Short Fiction
Pasteurized
Written March 2026
Her eyes, a beautiful brown, shone with a luminosity that divulged the naivety of her soul. They were eyes that had not yet been challenged by the dull stick of the mud we were steeped in, the stench of the vile stalls in which we were kept, or the violent prodding and depravity that the Man enacted on us.
That continued innocence bothered me although it did not surprise me. She did not yet know. Although she had seen, she had not experienced. Until now, when the definitive future is growing and swelling faster and faster, are the eyes beginning to know.
I was not surprised when the conversation began—after her great round eye had narrowed through the bars, the first drop of suspicious concern polluted hope with fear, and the recognition of me, not yet as an equal, but of someone unlucky and less than, was drawn into question.
The pupils bulged, the vessels reddened, and the eyes began to leak. Doubt. Her lashes, with a feminine grace inherent in their length, blinked rapidly.
“Will they take the one that comes from me?” She asked, finally.
I could barely hear her over the groans that pulsated around us, but I knew instinctively what she was asking, because this was the moment and the question I had dreaded since they put her across from me. Few feet separated us, and she was all there was for me to look at. At least those to my sides I could attempt to ignore, as we were barred from each other anyway.
“Yes,” I answered.
“I won’t be different?” She asked.
“You will not be different. As I have not been different. As the one before me was not different. And then the one after you, and from you, will not be different. As the dirt beneath us will not be different. As the water we drink will not be different.”
My heart and my voice, following the inevitable decline of my body, had grown increasingly calcified. Young to old. That was the only difference.
“This has happened to you? And you are still here?”
The lids of the great eyes quivered, but the soul shine would remain, I knew, for a little while longer, until the one within came out and the Man came in to remove. Then that limpid iris would turn bleak, the curtain to hope would draw, and like me, her life would begin to stiffen, congealing from her soul to her blood to her belly to her body.
“This has happened to me four times. Four times those from me have been taken away. But my time is almost near. I can feel it. Until then, I am still here. I will be here until I am no longer usable.”
I could feel it in the ways my knees buckled and spasmed, locked and then trembled, under the weight of despair and the weight of my own self. I could feel it in the way my senses had dimmed to the sounds of incessant calls and groans and to the sights of the slop we ate. I could feel it in the way my womb had warped and the milk that had once streamed soon leaked, then stuttered, and dried. I could hear it in the way the Man swore when tugging away the empty tubes that I used to fill.
“The Man knows we are here. Will they not help?”
“I have never seen them help. No one has ever seen them help. They give to take; that is all.”
“The ones within us, within you, where do they go?”
“Not here. That is all I know.”
“What is left for you?”
“Death is what I’ve heard its called.”
“And where is Death?”
“In greener pastures.”
Now Moment
Posted to Substack on May 3, 2026
I’m writing in this instant, as Clarice Lispector did in her book Água Viva, that I finished last night. And I realize, that by thinking about my experience finishing the book and correlating that memory with the present, I am not actually writing in this instant. I am writing in and of the past.
Is this now moment the culmination of all the moments that came before? Sure. But also, the Now is its own entity entirely. And I can’t write fast enough to keep up with the Now. I can’t even think fast enough to keep up with the Now. I live so firmly in the present physically, but the registering and comprehension of the Now is always lagging. My nervous system processes patterns of the past. Is that a constant? Is the present tense then the only way to write about the Now? Is the absence of thought the only way to write about the Now? Fully living in the senses, without assessing them afterward? What do I feel in this Now? Does it matter? When feelings have come from past experiences or thoughts? What a conundrum. Creative flow, is that the Now? The dissolution and absence of the ego. Creating purely from the light within, not from all the nonsense that surrounds it and comes after.
How can a dog get its owner’s attention? By laying on the horn of course! One paw against the steering wheel. Can an old dog learn new tricks? This one can.
I can see the sunflower seed inside of my chest, to the right of my heart, in the dark of my chest cavity, behind my floating ribs and hollow sternum, where they instruct you to interlace your fingers and press two inches deep with the heels of your palms. It makes sense that the sprouting seed of my life force is protected by the wall of my torso, like the most imperative organs. What color is it? It used to be yellow and green. That I could feel. Now I think it shifts colors now. Yellow, green, blue, and purple. An odd and exotic bird ruffles its feathers back to the shades of sour bile.
I tap on the seed.
“Hello, seed? It’s me. Are you still listening?”
It doesn’t say anything.
I can’t peel back the skin between my breasts and poke through the curtain of stalactite bones to see it.
