Dance Cry Dance Break

On this episode of the Dance Cry Dance Break, we open with “Wrong World,” a new original story by New York Times bestselling author of the Warm Bodies series Isaac Marion followed by refuge, the debut album available only on the Dance Cry Dance Break from Seattle duo Quand il Pleut.Wrong World by Isaac MarionBeth sits alone in a cafe she's never seen before, sipping pale yellow coffee that tastes like cherry juice, watching impossibly fat rain hammer the pink pavement, diligently straining to learn about this world she's fallen into. Her laptop sits in front of her, but the internet is still too overwhelming. It was overwhelming even where she came from, but here, without any context to shape its flood of information, it might as well be pure noise. She prefers to learn slowly by looking and listening, a few revelations at a time.“Did you hear about Maxico?”“Yeah but I don't get it. Why would Maxico attack Colomdia? Weren't they allies in the Pedro Bank war?”“All about that lithium, baby.”Beth finds eavesdropping to be the most manageable method. A drip feed of information slow enough to seep in without drowning her. The best way to learn a language is immersion. She struggled with Spanish for years until she spent a few months in Mexico—which is apparently now “Maxico,” which has apparently always been “Maxico” and she somehow had it wrong her whole life. So she immerses herself in what used to be her own language, her own country and culture, now altered in so many ways she might as well start from scratch here in the Unified States of Anerica.“Sorry, do you have cow's milk by any chance? I'm allergic to dandelion.”“He says he's more of a cat person, doesn't really like raccoons, is that a red flag?”“Should we do Greenland for winter break? Soak up some darkness?”She scribbles lists in her journal of things she doesn't understand, things to research further when she's a little less overwhelmed. But some questions resist research. The social norms and unwritten laws.“Of course they're closing the beach, Beth, four people drowned this year.”“What do you mean ‘why are we freaking out'? Malaysia put trade sanctions on Brunei, it's called ‘global conflict,' Beth.”“You're going on a walk without a sunscreen rubdown? That's ten minutes closer to cancer.”Sometimes the facts are familiar and it's only the context that's shifted, the mutual understanding of normality which has suddenly ceased to be mutual. Other times it's the facts themselves, a sudden onslaught of unbelievable statistics and rattling confrontations.“You kissed someone without a mouth screen? That's a one in four chance of syphilis, Beth.”“Beth, you should never stop for gas alone, the average gas station has a hundred kidnappings per year.”“You really don't have asteroid insurance? We get two hundred house strikes a month in this state.”That can't be right, she finds herself saying again and again. She's never heard of that. She could have sworn.But she's never completely sure. Did everything really change, or was she always wrong? Had she been misspelling “Anerica” all her life? Undervaluing all the dangers around her? Was she simply that uninformed?“Did you see what Mackie tweeted about AOP?”“Oh my God, so messed up, right? That one's going straight to the Pound.”Beth doesn't recognize most of the names she overhears. Politicians? Pop stars? Both? A quick google would slot them into the puzzle, but it's a puzzle with no edges, ever-expanding—fill in one section and another one spills off the table.“Is the Pound even still a thing?”“It is as long as Tertia's on the Desiccant train.”“Ha! Fair enough.”Sometimes the references are so thick, Beth can't follow a single word. Is it just her age? Did she fall into a foreign universe the moment she turned forty? She sneaks a glance at the two women chattering incomprehensibly at the nearby table. Their eyes are shrewd, their conversation sharp, their rejoinders instantaneous, everything about them snaps—and they're in their mid-fifties.No, this is not just aging. This is not the natural withering of her cultural umbilicus as she drifts out from the heartbeat of humanity. Something happened. This is not the same world. She looks out the window for her daily confirmation: those surreal clouds branching across the sky in complex fractal patterns, dumping hurricane torrents of rain that no one but her finds notable.“Seems pretty typical for Febrewary,” the barista replies when she remarks on it—that unexpected voicing of the silent “r,” and the usual confused squint. “The street pumps are keeping up with it, but I hope you brought your body bubble!”Beth did not bring a body bubble. But she spots dozens of people who did–calm and dry inside clear plastic umbrellas that extend all the way to their feet– as she sprints across the parking lot, screaming through her teeth while the rain blasts into her like buckshot. She gets in her car—right hand drive in the USA—and drives home, her heart pounding as she hurtles down the “wrong” side of the road while the rain covers the windshield like gel and blurs the world into abstraction.“Beth, this copy for the luggage…what is ‘that's how we roll'? Did you mean ‘that's the way the wheel spins'? What is ‘vive revolution'? Is that even Anglo?”Her eyes glisten in the lunar glow of her laptop as she skims confused emails from co-workers and friends. It won't be long before she loses her job. Even something as sterile as copywriting requires basic cultural literacy, and her editor is almost done with her. Everyone else might be too.“Beth, how do you not know this?”“Beth, that's really not okay.”“Beth, what are you even talking about?”For a while—three months? Six? How long has she been here now?—her friends tried to bridge the gap. They tried to be patient and understand what was happening to her, but she had no explanation to offer them. And after enough awkward moments, accidental offenses, and baffling displays of ignorance, they have begun to pull back from her. Or she's pulled back from them. Or the space between them has simply grown with the expansion of the universe, everything further away without ever moving at all.She shuts her laptop and sits in the dark. She doesn't turn the lights on in her apartment anymore because she doesn't like to look at the wrongness. The hardwood floors are now vinyl, the walls a cold green she knows she would never have chosen, her bookshelf full of books she's never read and can't imagine buying, her family photos replaced with generic landscapes. Her home feels fake, like a set built by her captors in an attempt to keep her calm. But of course she has nothing so comforting as captors. No one to beg or scream at. Her prison is unlocked and unguarded, and that's why she can't escape.How? When? Why?She has spent many sleepless nights scraping at these questions, searching every crevice