When the World Goes Dark
by Kaila Lancaster
“Soup. We’ll need canned soup,” Mother said over the phone. Her voice cackled out of the speaker, and Paris wondered if she had started smoking again.
“Okay. What else?”
Mother rattled off a list and Paris pretended to take notes; she scratched her fingernail against the sofa as Mother recited the supplies: matches, bottled water, plastic cans of gasoline, pots and pans, bleach, hydrogen peroxide, flashlights, batteries, a year’s worth of everything.
Paris turned her muted television to the Food Network. An episode of Cupcake Wars. She could hear Mother’s television through the phone: talk of war and politics and men’s gruff voices berating and condemning the world.
“When the world goes dark,” Mother said, her voice soft from three hundred and fifty-three miles away, “we’ll be prepared. You know the plan?”
“I think so.”
“Do. You know. The plan?” Paris said yes. She’d known the plan for a while now.
“Okay. What else?”
Mother rattled off a list and Paris pretended to take notes; she scratched her fingernail against the sofa as Mother recited the supplies: matches, bottled water, plastic cans of gasoline, pots and pans, bleach, hydrogen peroxide, flashlights, batteries, a year’s worth of everything.
Paris turned her muted television to the Food Network. An episode of Cupcake Wars. She could hear Mother’s television through the phone: talk of war and politics and men’s gruff voices berating and condemning the world.
“When the world goes dark,” Mother said, her voice soft from three hundred and fifty-three miles away, “we’ll be prepared. You know the plan?”
“I think so.”
“Do. You know. The plan?” Paris said yes. She’d known the plan for a while now.
~
Paris went to work the next day in a thick coat and pink fingerless gloves to combat the cold. Paris was a zookeeper, and she cared exclusively for the big cats. Because it was so cold for early December, the cats cozied in their nighttime enclosures for the day. During lunchtime, Paris spoke to the lion she was feeding through chain links.
“My mother thinks,” Paris said, “that terrorists are going to send a device into the sky and wipe out the Earth’s electronic signals or something. ‘The grid.’ That the modern world’s destruction is imminent. Isn’t that crazy?” Paris asked the lion that was crouched behind the fence. The cat ripped and swallowed rabbit carcass. She fed Leonard— the lion—pre-cut, bloodied pieces of bunny. Leonard licked wet blood from the coarse fur above his lips and moaned. After he had his fill, he yawned. His fangs gleamed white and crimson.
“That’s not so crazy,” the keeper from the ape department said as he walked by. Ape Keeper carried a bucket of bananas, and his hair and eyebrows were wild with dark curls. “They’re going to do something, and what your mom’s saying makes sense,” he said. Paris turned her back to Leonard’s cage and dismissed Ape Keeper with a wave of her hand. Ape Keeper stalked away and shook his head of thick, shag carpet hair.
“I’m surrounded by crazies, Leonard,” Paris whispered. Leonard swallowed the last of his rabbit and pawed the chain links like a house cat begging for a treat.
“My mother thinks,” Paris said, “that terrorists are going to send a device into the sky and wipe out the Earth’s electronic signals or something. ‘The grid.’ That the modern world’s destruction is imminent. Isn’t that crazy?” Paris asked the lion that was crouched behind the fence. The cat ripped and swallowed rabbit carcass. She fed Leonard— the lion—pre-cut, bloodied pieces of bunny. Leonard licked wet blood from the coarse fur above his lips and moaned. After he had his fill, he yawned. His fangs gleamed white and crimson.
“That’s not so crazy,” the keeper from the ape department said as he walked by. Ape Keeper carried a bucket of bananas, and his hair and eyebrows were wild with dark curls. “They’re going to do something, and what your mom’s saying makes sense,” he said. Paris turned her back to Leonard’s cage and dismissed Ape Keeper with a wave of her hand. Ape Keeper stalked away and shook his head of thick, shag carpet hair.