“Are you still with me seed?”
Of course it is. For it is life. But it has been buried so far in the blank space dirt of pumice and rock and decomposition rot, only sometimes does it make itself visible to me. No, that’s wrong. Only sometimes do I remember to look for it. To make sure its still there. Like a belly button. Its a part of me, always there, birthed from before I was born. Sometimes I acknowledge it, sometimes I remember I have one, but it is so ever-present it becomes unseen.
Is the trauma in the room with us?
Of course it is. Its right over there. A big black pit shaped like an apple seed. A giant zipper ready to part the seam of memory in two. I have my meat cleaver in my hand, but I shy away. Watching it, observing it from afar, from the far corner of the room, where I sit on the hardwood floor with rough grain from where the sanders or stainers or resinists or whoever they were didn’t finish the job correctly. I cross my legs and observe the pulsating orb, black void pit in its center, with resonating ebbs and waves of gray and white swimming of its spiral core. The walls in my childhood bedroom are an obnoxious sunny yellow, like an endless egg yolk. I cross my ankles then shift my weight, for my buttocks are starting to numb from my unchanging position against the hard floor. I move the cleaver from one hand to the other, but suddenly feel ill-prepared. Maybe I should’ve brought binoculars instead. Or a sketchbook. I’m not ready to attack the seductive and alien void. I am an observer alone. Then only through observations do I make any actions. I rarely act on impulse. My eyes shift to the nightstand table with the orchid protruding from the glass vase, spotted with milky water stains, which encapsulates the rising and bended neck of the orchid stem, which then gracefully curves, its purple flowers lowering in a shy beauty, or in a natural way, like the horse bending its neck to eat, long mane brushing down and forward with the pull of gravity.
Eat
Written April 2026
The courtesy basket of bread sat between Zach and I untouched, but frighteningly illuminated under the rays of the apexed sun, as Zach had wanted to sit outside.
For our serious talks, ones where Zach shared something vulnerable, or three vulnerable somethings, mostly consisting of drama about his friends and therefore, by association, my acquaintances, he always opted to sit outside, where his whispered gossip or breathy confession could disperse swiftly into the breeze and hide under the voices of diners, clinks of forks, and guffaws of uninhibited drunks.
Today, since it was around 4pm, the restaurant, one of those natural ingredient, seasonal menu, and scratch-made baked goods types, was still half-empty, Zach’s voice instead curved under and around the noise of the road—the wafting of air as cars pushed past, shifting of the gravel, and quaint squeaks of metal on metal.
“Just drinks for now,” Zach told the waiter, a guy who looked the same age as us, just as gray-faced, and just as displeased with his lot in life, though he hid it all behind an expression of neutrality, dark undereyes, and dry hands that moved slowly.
A nice waitress, on the other hand (pun-intended), which nine out of ten were, as being nice-looking was a near-requirement for success (success being defined as tips), had hands that moved quickly, with slender fingers, so much so that they were meant to be unseen, not to interrupt your meal, conversation, and the bubble that you and your companion make when dining out.
So, with Zach’s statement of dining intent, I sipped the herbal cocktail with a four-word name and tried not to let my lips twitch into a grimace. I instead looked at the bread, with almost a halo around it, as it sat angled just precisely under the umbrella, that it wasn’t touched by shade at all, and rather placed directly into the sunlight, with its air bubbles made near translucent through the slices, and utterly delicious.
I ran my finger through the ring of condensation the glass left behind as I lifted it to my lips and put it down again, smearing the ring once more. “So, what’s going on?”
Zach erupted into a laugh, his chin jutting backward, before his épaulement slouched forward again.
“How can you read me so well?” He asked, his cheeks flushing a dramatic scarlet under the red canvas of the umbrella.
I decided not to reach for the bread until he did.
I decided to deflect the truth from my answer. “Because something is always going on. In your life especially—not so much mine.”
“Well,” he exhaled, eyes looking down at his drink, some vodka thing with sugar-free something. His gaze scanned the table as he spoke. “Well, I’ve been having trouble eating.”
“You’ve been having trouble eating? What does that mean?”
I looked at his body now, or the part of his chest and collarbones I could see over the table. He had gotten here first, in order to request the table outside I’m sure. His shirt I suppose did hang more loosely around his shoulders, and his face could appear more sallow than before, but the before was when Gregory Phillip broke up with him about three weeks ago—not to be confused with the first Gregory, the initial boyfriend from a few years back—with no canonical relationship or similarity apart from the name to current Gregory Phillip. Zach had notified me of Gregory Phillip’s abandonment via text almost immediately, though I wasn’t able to see Zach until later that week, when I was free of work and Zach granted me the permission to support him and grieve the loss of Gregory Phillip.