for a single grain of explanation for her presence on this offset Earth. But the event left no clues. There was no flash of light, no stepping through a portal onto bubblegum streets under fractal skies. Nothing disappeared or rearranged before her eyes. The sidewalks were normal, and then there were some pink ones, repaved in her absence, and then a few more, and the internet insisted this had been standard since 2015, a cost-effective polymer that will replace everything by 2030, and then a storm brought the strange clouds, and everyone said oh look, fractalnimbus clouds, a rare phenomenon, but known.She couldn't pin it down. She couldn't point and scream, “There! You all saw that!” Everything happened behind her, or just outside her periphery, or while she slept or blinked. Her arrival was a gradual noticing, a mental list of wrongness that accumulated week after week until she had no choice but to acknowledge it. And by then it was too late to trace.She is beginning to accept that this will never make sense. She is an electron around an atom in a molecule of a dust speck on a gear in the engine of the cosmos, and she has no reason to expect explanations as she spins through its infinite machinery. Things will simply happen.There is only one question she might answer. She asks it again as she falls into bed without ever turning on the lights: What will she do?Will she settle here? Will she attempt to make a home in this damp, dark country? Will she keep listening and learning and smiling and nodding until she can pass herself off as a native? Laugh at jokes she doesn't understand, accept assumptions she doesn't find self-evident, find some non-cultural job on the fringes—pouring pink pavement, perhaps—make just enough money to survive the new horrors, and quietly disappear into a world that isn't hers?At 5:00 AM, as the horizon is just starting to glow, she climbs out of bed and starts packing. A change of clothes. A little food. A sleeping bag and a tent. She packs as if for a weekend campout, but when she shuts the door behind her with wet and burning eyes, she understands that she won't be coming back.She spends her first night curled in her car. Her second in her tent in a forest of blue-barked trees. Her third in a motel on the coast of the “Nevada Sea.” Her fourth on a desert plateau buffeted by icy winds under a moon that's much smaller than she remembers.She has decided she will not be an immigrant. She will be an explorer. She won't spend her life straining to belong, begging for a corner of comfort on this hostile foreign continent. She will roam it with the wonder and horror it deserves. She will discover it. And when her supplies run out, when she's sold her car and computer and peeled herself down to the skin, she will continue on foot and naked until she finally starves or freezes, and that will be an answer to her questions.She will accept that answer. Not gladly—she had lovelier plans for her life in the sweet, simple world she came from, and she allows herself fair bitterness for her unfathomable cosmic kidnapping—but she will accept it. She will cling to the cold thrill of discovery for as long as she possibly can. And if this world proves uninhabitable, she will discover that too. She will note it all down in her journals, and she will leave it for the explorers who find her. Maybe they will understand.   The album on today's show was written, produced, and performed by Natalie Bayne and Matt Badger, mixed by Natalie Bayne, mastered by Rachel Field at Resonant Mastering. String arrangement and additional production by John Sinclair and Phillip Thorpe-Evans, live drum recording by Nic Danielson.The Dance Cry Dance Break is written and produced by Natalie Bayne and recorded and edited by Moe Provencher. Our stories are edited by Timaree Marston.Theme music is Red Lines, by Dance Cry Dance Records artist Tiny Tiny. Dance Cry Dance is an arts collective in Seattle, WA. Paid subscriptions support our artists and writers.  This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit break.dancecrydance.com

On this episode of the Dance Cry Dance Break, “So Near Where Earth Sees Its End,” written by Elizabeth Kilcoyne, inspired by No Place Safer, the EP by The Good Williams Fringe.The Good Williams Fringe. The Somerset, KY band is the new project from songwriter Boone Williams - formerly indie darling Tiny Tiny - and a rotating cast of friends, family, and collaborators. This debut album reflects a growth and transformation from Williams's earlier work to a darker, more ominous writing style. "I wanted it to feel like dread. Like how it feels just before things turn for the worst," says Williams of his new album.Bandcamp Spotify Instagram Elizabeth Kilcoyne is an author, playwright, and poet, born and raised in Kentucky. Her first novel, Wake the Bones, a YA Southern Gothic from Wednesday Books, is a finalist for the William C. Morris Debut Award, and received a starred review from both Publisher's Weekly and Kirkus, who described her as "a new standard-bearer in YA Horror." She currently lives in Lexington, Kentucky, where she gardens, serves on the organizational team for a local community vegetable market, and teaches writing.Website Book InstagramSo Near Where Earth Sees Its EndBy Elizabeth KilcoyneThe mud on my boots would have bothered me once, but it doesn't condemn me in a town like this, and I'm far beyond old vanities now. Everybody around here knows the river silt on these banks sticks to you, even after you're baptized. Every holy roller knows to expect a little smudge of it on the hems of their whitest whites. After sin is scrubbed from you, that mud still lingers and the preacher lets it because there's only so much God can do about it. God made dirt. Dirt don't hurt. Or so I've been told.That's why I don't mind to get right up next to the lip of the bank where it kisses the river, close enough that mud closes over the toes of my boots and clings so thoroughly to the hem of my pants I know years of current couldn't wash it all away. Of course, even your graveyard dirt wants to sink its claws in me. It clings. It sinks into me like nails digging into my palms. The water won't wash that away, no matter how long I stare into it, looking for your face and seeing only mine, dim and rippling in the darkness.You're somewhere in this river even still. You were dispersed into these waters twice, first in those days held beneath the current, moved slow and rhythmic, skin torn from muscle revealing hipbone, ground into limestone riffle-grit, then again after you were raised from the current by search and rescue divers, like angels lifting you into the clouds. Your parents had you torched in holy flame at the Blue Haven Crematorium, near enough to heaven but not quite there. Then after your funeral rites were said, they scattered you back down here again, the