“I’m surrounded by crazies, Leonard,” Paris whispered. Leonard swallowed the last of his rabbit and pawed the chain links like a house cat begging for a treat.
~
As Paris fed writhing mice to the panther, Paula, later that afternoon, she thought about the first time she had really heard—really listened—to Mother’s doomsday “plan.”
It was ten years ago, the day Mother had finished moving Paris into college. The pair had stood in a parking lot at a university three hundred miles away from Paris’s hometown. The August sun was hot and blinding and uninhibited by clouds or trees or anything. A dorm— Paris’s dorm—loomed over Paris and Mother, its windows winking, its brick bright red in midmorning light.
“When the world goes dark,” Mother began, “you’ll know. Everything will flicker off, computers won’t work, cell towers will be shot. You won’t be able to talk to me, anyone. I’ll be home, and you’ll be here.” Mother wrung her hands; her gold rings somersaulted around thin fingers. “When it happens, you get in the car—you always keep your tank half full, no exceptions. There will be a gas shortage, so fuel’s essential. You drive to the meeting place. You wait there until we’re all together. You take your water, your everything. You’ll need to start a pile—like the one in our trailer at home—but much smaller. I’ll hitch up the trailer to the car and be on my way, too.”
“Where’s the meeting place again?” Paris asked.
“Grandpa Mike’s old farm outside of Frederick, about two hours from here,” Mother said, her eyes twitching inside sunken sockets.“No one will look for us there. It’s our best chance.”
Paris hugged her mother goodbye and climbed the five flights of stairs to her room. She sat on her bed in the dorm and closed her eyes and listened: water dripped from the faucet’s rusted head in her room, sex music thumped down the hall, toilets flushed in the communal bathroom, weak showers beat against molded fiberglass, elephants stomped on thin ceilings. She imagined that the world could never go dark in such a vibrant, new place. She began to play lilting soundtracks from her phone and sang along to tawdry lyrics only found in black and-white movies or Broadway musicals.
Her mother was wrong: such a world would never go dark.
It was ten years ago, the day Mother had finished moving Paris into college. The pair had stood in a parking lot at a university three hundred miles away from Paris’s hometown. The August sun was hot and blinding and uninhibited by clouds or trees or anything. A dorm— Paris’s dorm—loomed over Paris and Mother, its windows winking, its brick bright red in midmorning light.
“When the world goes dark,” Mother began, “you’ll know. Everything will flicker off, computers won’t work, cell towers will be shot. You won’t be able to talk to me, anyone. I’ll be home, and you’ll be here.” Mother wrung her hands; her gold rings somersaulted around thin fingers. “When it happens, you get in the car—you always keep your tank half full, no exceptions. There will be a gas shortage, so fuel’s essential. You drive to the meeting place. You wait there until we’re all together. You take your water, your everything. You’ll need to start a pile—like the one in our trailer at home—but much smaller. I’ll hitch up the trailer to the car and be on my way, too.”
“Where’s the meeting place again?” Paris asked.
“Grandpa Mike’s old farm outside of Frederick, about two hours from here,” Mother said, her eyes twitching inside sunken sockets.“No one will look for us there. It’s our best chance.”
Paris hugged her mother goodbye and climbed the five flights of stairs to her room. She sat on her bed in the dorm and closed her eyes and listened: water dripped from the faucet’s rusted head in her room, sex music thumped down the hall, toilets flushed in the communal bathroom, weak showers beat against molded fiberglass, elephants stomped on thin ceilings. She imagined that the world could never go dark in such a vibrant, new place. She began to play lilting soundtracks from her phone and sang along to tawdry lyrics only found in black and-white movies or Broadway musicals.
Her mother was wrong: such a world would never go dark.
