her body, the angular
length of it, fits here. I did, she says. I’m worried it’s too
much.
Her words deflate me. What’s too much—the baby?
I’m worried about moving while you’re pregnant. All
that stress.
I’m already stressed.
What about work? Our friends? What about your dad?
I thought we agreed the city is no place to raise a kid.
I guess I thought you might change your mind, you
know, once it took.
I touch my belly, which feels as choppy as the surf. Isay,
I want this.
Stella stares at the horizon, her expression unreadable.
Agnes will be so happy, she says.
I want to say, And what about you? But before I can
gather the nerve, she walks away up the beach and climbs
the wooden stairs. I keep along the water, despite the chill,
hoping for another seal. As if I might find an answer in its
liquid black eyes.

At dusk, we light the candles. Agnes starts the chant,
and the others join in. She leads us in honoring the
darkness and welcoming the light. She asks us to witness the shadow side, to understand its usefulness, to remember that without it, the light has no meaning. The
candles flicker to the cadence of Agnes’ voice, and there’s
this little twitch in my gut. I know the baby isn’t more than a
poppy seed, that there’s nothing, at this point, for me to feel
beyond my own hunger, but the flutter doesn’t let up. I press

my hand over it, wondering what it wants—wondering
what, after all, I want.
When we’re done in the circle, we break to eat and revel
around the fire. I can’t stop thinking about the flask, and
finally I retrieve it from the yurt. Stella’s watching me as I
come back toward the fire, and she squints to see what I’m
carrying. Has she always been watching so intently? Have I
been dancing with shadows all this time, obscuring my own
vision? I hold the flask out to her.
What’s going on? Stella asks, taking it.
I’m giving this to you, for now.
Kristen, you don’t need to—
I made a promise.
Stella rubs the engravings with her thumb and exhales
the same way I hear her do after a long meditation session,
then says, Farewell, New York City.
We can visit. Maybe head to Buffalo for the holidays.
Then, either with relief or fatigue or hormones, I start to cry.
You’re really sure of this, aren’t you?
I nod, too overwhelmed to say more.
Stella wraps her arms around me and says, I shouldn’t have doubted.

The next morning, groggy and smelling of woodsmoke,
we reload the Toyota and drive north to the state
park. The trees are massive, deep red like brick and as
solid. I stand and look up, look up the way I used to into my
mother’s unknowable face, but here I find awe, not fear.
Agnes says, Let’s hug the tree.
She’s been jubilant and overprotective since we broke
the news. I almost laugh, thinking she’s joking, but Stella
and Wolf take my hands, and we form a circle around the
base of the tree. I press my cheek, my belly, against the rough
bark and exhale. Nothing has ever felt so real.
We stand this way until Agnes, then Stella, then Wolf,
start chanting. I don’t know the words, and for once I don’t
let it bother me. The deal is sealed. I let the vibration fill me,
buoying the bubble in my belly. I’ll learn.

---

This selection comes from What Shines from It., available from Alternating Current Arts. Purchase your copy here! Our curator for this selection is Gokul Prabhu.

SARA RAUCH’s fiction and essays have appeared in Paper Darts, Hobart, Split Lip, So to Speak, Qu, Lunch Ticket, and other literary magazines, as well as in the anthologies Dear John, I Love Jane; Best Lesbian Romance 2014; and She’s Lost Control. She has covered books for Bustle, BitchMedia, Curve Magazine, Lambda Literary, The Rumpus, and more. In 2012, she founded the literary magazine Cactus Heart, which ran through 2016. She holds an MFA from Pacific University. Sara teaches writing at Pioneer Valley Writers’ Workshop and Grub Street and also works as an independent editor and manuscript consultant. What Shines from It, which won the Electric Book Award, is Sara’s first book. She lives with her family in Holyoke, Massachusetts. Find her online at sararauch.com, on Twitter at @sararauch, and on Instagram at @sara__rauch.

Gokul Prabhu is a graduate of Ashoka University, India, with a Postgraduate Diploma in English and creative writing. He works as an administrator and teaching assistant for the Writing and Communication facility at 9dot9 Education, and assists in academic planning for communication, writing and critical thinking courses across several higher-ed institutes in India. Prabhu’s creative and academic work fluctuates between themes of sexuality and silence, and he hopes to be a healthy mix of writer, educator and journalist in the future. He occasionally scribbles book reviews and interviews authors for Scroll.in, an award-winning Indian digital news publication.

Calla followed Audrey into the loft. Music blared across the near-empty space in front of the DJ’s
booth. Clutches of people stood scattered around the room. It’s just a party, Calla thought. I can handle it. Music coursed through her. The scar twitched. She’d swallowed a
pain pill before coming—the first one she’d taken in over a month.
A woman appeared and threw her hands in the air, exclaiming and wrapping her arms around Audrey: You came!