place you considered heaven, the waters where in life you often floated face up to the sky, smiling a placid, Ophelia smile for only the sun to see. Water to water to water again, too fluid and lively to have ever been made from or kept in or crushed back into dust. So hell, if you want to get holy about it, I'll be a prophet now, tired of my short career as a priest. I'll be a seer, scrying here in the shallows among the crawfish and the hellgramites and the glimmer of low-hanging stars until God defies death and rolls away the moon to reveal your face to me once more. I'll be the holy man who starves away, who, rose-breathed and emaciated, looks towards sainthood and away from the world, into any darkness that will show me your lovely reflection. But all I see in the darkness is a reflection of the man who thought he could be your redeemer–I suppose I once fancied myself that. A one-time baptizer, I brought you all the way to God, hand-delivered, and now he's got you, and I've got the water you drowned in lapping at my boots.Sending you to Jesus was the last thing on my mind when I held you fast to that muddy river bottom you so loved to float above. I was only thinking about bringing you down below into the mud that made you a little more human, a little less starlight, with a film of current veiling your face. Did that spirit in you really fly above the clouds, or does it linger, tucked into my cheek, hanging at the tail ends of my speech? I still hear your voice, but now it says what I say, thinks what I think, and its broader mountain cadence is swallowed up in wing-clipped city tones. My voice cuts through your meaning. Morphs it with my own. It takes all memory of who either of us used to be before each other, and mangles it, blurring you and me into us with every rippling wave that laps over my reflection until the face before me could belong to us both, an image keeping the vow of one flesh where I couldn't manage. Your whisper across my tongue now justifies my evil. It forgives my sins. It makes what I say sound true. Where we mingle, I could give our story any flavored ending and where you harmonize, our sadness could sound sweet. What's left of you is a piece of me, but I've stained it like river muck and now I'll never get it out. Now I have to search the water for any piece that hasn't touched me yet--what remains separate from the problem, the shittiness of me. My solution, my last hope of salvation. But I'm stuck in the mud I sank you in, a haint counting out particles of sand from particles of silt until I find whatever bones and ash you left behind. I waste, waiting for sunrise, but the night of dark water in front of me stretches its spindly arms until it reaches the Mississippi and holds me farther from you and the light on an endless, sleepless current. My face hollows out into something you wouldn't recognize, cavernous and thin as rotting leaves. In my weakness I stare, transfixed, loving and forgiving it for all its ugliness in a voice I tore out of your throat.Echo, I've found you, hiding in the caved-in mess of my mouth. I'll end the selfsame way you ended, looking into the face that killed you like the smiling face of God. This face that smiled down upon you grins up at me, blocking all the clouds and starlight from both our views and plunging them beneath black water. To love someone is to know them; the two of us will share the same final sight. My face. Your face. My face.Your face.My fate.Your fate.Ours. No Place Safer was written and performed by Boone Williams.“So Near Where Earth Sees Its End” was written by Elizabeth Kilcoyne and voiced by Burn Hislope.The Dance Cry Dance Break is written and produced by Natalie Bayne and recorded and edited by Moe Provencher. Timaree Marston is our Story Editor.Theme music is Red Lines, by Dance Cry Dance artist Tiny Tiny. Dance Cry Dance is an arts collective in Seattle, WA. To support our work and to hear bonus material, like artist and writer interviews, subscribe to Dance Cry Dance + on Apple Podcasts. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit break.dancecrydance.com

On this episode of the Dance Cry Dance Break, we open with “Hello, Handsome,” an original story by ¡Hola Papi! columnist and author John Paul Brammer followed by the exclusive premiere of please don't let me be, the deluxe edition of the album from eighteen-year-old producer and songwriter Sarabean.Eighteen-year-old singer/songwriter, producer Sarah Holland has been releasing music as Sarabean from her Florida bedroom since 2019 and recently relocated to Portland, Oregon. Her stunning, full-length debut album, “please don't let me be”, blends dreamy synths and warm acoustic guitars with blunt, confessional lyrics and breathtakingly intimate vocals.Bandcamp Spotify Instagram John Paul Brammer grew up in rural Oklahoma with aspirations of writing and making art. He started his path in journalism writing for The Guardian, NBC News, and Teen Vogue, then moved to Condé Nast as a writer while running his popular LGBTQ and Latino advice column, ¡Hola Papi!. From there, he worked with the Trevor Project to consult on their editorial content. He currently self-publishes his column at Substack and has a memoir of the same name published under Simon & Schuster's flagship imprint in June of 2021. He writes and illustrates for outlets like The Washington Post, Guernica, Catapult, and many more. He's also presently working with Netflix on The Most, a small team that creates content, consults on projects, and builds community based on the company's LGBTQ material.Book Twitter Instagram WebsiteHey, Handsomeby John Paul BrammerIt's been over a day since I've asked Peter if he was free on Thursday. This is nothing new for us. I didn't consider the text to be risky when I sent it. We do this at least once a month. One of us will ask what the other's week looks like, and we'll figure out a time to get together, always at my place. It takes some planning as he lives uptown and I live in Brooklyn. This feels farther than it is. I don't consider our meeting up a routine. Although there's a rhythm to it, it nonetheless always feels like a spontaneous and welcome thing. Each month one of us happily remembers the other. Dealing with men, loving men, being attracted to men—however you want to say it, it has its lessons. The lessons are often silly, sideways things. They are intuited over time rather than set in stone, and so they're difficult to articulate. Setting anything in stone with men is nigh impossible anyway. One of these lessons is how to divine meaning out of silence, how to measure quiet in emotional cubits. Thirty minutes, he's busy. A few hours, maybe something came up. A day, uh oh. I wake up, eat breakfast, start work, and at some undetermined point I pass the threshold into unreasonable territory where it's unlikely that Peter simply