To See a Rabbit Storey Clayton

An aspiring cartoonist who loved The Far Side as a kid, Ryan Cassidy has a dream of becoming the next Gary Larson. He also has a dream that he is being chased by zombies but can’t seem to run fast enough to get away. Ryan lives in Boston with his wife, daughter, and soon-to-arrive twin sons. He loves being a dad, if for no other reason, because dad jokes come naturally to him. See more of Ryan’s cartoons @thegaggery on Instagram. Sometimes Y An allegory for the transgender bathroom access debate in America. Figuring out which restroom to use is often a challenge for non-binary people who don’t identify fully as a male or female. In this piece, the letter Y, who doesn’t identify fully as a consonant or vowel, has a head scratching moment when faced with its own standard binary restroom choice. Issue 17 1 Aaron Wallace is a poet who served as a combat medic, rape crisis counselor, and women’s health coordinator. Since Aaron’s discharge in 2013 he has graduated from Jacksonville University with Honors and is a current member of Lesley University’s Master of Fine Arts program. His work has been published in The Wrath-Bearing Tree, The Deadly Writers Patrol, and is forthcoming in North Dakota Quarterly. Aaron currently resides in Jacksonville, Florida, with his wonderful wife Darby and their dogs, Bailey and Benji. Watching the War from My Living Room Aaron Wallace How many body bags do the Pentagon bean counters order? I’m sure they have an algorithm that the news could talk about instead of showing another soldier’s final flight with ads for adult diapers and non-stick pans to follow. The government doesn’t call them body bags, of course, but GOVT DOD SPEC BLACK DISASTER BAG - 6 HANDLE are on a spreadsheet at forty dollars and seventy-five cents a unit. I’ll drink a body bag’s worth tonight. Is there a bulk discount on the booze? No, just the bags they use to carry the bodies to the Blackhawks. The taxpayers watching get their money’s worth, clutching their couch cushions as six men struggle to ensure that the bag stays level and doesn’t sink in the middle. The second soldier on the right is learning what dead weight means. I know that if a soldier doesn’t wear gloves the handles imprint the skin, no different than the loop at the top of a child’s backpack, and I know that veterans don’t watch the salutes and flags, they watch the soldiers standing behind the flight line’s chain link fence. The ones who know 2 Typehouse Literary Magazine what it means to click their heels in case the desert is Oz, in case the only way out isn’t with a flag draped over PVC Vinyl, or a casket because I’ve been home for five years and I’m still clicking my heels because there is still a crisscross pattern in my skin, from the first time I carried someone to their flight home. Issue 17 3 Teresa Milbrodt is the author of two short story collections, Bearded Women: Stories (Chizine Publications), and Work Opportunities: Stories (Portage Press), a novel, The Patron Saint of Unattractive People (Boxfire Press), and a flash fiction collection, Larissa Takes Flight: Stories (Booth Books). Her stories, essays, and poetry have been published widely in literary magazines. She is addicted to coffee, long walks with her MP3 player, frozen yogurt, and anything by George Saunders. Colchester Teresa Milbrodt It’s been a long morning and I have a headache from too much time spent peering at my computer screen – the ophthalmologist said the glare doesn’t help my sight – then my great-aunt waltzes in the library’s front entrance with her dragon. I don’t want a confrontation, but working at the circulation desk means playing gatekeeper. I talked with her last week, and said we couldn’t allow Colchester inside because of the strict no-animals policy aside from guide dogs and guide dragons, which have their fire glands removed. My aunt nodded, seeming to understand, but apparently she assumed she’d have to work harder so I’d let them browse the shelves. Colchester is green with light blue wings and about the size of a bulldog – rather small as dragons go – but he’s a sweetheart, very cuddly, though he still has his fire gland because my aunt said she liked the added protection. She’s willing to sacrifice curtains and carpets and sweaters. “Nice to see you, Auntie,” I say, slipping around the circulation desk to head her off at the pass. “Remember, you’ll need to leave Colchester outside by the bike rack.” “He won’t be a bother at