We both knew he was majorly noncommittal, but both pretended not to know—and for moral support, I deemed it not important to say.
“Is this because of Gregory Phillip?” I asked.
He lifted his drink, inspected the slosh of the liquid inside, before putting it back down. “Well its not not because of him.”
I stayed silent, studying his face, waiting for him to continue.
“You know my love language is Acts of Service. And obviously, I often Act of Service through cooking and food.
I did know this. If anything, Zach could sometimes be classified as a feeder, someone who gets pleasure from feeding other people or watching them eat. When we opted to dine out, oftentimes I would be relieved that I wouldn’t have to stuff my face with the elaborate dishes and treats Zach would make for us. I felt sometimes that he was stuffing me like a pig. Testing my gluttony. Testing my boundaries. But his grin, the warmth of him, would exude so far, genuinely, with every bite I took. He made it near-impossible for me to stop eating. But when we dined out, my worries and my stomach were alleviated.
“So why are you not eating? Is it because you can’t? Or because you’re choosing not to?”
Another sigh.
“Its because I feel like I’m totally falling apart.”
I nodded.
He continued. “Gregory Phillip loved my cooking. I cooked for him. Not for myself. You know I could be happy eating pickles and olives for the rest of my life. By having to support him, because he had the culinary aptitude of a toddler, I had to support myself. I supported myself through supporting him. Does that make sense?”
I took another sip of my drink, not that I necessarily wanted to, but instinctually, as to break our eye contact, and let him know that I was listening, but not judging.
He sighed. “I just do it to myself, don’t I? For Gregory Phillip, I wouldn’t even just cook. I would create. Create meals. Meals for his pleasure. Now without someone to give it to, all my meals are bland. Food is tasteless. Pointless. Why eat?”
“Because we must. Because we have to. Otherwise we would starve.”
“I know that, but still. I have no desire to eat. I have no appetite.”
“These are two separate issues. One problem at a time. Even though they’re interconnected. First, you can have no desire to eat but still eat anyway. I have no desire to piss and shit, but I do it anyway.”
Zach laughed, brushing away my point.
“What? It’s true. You think here that you have a choice, but you really don’t. You don’t want to die, do you?”
He grimaced and rolled his eyes. “Of course not!”
“Great,” I said. “So you will eat. There is no choice. No decision to be made. Problem solved.” I took another sip of my drink and swallowed loudly at the strong taste.
“Next. Appetite. This goes hand-in-hand. You will eat. Here is the choice. What will you eat? We’ll start small. Small things only of what you want. Anything that intrigues your taste buds just a little. You’re drinking, obviously, so you’re taste buds aren’t broken. Eat bad things, eat healthy things, though the bad things are easier to want, spike your blood sugar, who cares?”
He sighed. “Its not that simple.”
“Of course it is. You’re thinking too big here. You don’t even have to cook. You don’t need to eat meals. You don’t even have to eat anything that uses a utensil.”
He remained silent, looking down at the table now with a frown.
“Do you want some of the bread? I’m going to eat some.”
The frown drew into a scowl. “No!”
I reached for a piece anyway, warm to the touch, out of the sunlight, and inspected it, the golden parts of crispy crust, the powdered flour in patches at the bottom and sides. The outside less firm to the touch, but the middle flexible and spongy.
I put it to my mouth and took a large bite, making sure the crunch of my back teeth through the crust was loud, and brushed the crumbs off the inner corner of my lips.
“So. What do you want to eat?” I asked, after swallowing as he watched me, the grimace remaining set on his face.
“I don’t know.”
I took the menu, the one placed in front him neglected, and took it away, stacking it on top of mine at my right side.
“Donut? Chocolate bar? Croissant?”
“No.”
“Pickles? Kimchi? Sauerkraut?”
“No.”
“Tortilla chips? Fettuccine Alfredo? Cinnamon-raisin bagel?”
“You can’t just keep saying random foods. And no.”
“And you can’t just keep saying no. Shall we take a stroll to the grocery store?”
“No.”
“Will you eat anything I cook you?”
He puffed an exhale. “God, no.”
“Shall I call your mother?” I flipped over my phone, as it was sitting on the table with the screen politely face down.
He began to stutter. “B-blueberry jam. Or preserves, more like chunky kind. But not that jelly shit.”
I smiled. “We found a winner.”