hasn't seen the text. Another lesson when it comes to men—it's never the convenient excuse, the one you're rooting for. It's always the unwanted, the banal, the thing you hope it's not. Work. Eat again. Sleep. Now comes either the long nothing, or the dreaded formality of a follow-up, the explanation as to why business as usual can no longer be conducted. The follow-ups have become more common in my experience. I don't know if it's because I'm getting older and people feel the need to be more mature about things, or because it's a trend on social media to practice a sort of bureaucratic honesty with your flings or lovers or whatever you want to call them. I can't decide if I like it more or less than being quietly disposed of. In my more cynical moments, I like it less. It smacks of self-satisfaction. I am emotionally mature for this. Yet another lesson in dealing with men, though. You don't usually get what you like. “Hey, handsome,” the text begins. I've noticed this, too. The measuring out of salt and sugar, the affirmation up top followed by the heart of the matter. “So, I've started seeing someone…” I lightly skim the rest. I already know my role in this exchange, and I'm fine with playing it. It's good that Pete found someone. We weren't going anywhere. If things had worked out, we would have ordered Italian to my place and poured two glasses of wine. We would have started watching a movie before leaving our clothes puddled on my bedroom floor. We would have enjoyed it, and maybe he would have spent the night, as he sometimes did. If he did, he would have kissed me in the blurry morning before heading to the train. We wouldn't have seen each other for a while after that. That's hardly a steady relationship. I have no right to be upset. So I'm not. Or at least I give no indication that I am, and I am resolute inside myself. You have no right. It's not that I harbor some secret love for Peter, some hope, however dim, that we would end up together. That's not what I want, in truth. But the truth that crests like a strange fish is hard to name, is mostly obscured underwater. Why be hurt? Peter with his shoulder-length hair and the tattoo on his thigh, with his odd jobs and his reluctant laugh like he's doing something wrong. I like these things. Maybe the hurt is because they're suddenly gone. It's change, and change is frightening. It's change of a sort that locks us out of self-pity. Entirely expected, and indeed, what you signed up for. The heart hooks onto little things like this. It hurts as they are tugged and pulled away. Or. There's something to be said about the people who don't owe you any great emotional responsibility, and yet show up regardless. Everyone wants their soulmate, but the idea is one of two people who prioritize each other, make each other the whole world. There's something to be said about the other types of affection. The people who show up at your door because they enjoy you, because they're attracted to you, because they find you altogether hard to resist on a lonely Thursday. The pleasure in these casual dynamics isn't just from another person wanting you. It's that it allows you to see yourself in a certain way; as desirable, as a person with a certain gravity. You're here because you want me. It's a flattering mirror. It makes sense that we would seek out reflections like these, and that it would sting when one is taken away. Or. Our appetites make strange beasts of us all. Wants are hard to name, hard to examine, almost impossible to trace to their source. Sex with Peter. Sleeping with Peter in my arms. Kissing goodbye. Getting the occasional text, How's it going? Feeling wanted by Peter, imagining how he must see me, and how it must be better than how I see me for him to have gone so far out of his way, all the way from uptown. It was a little joke that I'd bring him something back from Mexico. But I did, a small ceramic painted skull. It cost a few coins and was wrapped in a sheet of newspaper. I forgot to give it to him the last time he was here, despite it being right there on the table where we ate. It's still there. A tiny, laughing skull. A little joke. It's hard to be honest about intimacy. It's embarrassing the way it makes you a child again, the way it feels, every single time, like you ought to have known better, that you ought to have seen it coming. That's probably why we don't talk about it much, or why we pretend intimacies are easily arranged into good and bad, mistakes and successes, the important ones and the unimportant ones. It's harder to accept that, in their own way, they're all important. They all matter.The dull ache annoys me. I almost wish it would rise to the occasion of heartache. But it can't, so it doesn't. “Totally understand,” I say back.The Dance Cry Dance Break is written and produced by Natalie Bayne and recorded and edited by Moe Provencher. Our stories are edited by Timaree Marston.Theme music is Red Lines, by Tiny Tiny. Today's story was voiced by Kevin Murray.Dance Cry Dance is an arts collective in Seattle, WA. Paid subscriptions support our artists and writers. To hear the extended version of this episode featuring an interview conversation between John Paul and Sarah, subscribe to Dance Cry Dance + at Apple Podcasts. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit break.dancecrydance.com

On this episode of the Dance Cry Dance Break, “The Source,” written by Josh Hanson, inspired by Apparition, a song by Jessie Marks.Dream-folk pianist and singer-songwriter Jessie Marks grew up in the Bay Area. Born in Marin, yet having spent her life almost everywhere between Berkeley and Santa Cruz, and nurtured by the rugged seaboard of Big Sur, it's certain that the Central California Coast is her true blood line. The sea is her biographer, and it's evident in the fluidity and oceanic nature of her compositions. Influenced by the female artists Cat Power, Fiona Apple and Hope Sandoval, Jessie's music takes her audiences on a journey that is both intimately personal and transcendent.Bandcamp Spotify Instagram WebsiteJosh Hanson lives in northern Wyoming where he teaches, writes, and makes up little songs. He is a graduate of the University of Montana MFA program, and his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Sinister Smile Press, BlackPetals, Fast Flesh, Stoneboat, and Diagram. Blog Twitter FacebookThe SourceBy Josh HansonThey'd moved at least once a year. Furnished houses filled with anonymous furniture, or sometimes hollow, empty rooms that they would half-heartedly fill with a mattress on the floor and a pressboard chest of drawers. All things that would be left behind with only a water ring on the top or a black scuff along the base to show that they had belonged to anyone, had seen use. This new place was nice, a low, ranch-style house under tall trees, with a wide, fenced yard. Plenty