~
Paris had a week off of work for the holidays. She went home to Mother for the week. She packed a duffle full of sweatpants and paperback novels and drove south on an empty freeway. Miles of withered wheat fields and an endless terrain dotted with patches of red clay made the six-hour drive feel like eight. When Paris pulled into Mother’s driveway just before sunset, she noticed the white bricks of her childhood home were striped with grimy water stains. The gray streaks seeped from the front windows like eyes leaking tears. Scraggly weeds choked brittle flower beds, flower beds that once bloomed with wildflowers in the springtimes of Paris’s childhood. Paris decided she would spend an afternoon tidying the exterior of the home during her holiday.
“She imagined that the world could never go dark in such a vibrant, new place." |
Inside the home, Mother planted a kiss on Paris’s forehead and offered her a rum and Coke. Paris drank and savored the burn of alcohol.
Sometimes Paris thought it was nice to be home again. |
~
Christmas Day brought an ice storm and a plate of Mother’s monkey bread.
“Add blankets and wool coats to the list,” Mother said at breakfast, before presents. “When the world goes dark, we have to be prepared for all seasons.” Mother stuffed a fist-full of the buttered bread into her mouth. Sugar-cinnamon dust coated Mother’s lips; her eyes were bloodshot, tired.
Paris pretended to make a note in her phone, to “add to her list,” but she really scrolled through Facebook and typed and re-typed a status she never posted.
Mother and Paris unwrapped presents snatched from underneath the plastic evergreen, and Paris feigned pleasure with her haul of jugs of white vinegar, rolls of aluminum foil, and a deck of playing cards.
“We have to have a little fun when the world goes dark,” Mother said of the cards.
Paris pretended to laugh and pulled a sweatshirt over her head. Ice covered the home’s windows and filtered the rays of the sun.
“Add blankets and wool coats to the list,” Mother said at breakfast, before presents. “When the world goes dark, we have to be prepared for all seasons.” Mother stuffed a fist-full of the buttered bread into her mouth. Sugar-cinnamon dust coated Mother’s lips; her eyes were bloodshot, tired.
Paris pretended to make a note in her phone, to “add to her list,” but she really scrolled through Facebook and typed and re-typed a status she never posted.
Mother and Paris unwrapped presents snatched from underneath the plastic evergreen, and Paris feigned pleasure with her haul of jugs of white vinegar, rolls of aluminum foil, and a deck of playing cards.
“We have to have a little fun when the world goes dark,” Mother said of the cards.
Paris pretended to laugh and pulled a sweatshirt over her head. Ice covered the home’s windows and filtered the rays of the sun.
~
“Mother, you want to hit the sales today?” Paris asked the next morning. Paris peeked inside Mother’s room, a space she’d frequented as a child once her father had left the family. Paris was prone to nightmares as a girl, and the clutter was her solace during sleepless nights sprawled next to a snoring Mother.
Now, Mother rested beneath thin covers. Unsorted boxes of pans and canned soup gathered dust in the bedroom’s corners. A stack of newspapers towered beside the bed, a stale cup of coffee balancing on the surface. Mother watched the news flash on a tiny television screen, her mustard-yellow hair pulled tight in a knot atop her head. “Do you want to see a movie or something?” Paris prodded.
Mother turned to look at Paris. “Sales?”
“Clothes? Do you want to look at clothes, Mother? Shoes?” Paris suddenly regretted asking.
Mother agreed to an afternoon of shopping, as long as a trip to the hardware store was the first stop. Paris drove down streets she rarely traveled anymore and played belated Christmas music through her car’s dusty stereo. White sun sliced through thin air outside the Ford Escape, and Paris was reminded why she enjoyed this time of year. The sun seemed brighter.
“Do we have to listen to this? Christmas is over, Paris,” Mother said, her foot bouncing against the floor of the passenger side.
“It’s festive. Let’s be festive.”
“It’s annoying,” Mother said, but she sang along to “Sleigh Ride,” anyway. “This one’s allowed,” Mother said. “It’s a winter song. There’s a difference.”