LuLu. She wore a tube dress, her shoulders dusted with
glitter so she shimmered like a disco ball. Both arms loaded
with bangles, jingling and glinting.
This must be your roommate, she said, turning to Calla.
Calla extended her hand quickly, before LuLu could
hug her.
LuLu dragged them to the kitchen, a corner cordoned
off with curtains.
You live here? Calla asked, surveying the stack of takeout coffee cups and empty beer bottles.
Not technically, but yeah, mostly. Whatddya want—
beer?
Calla held up her hands. I’m fine. LuLu said, Really?
Really, Calla said. The racket in her stomach grew fiercer.
She can’t drink because of her medication, Audrey said.
I’d love a beer.
LuLu said, Oh, there’s Polly and Dylan—I’ll be right
back. She fluttered away, hands waving with excitement.
Calla raised an eyebrow at Audrey.
What? Audrey said.
Number one: she’s Ruth’s doppelgänger. Number two:
those bracelets are obnoxious. Number three: definitely straight.
How do you know?
I’m not blinded by lust. She’s got no edge.
You’re all edge, and you’re straight.
Different edge, and you know it.
We’ll see, Audrey said, drinking her beer.
You’ll see, Calla said. I have already seen.
LuLu came back with Dylan and a girl with dark hair
cropped close and a set of blue eyes as serious as a stun gun.
LuLu said, Polly, this is Audrey—the one I was telling you
about. Audrey and Calla, Polly and her brother—
Dylan, Calla and Audrey said.
Hi, he said.
This valley is so damn small, LuLu said.
Well, Lu, you do know everyone in it, Dylan said.
Don’t sass me, LuLu said, swatting his arm. Let’s dance. Audrey and Polly followed her across the floor. Dylan

and Calla stared at each other. There it was again, his eyes
seeing right into her. What a mess.
Are you okay? he said. You look pale.
I’m always pale, Calla said.
Fine, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Do you need
water?
Maybe just to sit down.
Dylan led her along the back wall, behind the DJ, to a
little door, which opened into a windowless room that contained a futon and a TV.
She sat on the futon. Dylan sat next to her. His thigh
touched hers, and she leaned away.
About the other night, I wanted to talk—
We don’t need to, Calla said.
The music vibrated the walls. Calla wrapped her arms
around her body, trying to quiet the thrashing inside her.
She wanted to take off her jeans and be in her own bed with
the lights out and none of this happening.
I like you, Calla.
Please, don’t.
And I know you’ve been through a lot, but—
I can’t.
Why?
It’s too weird for me, too soon.
If you’re worried about what I saw, you shouldn’t be.
My body is ruined.
That’s not true, Dylan said.
You’re not a doctor. You don’t know, Calla said. She
pressed her hand to her scar and felt the thudding, anxious
and red-tinged, inside her.
I do know.
Calla looked at Dylan, his mismatched eyes, his crooked
nose, his shock of black hair. She wanted him, and she
wanted him to go away. You know I’m barren? she said. That
my fiancé abandoned me?That my best friend is camped out
on my couch with no intention of leaving? Calla stood. The
room wobbled like a funhouse mirror. She said, This is too
much for me.
Dylan reached for her hand. Wait.
I can’t.
She opened the door and went out into the main room.

People everywhere. Strobe lights flashing. She pushed into
the crowd. Everyone was smiling, drinking, gyrating, beatific, blissful, letting the waves ofsound and light wash over
them, and all Calla could think of was a crash. A crash like
water curling around her, sucking her under. A crash like
the car skidding slow-motion across the icy pavement away
from the startled deer and rolling until a tree stopped it, and
the crunch and the crush and the shatter were awful and
peaceful because the worst had happened, and then everything she never knew she wanted flooded out of her, dripping down while she hung suspended and waiting.
She had to get out.
Audrey was dancing with Polly in the center of the mob.
As soon as she saw Calla, she stopped.
We need to go. Right now, Calla said.
Calla started for the door, Audrey behind her, but before they could get there, LuLu appeared out of nowhere—
she has a knack for that, Calla thought, through the web of
fear tightening around her—saying, Don’t leave yet.
AndCalla looked up to see Gabriel there holding LuLu’s
hand, and Gabriel’s mouth opened and closed without a
sound coming out. He’d grown a beard, looked like he hadn’t
slept. Calla reared back, furious, futile, the scar screaming
like a banshee.
I was going to call you, Gabriel said, letting go of LuLu
and grabbing Calla’s arm.
Don’t touch me, Calla said, yanking away. Don’t you
ever dare touch me again.
Calla, be reasonable.
Reasonable?Heatseared throughher. She started shrieking. She was certain she would split open. The scar would
rip and out would fly her feral baby, intent on mauling Gabriel’s body, too.
Then Audrey clapped her hand over Calla’s mouth,
said, Shhh. He’s not worth it.
Who are you? he asked.
Her emergency contact. Get out of our way. Audrey
stepped toward Gabriel, and he flinched.
Calla, Gabriel said as she walked by. I can explain.
But Calla didn’t stop. She kept her gaze forward as she
followed Audrey; she didn’t want to know if anyone stared.
Calla got in the passenger seat. The night was cold, and
she wrapped her arms around herself. The scarlay quiet, her
body a state of abandon.
That was really something, Audrey said. They were
halfway home. I’ve never heard you scream like that.
It’s done, Calla said. Over. We can go to the Goodwill.
She watched the treesflash by. Above were the underbellies
of new leaves, bright against the night sky.