of room for him and his brother to play. But beyond the fence was a stand of trees that led further back into the hills, into a maze of old concrete foundations and rusted girders and the frames of old machinery whose purpose they could not even imagine. It was here that they found the first of the bones. It was in the loose gravel hemmed in by the remains of a ruined foundation, and the boys had been using the space as a kind of no man's land, scrabbling over the crumbling walls and belly-crawling across the gravel amongst the hail of imaginary gunfire and shrapnel, fingers digging down into the dusty rock, where he uncovered that circle of bright bone. There had been no moment of confusion, no mistaking it for something else. It was so clearly the crown of a skull, off-white with the sutures along the crown clearly marked with dirt. He called to his brother, and by lunchtime, they had uncovered most of the skeleton, the rib cage collapsed and lying in a thousand tiny pieces, but the long bones all whole and almost fully articulated. They stood over the bones and looked down, both of them quiet for a long moment. Who were they? How long had they rested here beneath the gravel and dust? It was as if someone had simply laid down in the center of the floor and gone to sleep, waiting and waiting--how many years the boys could not imagine--for someone to uncover them. He got down on his knees and began to shovel with both hands in the dirt. Somehow he knew there were more. He could almost hear them humming below the surface. They'd waited so long.Within minutes, he'd uncovered the fine bones of a hand, and calling his brother over, the two boys began to clear the ground. Both boys worked in quiet, their faces white with dust and streaked with sweat. The next morning, at the excavation site, the bones shone bright in the morning sun. Three figures laying rigid in their beds, chests collapsed, staring upward. They were about to get down in the gravel and move away more rock and dirt, when he heard something off to his left. He straightened and looked deeper into the trees, back where the rusted frames of machinery were half-hidden by weeds and the ground sloped slightly upward toward the hillside. He watched and listened. Nothing.  There it was again. He moved off, leaving his brother playing in the dirt, up, toward the direction of the sound. Almost a voice. He passed through the shadow of the trees, emerging in the next clearing, the chalky red brick of an old foundation off to his left, thin trees growing up where once the building had stood. He cocked his head to the side, strained his hearing. Strained for that humming feel. He began to dig.It took hours before he found something. This time it was the long bone of a leg, very white against the dark clay that made up this part of the slope. Deeper than the others. Following the legs up to the pelvis, he soon realized that the roots of a tree were caught up with the bones, snaking through the ribs. He dug away the dirt from around the roots as well, and by early afternoon the whole skeleton was visible, the tree growing spindly and straight, rising from the ruined chest, so alien there among the bones, and he heard the hum. It was behind him, further up the slope.He followed the path up and around, away from the excavated bones, away from the house, away from the afternoon sun. He walked on until the hillside rose in a sheer cliff-face of deep red rock. He looked up, and the cliff rose out of sight above him. Scrub trees grew at the base of the cliff, and there were chunks of brick here, too, running right up into the cliff face. He followed the line of crumbling brick, just barely breaking the surface, pushing away the brush and high grass. And there was the door. Wider than it was high, maybe three feet across, with a brick archway set in the hillside. The door itself was made of thick timbers that appeared to have been nailed up from inside what he imagined must be a tunnel. He squatted down before the doorway, pressed a hand to the wooden planks. Cold. Solid. He felt the hum in his hand. It was inside, the source of that sound. Deep within the mountain. He imagined it, grub-white and hulking, rubbing itself up again the other side of the door, only inches from his raised hand. It was ancient, timeless, and patient as the earth itself. It sank bones into the ground and raised up saplings from the graves. It was calling to him, and it knew his name, had always known his name, had been waiting. How long? Forever. He crouched down, kicked sideways. The wood crumbled more than it cracked, and he pushed it away from the opening, hearing the pieces drop hollowly into the passage within. The sound was unmistakably his own name. So soft. He gripped the edges of the doorway and slid forward, feet first, and dropped down, into the cool belly of the mountain, into the comforting hum of that eternal source, and he followed it blindly down, into the dark. Apparition was written and performed by Jessie Marks.“The Source” was written by Josh Hanson and voiced by Wyatt L. Bigham.The Dance Cry Dance Break is written and produced by Natalie Bayne and recorded and edited by Moe Provencher. Timaree Marston is our Story Editor.Theme music is Red Lines, by Dance Cry Dance artist Tiny Tiny. Dance Cry Dance is an arts collective in Seattle, WA. To support our work and to hear bonus material, like artist and writer interviews, subscribe to Dance Cry Dance + on Apple Podcasts. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit break.dancecrydance.com

Bandcamp - SpotifyOn this episode of the Dance Cry Dance Break, “A Parting Gift,” written by James M. Maskell, inspired by Everybody Loves Christmas, the song by Seattle artist and producer Nat Bayne. James M. Maskell has taught high school English for over twenty years and writes poetry, flash, and a bit of humor in the early mornings before heading off to class. His poetry has been featured in Loud Coffee Press; he is a regular contributor to Friday Flash Fiction; and his first non-fiction work is forthcoming in Windmill: The Hofstra Journal of Art and Literature. He lives in Massachusetts with his wife, and is thankfully just a short drive from each of his three adult children.WebsiteA Parting GiftBy James M. Maskell It wasn't until after she decided not to decorate that Mary found the package tucked away in the closet one Friday morning in December. Its blue and green plaid giftwrap blended seamlessly into the folded stack of flannel bed sheets and she thought she may have even seen it before without realizing. Silver and white ribbon crossed impressively tight over the top of the box—something she'd insisted on for years—but the bulky, irregular folds under the taped edges were  unmistakably his. It was the one thing he'd left behind after walking out last month without an explanation. “It's