At the hardware store, Mother chose a roll of duct tape. She twirled the roll around her index finger in line at the cash register. The tape almost slid off the finger, but Mother caught the plastic bangle before it catapulted toward her face.
“Mother, don’t hurt yourself,” Paris said.
“Lighten up, Paris.” She continued to revolve the tape. The motion mirrored that of the gibbons at the zoo, those monkeys that swing around ropes and bounce between limbs of trees.
With her hair taken down from its top knot, Paris thought Mother resembled an aged eighties movie icon. The lighting of the hardware store coated Mother’s coiled strands in soft light, like the golden, humming light of a reptile egg incubator. Paris thought she looked nice, but she didn’t tell Mother. Mother would just dismiss the compliment as something that didn’t matter.
Now, Mother rested beneath thin covers. Unsorted boxes of pans and canned soup gathered dust in the bedroom’s corners. A stack of newspapers towered beside the bed, a stale cup of coffee balancing on the surface. Mother watched the news flash on a tiny television screen, her mustard-yellow hair pulled tight in a knot atop her head. “Do you want to see a movie or something?” Paris prodded.
Mother turned to look at Paris. “Sales?”
“Clothes? Do you want to look at clothes, Mother? Shoes?” Paris suddenly regretted asking.
Mother agreed to an afternoon of shopping, as long as a trip to the hardware store was the first stop. Paris drove down streets she rarely traveled anymore and played belated Christmas music through her car’s dusty stereo. White sun sliced through thin air outside the Ford Escape, and Paris was reminded why she enjoyed this time of year. The sun seemed brighter.
“Do we have to listen to this? Christmas is over, Paris,” Mother said, her foot bouncing against the floor of the passenger side.
“It’s festive. Let’s be festive.”
“It’s annoying,” Mother said, but she sang along to “Sleigh Ride,” anyway. “This one’s allowed,” Mother said. “It’s a winter song. There’s a difference.”
At the hardware store, Mother chose a roll of duct tape. She twirled the roll around her index finger in line at the cash register. The tape almost slid off the finger, but Mother caught the plastic bangle before it catapulted toward her face.
“Mother, don’t hurt yourself,” Paris said.
“Lighten up, Paris.” She continued to revolve the tape. The motion mirrored that of the gibbons at the zoo, those monkeys that swing around ropes and bounce between limbs of trees.
With her hair taken down from its top knot, Paris thought Mother resembled an aged eighties movie icon. The lighting of the hardware store coated Mother’s coiled strands in soft light, like the golden, humming light of a reptile egg incubator. Paris thought she looked nice, but she didn’t tell Mother. Mother would just dismiss the compliment as something that didn’t matter.
|
“The mall now?” Paris asked after they settled in the car.
“I guess. Clothes for you, right?” “And maybe you?” Paris asked. “A new sweater or something?” |
"Her hopes now disintegrated like the end of Mother's cigarette." |
“I don’t have money for crap that doesn’t matter, Paris. If I see a coat or something for when the world goes dark, then we’ll talk,” Mother said, and she grabbed a pack of cigarettes from inside her purse. She plucked one from its resting place, lit the end, and rolled down the window to sprinkle ash onto the zooming pavement.
At the start of the day, Paris had hoped to go twelve hours without hearing Mother’s favorite phrase. Her hopes now disintegrated like the end of Mother’s cigarette.
~
On the day before Paris left for her home, Mother and Paris sat around the table eating cereal and drinking hot coffee. Paris drank from a “Visit Yellowstone!” mug sans handle: she cradled the cup as if it were a communion wafer from the church of her childhood. The coffee warmed her stiff hands, and the steam rising from the cup sprinkled her face with a kind of dew.
“Is your pile back home going well, Paris?” Mother asked.
“Decent. Yes,” Paris said. She drank a swig of coffee and felt the brown liquid burn her throat and warm her stomach. She stared at the crown molding of the kitchen. Cobwebs quivered from the stream of heat that slipped from the vents in the ceiling. “I keep it pretty stocked,” she lied.