all,” she says, smiling at me in her innocent old lady way. She dressed the part in a pink jacket and long lavender skirt with the matching scarf, gray hair swept up in a bun. My aunt carries an odor of mothballs, coffee, and hand lotion that follows her like a cloud. A kind woman, but one who’s used to getting her way. “I know he’s well-behaved,” I say, bending down to scratch between Colchester’s wings since he’s rubbing against my leg. “But you were talking about his indigestion attacks last week. Even a smoky little burp would make the fire alarms go off.” “I’ve put him on antacids,” she says. “The vet said they should do the trick.” “Bike rack, Auntie,” I say, standing up and squinting at her. “I’m doing genealogical research,” she says. “I have to use the 4 Typehouse Literary Magazine reference books, and if Colchester is on his own for too long he starts whining.” We stare at each other. Colchester sniffles. My aunt bought him two months ago, after her anxiety attacks got worse. There were a few burglaries in her apartment complex, so he’s supposed to be for emotional support and has the documents from her therapist to prove it, but that doesn’t mean she can drag him into every library and bookstore and rare documents archive. We have a good sprinkler system, and hope never to use it. “Mind if I meet your friends?” says Doug as he rolls out from behind the reference desk. “This is my Great-Aunt Katherine and Colchester,” I say. “Who was just going to step out to the bike rack.” “He doesn’t like being without me,” says my aunt. I sigh. Her emotional support animal needs emotional support? “We have to be very careful with our rare documents,” says Doug, bending down to scratch Colchester, who has balanced his forearms on Doug’s knee. Doug says animals either love wheelchairs or are terrified by them. He nods to let me know he’s got this, and I’m happy to bow out and let someone else deal with my aunt. Often being a librarian isn’t about books but customer service, and as anyone in customer service knows, some days it’s easier to be polite than others. As Doug and my aunt talk, I resume checking books in and keep my mouth shut. “Colchester is important for my emotional functioning,” says my aunt, clenching her fist around Colchester’s leash. He’s purring as Doug scratches him. Doug remains as cool as the proverbial cucumber, explaining that maybe he can show her online genealogy resources so she doesn’t need to use our rare books. I glance up at him and then back down to the print enlargement machine beside my computer, which makes reading the tiny call numbers on books feasible for me. The head of finance bitched about how expensive it was until I reminded him that I’m in charge of our annual book sale and the wine and cheese tasting, our two biggest fundraisers. Jeannie, our head librarian, and Alice who also works in circulation mentioned that they’d use it, too, especially at the end of the day when they start to get eyestrain. The finance guy is still bitching quietly about the expense, and that I requested more braille texts for the library, like I’m the only person in the world who will ever use them. He’s in his own office universe all day, moping over spreadsheets, so perhaps I shouldn’t expect him to understand the real world. “He’s on antacids for his stomach,” my aunt says for the twentieth time as she barters for books. “And I have a certificate to prove he’s an emotional support animal.” She digs a folded piece of paper out of her purse. I wonder how often she’s tried to bring Colchester into places where he’s not allowed. People fake those documents so they can bring their animals on Issue 17 5 planes and not buy seats for them, even if a gryphon will crowd out anyone sitting next to it with those huge lion paws and eagle wings. That doesn’t even take into account what happens if the gryphon isn’t well-trained and starts yodeling halfway through the flight to San Francisco, and certain passengers happen to have forgotten their magnifying glass and are terrifically frustrated by trying to read a too-tiny-print novel. Yes, I’ll admit to my prejudices, but I’d rather sit next to a panicked person than a calm one with a yodeling gryphon. After fifteen or twenty minutes – entirely too long in my opinion – Doug talks with Jeannie and gets a one-day exception for my aunt and Colchester since she wants to look at a county history book that isn’t online.

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