just not working out” he'd told her, his things already packed in the car when she'd arrived home from work. Last week a friend said she saw him out with a woman she had met once or twice, Katie or Kaitlyn, or something like that, and Mary wondered for how long that had been going on. She thought about the package her whole way to the office as the first snow of the season drifted down, thought about it through her morning coffee and into the staff meeting where management reminded everyone about the upcoming holiday party. Small decorations had begun to show up in cubicles since Thanksgiving, and now the more aggressive office-wide celebration was taking shape: garland hung over doorways; potted poinsettias on desks and countertops; a plastic menorah on the table by the watercooler; and of course, the horribly misshapen four-foot artificial tree in the corner, its cheap ornaments with their tattered satin threads revealing the Styrofoam core beneath. Of course, nothing could be tackier than the mistletoe someone hung over the copy machine. She suspected it was Derek, the office creep, but found out later it was actually Janice, the jovial assistant manager whose inappropriate office banter fell just under the radar of the general public.  And yet, despite the poorly executed holiday displays at work, and the newly discovered gift left behind by the man she thought she'd eventually marry, the season still managed to hold for her a certain charm.  Mary had loved everything about Christmastime as a child. Department stores transformed into shining lands of red, green, and silver. All through the neighborhood, ladders leaned against the gables and gutters of capes and split-level ranches as children fed strings of lights up to their fathers, untangling the lines one kink at a time and working desperately to finish the job before the first snowfall. And the music... Perry Como, Brenda Lee, Sinatra, Nat King Cole, and Mary's absolute favorite, the angelic and haunting “Carol of the Bells.” God, how she loved the music.  What she adored most was the enchanting conversion that took place inside her childhood home. Her mother wrapped and ribboned the picture frames so imaginary presents hung from the walls. A wooden manger replaced the clock over the fireplace, as monogrammed stockings spread outward across the mantle, Mom's and Dad's on the left, hers and her brother Joey's on the right. And then, once Dad had set the tree in its stand and strung it full of lights, the four of them trimmed it with ornaments and silver tinsel, as the fragrant Douglas fir became the centerpiece of their home. Wrapped presents appeared beneath it, quietly, one at a time, over the next few weeks. But, with each passing year, Christmas shed just a bit of its magic. The strains of suburban life emerged as Dad's hours were cut and money grew scarce. Their tightening budget grew more noticeable as Christmas drew near. Her family maintained their holiday routines as best they could, but over time those traditions became little more than habits, as though they were merely checking off boxes with each decoration. Joey moved out three years before her and, after she graduated college and left for the city, her parents quietly divorced, sold the house, and moved on to their own lives. Mary brought a few of her favorite childhood ornaments with her when she and her boyfriend moved in together, and the past two Christmases, while quiet, were intimate and lovely, echoing many of the sights and sounds she'd adored as a child. Now she was alone and didn't see the point of a Christmas that couldn't be shared. When five o'clock finally rolled around at the office that day, Mary rushed  home even more urgently than usual, ridding herself of the fraudulent workplace cheer. She got off the train a few stops early, the package once more consuming her mind. The snow, beautiful that morning, had melted mostly, leaving scant patches on the grass and gray, slushy clumps by the side of the road. Why buy me a gift if he was planning to leave? she wondered as she walked the damp and dreary path home. When she reached her building, the young couple from the second floor were coming out just as she was going in. The girl held the door for a moment and Mary offered a smile of recognition, but they were too busy smiling at each other to notice or even care. Inside her bare apartment, the package—the lone suggestion of the holiday season—sat on the coffee table where Mary had left it that morning. She suddenly felt a longing for Christmas that she hadn't felt since she was a child.  Pulling off her hat and coat, and getting right to work, Mary dragged her decorations out of the storage bin, assessing what she had and what else she'd need to make Christmas whole for her again. The next morning, she shopped store after store and eventually the tree lot down the street to buy a sensibly sized but grossly overpriced Douglas fir, so she could catch that whiff of childhood once more. With a pot of wassail simmering on the stovetop, and her favorite Christmas movies on the television, she began to transform her apartment, laughing along first with Ralphie and then Buddy the Elf. When she hung the final ornament and placed the lone gift in the apartment under the tree, she curled up on the sofa with a mug of the steaming hot cider drink and shed a few tears with the ever-charming George Bailey.  “I'll open you Christmas morning,” she said to the package before turning in for the night, and thought, I'll enjoy that gift... even if he didn't want me to. Mary worked hard to relish the season as Christmas approached, joining in on the silly festivities at work, listening to a holiday playlist during her commute, continuing to smile at that happy young couple when they passed on the stairs, letting her tree be the only light in the room each evening. But she couldn't ignore the fact that she was still alone.  On Christmas morning she rose, excited to open her gift. Sipping her coffee, she stared at the package for close to thirty minutes before finally picking it up and tugging the ribbon off the corner, letting it drop to the floor. She paused once more and then slid her nail under the corner of the seam, separating the tape without tearing the paper and revealing the matte black jewelry box beneath.  “Hmm... a necklace?” she wondered. And then with a laugh, “I hope it's real gold, at least.” She opened the box and got her wish, a lovely, fourteen carat gold chain with an ornately scripted pendant in the shape of the letter K.  “K...” she read, searching for the connection. “Katie... Kaitlyn... whoever she is. Of course,” she said, discovering the answer to her question of how long that had been going on. Her throat tightened, but before a single tear could form in the corner of her eye, she imagined a Christmas morning somewhere across town where he was fumbling for words, trying to explain an M-shaped pendant to a woman she didn't know.Everybody Loves Christmas was written and performed by Nat Bayne and produced by Chaz Mazzota.“Another Christmas” was written by James M. Maskell and voiced by Luna Freya. The Dance Cry Dance Break is written and produced by Natalie Bayne and recorded and edited by Moe Provencher. Timaree Marston is our Story Editor.Theme music is Red Lines, by Dance Cry Dance artist Tiny Tiny. Dance Cry Dance is an arts collective in Seattle, WA. Paid subscriptions support our artists and writers.  This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit break.dancecrydance.com/subscribe