“Good. I think it might happen soon. Tensions are high right now, the news says so,” Mother said. Mother spooned Frosted Mini Wheats into her mouth, and milk dribbled down her chin.
Paris thought that the news always insisted “tensions were high.” But she didn’t say anything.
“I’m going to miss you, Paris,” Mother said. She reached across the table to pat Paris’s arm. Mother’s hands were rough against Paris’s skin, her fingers chapped and peeling after years of forgoing lotion. Lotion wasn’t essential; that’s what Mother had always said to Paris in the beauty aisles of grocery stores.
“I’ll be counting down the days until next Christmas. But maybe we’ll see each other sooner,” Mother said.
Paris almost said, “Maybe I’ll come for Easter or something.” But she knew what Mother really meant.
Paris took another sip of coffee and licked the watery remnants from her chapped lips. After five minutes or so of scrolling through her phone and Mother reading the newspaper, Paris spoke. “Mother, what if the world never goes dark?” she asked.
She didn’t know why she asked. But she couldn’t steal her question back. Her words were born and plummeted to the cracked yellow linoleum.
“Is your pile back home going well, Paris?” Mother asked.
“Decent. Yes,” Paris said. She drank a swig of coffee and felt the brown liquid burn her throat and warm her stomach. She stared at the crown molding of the kitchen. Cobwebs quivered from the stream of heat that slipped from the vents in the ceiling. “I keep it pretty stocked,” she lied.
“Good. I think it might happen soon. Tensions are high right now, the news says so,” Mother said. Mother spooned Frosted Mini Wheats into her mouth, and milk dribbled down her chin.
Paris thought that the news always insisted “tensions were high.” But she didn’t say anything.
“I’m going to miss you, Paris,” Mother said. She reached across the table to pat Paris’s arm. Mother’s hands were rough against Paris’s skin, her fingers chapped and peeling after years of forgoing lotion. Lotion wasn’t essential; that’s what Mother had always said to Paris in the beauty aisles of grocery stores.
“I’ll be counting down the days until next Christmas. But maybe we’ll see each other sooner,” Mother said.
Paris almost said, “Maybe I’ll come for Easter or something.” But she knew what Mother really meant.
Paris took another sip of coffee and licked the watery remnants from her chapped lips. After five minutes or so of scrolling through her phone and Mother reading the newspaper, Paris spoke. “Mother, what if the world never goes dark?” she asked.
She didn’t know why she asked. But she couldn’t steal her question back. Her words were born and plummeted to the cracked yellow linoleum.
Mother finally said she didn’t understand.
“What if you’ve done all this,” Paris motioned toward a new pile in the corner of the kitchen, the shopping bags from the day before. “For nothing?”
Mother was silent for awhile. She began to stack her newspaper, and her eyes shifted to the page she was holding in her ink-stained fingertips. The paper was damp from melting ice that covered the front lawn outside, and black words smudged the honey-colored wood of the table. Sun streaked through the blinds and filled the kitchen with sharp, white light.
Mother finally said, “What time are you leaving tomorrow, Paris? You don’t want to hit traffic in Fort Worth.”
“What if you’ve done all this,” Paris motioned toward a new pile in the corner of the kitchen, the shopping bags from the day before. “For nothing?”
Mother was silent for awhile. She began to stack her newspaper, and her eyes shifted to the page she was holding in her ink-stained fingertips. The paper was damp from melting ice that covered the front lawn outside, and black words smudged the honey-colored wood of the table. Sun streaked through the blinds and filled the kitchen with sharp, white light.
Mother finally said, “What time are you leaving tomorrow, Paris? You don’t want to hit traffic in Fort Worth.”
