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Chrysopoeia on Fessenden Street

The door is locked. The window is locked. The WiFi is locked. Chry is locked. She shouts come in but doesn’t get up. Me, Natalie, Gigi, Nate crush into the house after we first yank yank yank the storm until it gives way and then one two three heave the big oak door until it opens.

NOTEVENHOUDINI ALL CAPS Nate yells and the WiFi unlocks but Chry does not.

She’s sunk deep in the sofa, legs angled up. Her hair, usually long, wavy, and brown, is wrapped tight on the top of her head. She’s wrapped in a robin’s egg blue blanket and staring at her hands holding her phone.

We have weed, we say, we have tequila, we have money, we have tickets, we have everything, we say.

Choose we say. Poem. Gun. Eyeball. Show. Teeth. Tongue. Sword. Book. We shout words at Chry the way we yanked and pushed the doors.

Chry jumps up. Tongue she says. She wasn’t relaxing or texting or reading or praying, she wasn’t doing anything.

She runs to me. (ME!) You she says, Henry she says. She kisses me deep and long and I kiss her the same. Finally. I unlock Chry and she is gold and I am gold and Natalie and Gigi and Nate are gold because they made me come to Chry’s house. Stop talking about her and go see they said before and see ya they say now and we are Chry and me and we are gold.


Flash Fiction by Laura Scalzo

Published in Autumn 2017

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