On this episode of the Dance Cry Dance Break, “22 Endings for a Story About Marriage,” written by Amber Sparks, inspired by Limitations and Space, the new instrumental EP from Seattle artist and producer MariGo.Seattle based multi-instrumentalist, songwriter, producer, educator, and Twitch streamer, MariGo (Mari Sullivan), is a tender force to be reckoned with. The daughter of a musical doctor and a painter, MariGo's upbringing included taking piano lessons with her sisters, leaving school to catch Chicago Symphony Orchestra rehearsals, and eventually a degree in classical voice from the University of Denver. But the rigidity of the classical music world didn't fit MariGo, an artist who thrives on meshing together different muses. Instead, she set out to write her own music and explore more experimental sounds—like the otherworldly pop of artists like Bjork and Kimbra, and the kaleidoscopic production of Flying Lotus and Pretty Lights.Her third EP is a departure from past releases which heavily feature her smooth vocals. Limitations and Space is an instrumental work created in the lonely seclusion of the pandemic lockdowns. While stuck in a small home studio, MariGo created this collection of beats inspired by the vastness of space and her beloved science fiction books.MariGo is part of the elite group of Ableton Certified Trainers, making her one of eight women in the United States to hold the certification. She is driven to uplift and empower women and LGBTQ people in the world of music technology through her work in music and education.Spotify - Instagram - TwitchAmber Sparks is the author of four collections of short fiction, including And I Do Not Forgive You: Revenges and other Stories and The Unfinished World, and her fiction and essays have appeared in American Short Fiction, the Paris Review, Tin House, Granta, The Cut and elsewhere. She lives in Washington, DC, with her husband, daughter, and two cats.Twitter - Website - Books22 Endings for a Story About MarriageBy Amber Sparks* And so it began! I do, she said, and he said it too, and he was weeping, and she was not, and this was nothing new. There were tears, sometimes, on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them always. She put her hands on either side of his face and said his name; she carried him over the threshold with the sheer, unyielding force of her personality. People cheered, and the music flew out of the speakers and into the hearts of everyone there. It was a celebration, and they decided to run headlong into it. They held hands and ran into joy, into the ridiculous sunshine, and into the rest of their lives.* The baby, at least, was finally asleep. And now the baby was dreaming murmurs, drawn into the bedroom in threads through the monitor. And now the baby was the only quiet heart in the house.* There was only the loud slam of the car door, then the long, slow silence that followed. * She was dancing, alone and in love with herself. He had never seen her dance, had never seen her wear her hair that way, and somehow this was worse than any affair. Her hair! Her dress! This was the nightmare his friends had warned him about. He had married a complete stranger!* Have you spoken to your husband about this, the doctor asked? He frowned. He was older, white-haired and disapproving; he is sure husbands should be consulted about all things. Oh yes, she lied. Yes, he's completely on board. Yes.* Finally she said it, the unsayable thing. Are you still in love with me? He stood still for a long time, surprised by the calm violence of the question. The two-year-old sat on the floor between them, stacking her blocks, thankfully impervious to the sudden shift in the weather.* At dinner he saw that her hair, and the daughter's hair, were both bright pink. Mermaid hair. She saw him staring, and smiled. It's better than buying a motorcycle, she said, and calmly got up to clear the dishes.* They laughed then, a good, hungry laugh, until they felt like people who had forgotten time and space. Let's make cookies, he said, and let's eat every one of them while the kids are asleep. Let's eat chocolate chip cookies until we puke, she said.* She slid down next to him on the floor, took his head, and tucked it into her breast, a brazen benediction. His sadness made her feel almost holy, her hair down in curtains around him like both Marys: mother, w***e, saint. She opened her legs.* There was not even enough money to fix the drywall, let alone the rest of it, but it didn't matter after all. If it was all going to rot, let it rot. Let it all break down like everything does in the end, as the gods intended. Let the sidings crumble, let the brickwork crack, let the vines find their way through the openings to let life in, to let green life in at last. Let entropy take the wheel. * Everyone, he thought, becomes a pod person at some point. Look at her. Her eyes were not hers, they belonged to someone older, happier, more tired. They were such exhausted eyes; they looked like they were longing only to close.* What will we do now, she said? The house, empty and blank, echoed back at her, but did not provide an answer.* He was the better cook, but tonight he would let her experiment. He knew it wasn't the right outlet for her, but when someone is finding themselves, you can't tell them where to go. You can't provide a map. All you can do is say, I love you at the start of the journey, and I love you upon the long-awaited return. And eat the shitty dinner.* He's gone, she said, he's gone, and her tears were so shocking and unexpected, so incongruous that the husband just kept sipping his whiskey, making no move at all to comfort her. Her phone lay on the floor, playing a song he'd never heard, on repeat. The whole scene kept circling, a terrible time loop: her tears, the song, his whiskey. He wondered if it would go on like this for the rest of their lives. Tears, song, whiskey, ad infinitum. Tears, song, and whiskey. * The son walked up the drive and saw them through the living room window, laughing together, intimate and tender; it occurred to him for the first time that they were people he didn't know. It was ridiculous to spy on one's own parents like this, as if they were strangers, and yet, there was a kind of gentle pleasure in it, too. He wondered what they were like, these people he'd never met before. He wondered what they hoped for, what their favorite color was, what they dreamed about at night. He wondered if they liked him. I must remember to treat them like people, he said, though of course he would never recall this moment again, not even when he had grown children of his own.