~
Her first day back at the zoo after the holiday was cold and windy. A gray sky heavy with bulbous clouds hovered over the town and the zoo. Sasha the tiger refused to leave her nighttime enclosure; she was a bundle of lethargic black and orange stripes lounging among urine-damp straw, and Paris gave up trying to feed her. She tiptoed around the sleeping tiger and scooped dung into a black bucket with a pitchfork, and the acrid smell of the waste burned her nose, caused her eyes to water. Paris had lunch in the break room and ate pizza for the first time in months. She went home happy, wind burnt.
After dinner, she curled up on the sofa like a roly poly hiding from the bottom of a shoe. The sun crept below the wheat field outside, and the stars were broken, faint Christmas lights draped haphazardly across a tarped roof. Paris watched Chopped— chefs prepared dishes with beef tongue, cactus flower buds, rose water syrup, and shad roe sac. One guy made a salad with his dish, and Paris thought it might taste good.
When two chefs were left and concocting a dessert derived from the syrup of rock candy, the television flickered. Paris uncurled from her ball. The television and the lights in her house began to flash like strobe lights at a sweaty, pulsing rave.
The lights went out, and the heating unit sputtered and wheezed into total silence.
When Paris thought the world went dark, tornado sirens shrieked through her town and then sputtered into quiet. Stars burned hot and bright against a blackened sky. In her darkened living room, Paris said, “Holy shit,” and groped for her car keys.
After dinner, she curled up on the sofa like a roly poly hiding from the bottom of a shoe. The sun crept below the wheat field outside, and the stars were broken, faint Christmas lights draped haphazardly across a tarped roof. Paris watched Chopped— chefs prepared dishes with beef tongue, cactus flower buds, rose water syrup, and shad roe sac. One guy made a salad with his dish, and Paris thought it might taste good.
When two chefs were left and concocting a dessert derived from the syrup of rock candy, the television flickered. Paris uncurled from her ball. The television and the lights in her house began to flash like strobe lights at a sweaty, pulsing rave.
The lights went out, and the heating unit sputtered and wheezed into total silence.
When Paris thought the world went dark, tornado sirens shrieked through her town and then sputtered into quiet. Stars burned hot and bright against a blackened sky. In her darkened living room, Paris said, “Holy shit,” and groped for her car keys.
~
The whole world didn’t go dark that night. Paris’s town had been hit by a winter wind storm, and as Paris drove past its city limits, she saw lights flickering inside tiny farm houses. Her breathing returned to normal, her heart slowed, she regained feeling in her fingers and cheeks. She pulled into a gravel driveway to turn around, to go back home and sit among scented candles she’d bought at Walmart. Her hands shook as she clutched the steering wheel. She stroked the cracked leather beneath her fingertips— the surface felt stiff and cold, and her legs beneath her sweatpants felt the same. When she pulled into the driveway of her home— windows dark, floodlights dead— she turned off the car and sat behind the wheel to watch her breath fog in front of her.
Paris called Mother.
“I thought it happened,” Paris said when Mother answered the phone.
“What?”
“You know. The darkness. I thought it happened. I drove,” Paris said. Her breath vaporized in puffs as she spoke. The breath-smoke swirled like Mother’s nicotine-fueled exhalations. She could almost smell Mother’s toxic breath, her smoke-soaked clothes. Paris’s eyes crossed as she watched the puff melt into nothing just beyond her lips.
“You drove? You drove to Grandpa Mike’s?” Mother said.
“Not all the way there, no. I stopped when I saw lights in people’s houses.”
“But you drove.” Mother’s statement rose from the phone’s speakers, and Paris thought she could see Mother’s breath, too. She imagined Mother smoking in her recliner back at home, vapors trickling through her Nokia and out Paris’s iPhone like a warped scene in an old cartoon. Paris almost laughed. She didn’t know why she felt like laughing.
“Yes. I drove.”