---

This selection comes from What Shines from It., available from Alternating Current Arts. Purchase your copy here! Our curator for this selection is Gokul Prabhu.

SARA RAUCH’s fiction and essays have appeared in Paper Darts, Hobart, Split Lip, So to Speak, Qu, Lunch Ticket, and other literary magazines, as well as in the anthologies Dear John, I Love Jane; Best Lesbian Romance 2014; and She’s Lost Control. She has covered books for Bustle, BitchMedia, Curve Magazine, Lambda Literary, The Rumpus, and more. In 2012, she founded the literary magazine Cactus Heart, which ran through 2016. She holds an MFA from Pacific University. Sara teaches writing at Pioneer Valley Writers’ Workshop and Grub Street and also works as an independent editor and manuscript consultant. What Shines from It, which won the Electric Book Award, is Sara’s first book. She lives with her family in Holyoke, Massachusetts. Find her online at sararauch.com, on Twitter at @sararauch, and on Instagram at @sara__rauch.

Gokul Prabhu is a graduate of Ashoka University, India, with a Postgraduate Diploma in English and creative writing. He works as an administrator and teaching assistant for the Writing and Communication facility at 9dot9 Education, and assists in academic planning for communication, writing and critical thinking courses across several higher-ed institutes in India. Prabhu’s creative and academic work fluctuates between themes of sexuality and silence, and he hopes to be a healthy mix of writer, educator and journalist in the future. He occasionally scribbles book reviews and interviews authors for Scroll.in, an award-winning Indian digital news publication.

The weekend of the craft fair my wrists burn like they’ve been in the kiln, and when I drop the coffee
mug that Dot hands me and scald my foot, she digs my wrist braces out of the medicine cabinet and says, I’ll come with you—you’re going to need help handling the money and wrapping.
I don’t, but say nothing, go upstairs to my closet, and find the arm warmers she bought for my birthday last year. It’s awkward to wear them over the braces, but at least the comments will be about the pretty yarn rather than questions about what I did to my wrists. Dot hovers while I get ready, asking me what she should wear, like she’s never been to a craft fair, like it even matters.
She asks if she can carry anything out to the car, and I tell her the boxes by the back door, but when I come down, she’s gotten distracted by a phone call, laughing, standing by the window. I heft the boxes, slam the screen, wait in the passenger seat for her to finish, and we drive across town in silence so thick we’d need a chainsaw to cut it.

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This selection comes from What Shines from It., available from Alternating Current Arts. Purchase your copy here! Our curator for this selection is Gokul Prabhu.

SARA RAUCH’s fiction and essays have appeared in Paper Darts, Hobart, Split Lip, So to Speak, Qu, Lunch Ticket, and other literary magazines, as well as in the anthologies Dear John, I Love Jane; Best Lesbian Romance 2014; and She’s Lost Control. She has covered books for Bustle, BitchMedia, Curve Magazine, Lambda Literary, The Rumpus, and more. In 2012, she founded the literary magazine Cactus Heart, which ran through 2016. She holds an MFA from Pacific University. Sara teaches writing at Pioneer Valley Writers’ Workshop and Grub Street and also works as an independent editor and manuscript consultant. What Shines from It, which won the Electric Book Award, is Sara’s first book. She lives with her family in Holyoke, Massachusetts. Find her online at sararauch.com, on Twitter at @sararauch, and on Instagram at @sara__rauch.

Gokul Prabhu is a graduate of Ashoka University, India, with a Postgraduate Diploma in English and creative writing. He works as an administrator and teaching assistant for the Writing and Communication facility at 9dot9 Education, and assists in academic planning for communication, writing and critical thinking courses across several higher-ed institutes in India. Prabhu’s creative and academic work fluctuates between themes of sexuality and silence, and he hopes to be a healthy mix of writer, educator and journalist in the future. He occasionally scribbles book reviews and interviews authors for Scroll.in, an award-winning Indian digital news publication.