Mother was silent for a moment. Outside the wind howled like a litter of whiny Shih-Tzu puppies, high pitched and shrill. Frigid blasts rocked Paris’s car. As she waited for Mother’s response, Paris breathed against the driver’s side window and drew a wobbly sun in the frosted patch. She wished she could see the sun right now, but the moon was awake and bright behind clouds.
Mother said, “Shit, Paris. I’ve never been prouder.”
Paris called Mother.
“I thought it happened,” Paris said when Mother answered the phone.
“What?”
“You know. The darkness. I thought it happened. I drove,” Paris said. Her breath vaporized in puffs as she spoke. The breath-smoke swirled like Mother’s nicotine-fueled exhalations. She could almost smell Mother’s toxic breath, her smoke-soaked clothes. Paris’s eyes crossed as she watched the puff melt into nothing just beyond her lips.
“You drove? You drove to Grandpa Mike’s?” Mother said.
“Not all the way there, no. I stopped when I saw lights in people’s houses.”
“But you drove.” Mother’s statement rose from the phone’s speakers, and Paris thought she could see Mother’s breath, too. She imagined Mother smoking in her recliner back at home, vapors trickling through her Nokia and out Paris’s iPhone like a warped scene in an old cartoon. Paris almost laughed. She didn’t know why she felt like laughing.
“Yes. I drove.”
Mother was silent for a moment. Outside the wind howled like a litter of whiny Shih-Tzu puppies, high pitched and shrill. Frigid blasts rocked Paris’s car. As she waited for Mother’s response, Paris breathed against the driver’s side window and drew a wobbly sun in the frosted patch. She wished she could see the sun right now, but the moon was awake and bright behind clouds.
Mother said, “Shit, Paris. I’ve never been prouder.”
~
"She wished she could see the sun right now, but the moon was awake and bright behind clouds."
Paris went to the grocery store the following Sunday. The week had been sleepless; Paris wore a cap and glasses to the store in attempt to mask the shadows beneath her eyes.
In the frozen food aisle, she compiled the Lean Cuisines she enjoyed. She claimed a carton of Ben and Jerry’s, the exterior frosted, hard with ice. The refrigerated section was home to her special kind of milk: the organic kind with the cow printed on the front. She chose a new brand of cereal to try, plucking an unfamiliar multicolored box from the shelf.
After tossing a bag of medium pasta shells into her basket, Paris made her way to the checkout. She walked towards the front of the store, the laces of her tennis shoes slapping the ground as she moved, but then stopped beside aisle three, the canned food aisle. The end of the aisle sported a neon-pink sign. “SALE” was written on the posterboard in teenage girl letters: bubbly, rounded characters dark with black Sharpie.
Paris went down the aisle.
When Paris emptied her groceries at home, she placed twelve cans of SpaghettiOs into an old cardboard box. Paris pushed the box into a corner near her television. On the box she wrote, “For my fucking pile.”
In the frozen food aisle, she compiled the Lean Cuisines she enjoyed. She claimed a carton of Ben and Jerry’s, the exterior frosted, hard with ice. The refrigerated section was home to her special kind of milk: the organic kind with the cow printed on the front. She chose a new brand of cereal to try, plucking an unfamiliar multicolored box from the shelf.
After tossing a bag of medium pasta shells into her basket, Paris made her way to the checkout. She walked towards the front of the store, the laces of her tennis shoes slapping the ground as she moved, but then stopped beside aisle three, the canned food aisle. The end of the aisle sported a neon-pink sign. “SALE” was written on the posterboard in teenage girl letters: bubbly, rounded characters dark with black Sharpie.
Paris went down the aisle.
When Paris emptied her groceries at home, she placed twelve cans of SpaghettiOs into an old cardboard box. Paris pushed the box into a corner near her television. On the box she wrote, “For my fucking pile.”
Kaila Lancaster is originally from Waco, Texas. She is currently an MFA candidate at Oklahoma State University
A 2019 Pushcart Prize nominee, Lancaster's story can be found in Issue 16 of Glassworks.