* Promise me you'll never do it again, said the husband. I promise, she said, and the rain outside fell like glass, breaking everything around it. * I like your chin hairs, he said. I like the way your nose sags a little at the end now, like it's tired, she said. I like the lines around your eyes, like a spiderweb, he said. I like the way the veins on the back of your hands show up, like blue rivers, she said. I like the way your dreams are vivid now, when you tell me about them at breakfast, he said. I like the way you're kinder now, she said, softer, like somebody sanded you down. I like the way your eyes never change, he said, how I can time travel back to young us just by looking. I love that too, she said. Let's go.* When he retired, they threw him a big party, in a park with a cake and a band. I'd like to have a party like that, she said. You're a mother, he said. You already retired when the kids left home. I paint, she said, her face stony. Well, you're not going to stop, are you, he asked? So why throw you a party? For what? For what? For what?* In the florescent glare of the hospital lights, his face looked ghastly, white with a purple cast. You'll be fine, she said, and held his hand. She did not believe he would be fine. * When they finally got to Florence, they were exhausted. I need a nap, she said, and he nodded, though he hated her afternoon nap. You sleep like you're dead, he said, and it always frightens me. At least you know what I'll look like when I'm dead, she said. It's good practice. For what, he said? I'll think you're sleeping until it's too late. Why should I break my heart twice?* I didn't sleep with her, he said. I know, she said. You're too old. I don't love her, he said. I know, she said. You're too old to love anybody but me. You won't leave me, will you, he asked? She shook her head. I'm too old to love anybody but you. She took out her aggression on the weeds in the flowerbed, telling them sternly that people will absolutely surprise you, forever until you're dead. And that sometimes the surprises were very goddamn surprising. * They drove home from the doctor's office silently; she was at the wheel since his reaction time had gotten long lately. The snow fell gently on the road, as if it were trying to bury the bad news. I guess, he said, that after all this time together, dying is a thing we have to do separately. Maybe, she said. Maybe it isn't, and she straightened the wheel, drove right past their house. Where are you going, he asked? I don't know, she said. She rolled down the window. Her hair blew back in the breeze, and she felt about eighteen years old. She felt like she could go dancing forever. Who knew you could be so old and still want your whole life back? It's raining, he said, are you crazy? Roll the window up. She ignored him and let the rain sprinkle her face, her neck, let it wash her life away and make her clean and new again with him. Do you want to get pneumonia, he said? I do, she said, and laughed and laughed. It turned out she was delighted with her life after all, after all of it. Limitations and Space was written, produced, and performed by MariGo.“22 Endings for a Story About Marriage” was written by Amber Sparks and voiced by Simone Maddox, Emma Tigan, Joe Mondi, Sean Letourneau, Elaine Saw, Matt Badger, Michelle Ochitwa, Zak Ferguson, Brianna Vox, Wayne Corbeil, Kim Nguyen, Ryan McNulty, Maggie Ross, Ben Baeyens, Jessica Fisher, Jackie Yates, Joe Maluso, Mia Rodriguez, Rodney Harter, Cordelia Heart, and Kristen DiMercurio.The Dance Cry Dance Break is written and produced by Natalie Bayne and recorded and edited by Moe Provencher. Timaree Marston is our Story Editor. Theme music is Red Lines, by Dance Cry Dance Records artist Tiny Tiny. Dance Cry Dance is a collective record label in Seattle, WA. Paid subscriptions support our artists and writers.  This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit break.dancecrydance.com/subscribe

On this episode of the Dance Cry Dance Break, “Dust,” a story written by Kiana Kazemi inspired by Coincidence, the first single from the debut album in production by Lindsay Liebro.Singer-songwriter Lindsay Liebro and writer Kiana Kazemi, are real life best friends. Coincidence is 18-year-old Pittsburgh native Lindsay's first single since her independently released Wasted Potential went viral on TikTok last fall after being mistaken for an unreleased Taylor Swift track. Now with more than million streams, 80,000 monthly listeners and a contract with Dance Cry Dance records, Lindsay has moved to Nashville to study music at Belmont University and begun work on her debut album set for release in 2023. Spotify - Instagram - TikTokKiana has been writing for ages, from the time she drafted her first poem as a child to the present-day, where she works on her own scripts and short novels. Her inspiration comes from the everyday, searching for meaning behind the smallest actions, words, and thoughts. Currently, she attends university for Computer Science and Economics, so writing gives her the perfect creative outlet from classes. Outside of writing, she loves music (especially background tracks) and how well it intertwines with story writing.Dustby Kiana KazemiThe last time we saw each other was the last time I dusted off the top of my bookshelf.I wonder if you can recall that day so clearly as I can, and if it haunts your late-night thoughts like mine.My friend had called me around ten in the morning, asking to spend the evening at the boardwalk just a few hours away. I agreed to go after I finished cleaning my bedroom–the usual sheet wash, plumping the pillows, watering the flowers, dusting the shelves. It was so unbearably hot that day, I almost regretted breaking out the ladder from the cabinet to climb up just to dust some shelves. I think I still regret that. As I walked to my closet, swinging the doors open with my remaining strength and glancing at the hangers, I could only think of one thing: it had only been a month since you disappeared from my life, yet there were endless reminders of you in everything I have. Sometimes, it's as if you never left. And I hate that.Of course I didn't choose to wear the deep blue shirt I wore when we got ice cream together. Instead I went for the slightly-tattered gray sweatshirt I found lying on the top rack. And I didn't choose to wear the hat you endlessly complimented at our weekly picnics; the knockoff ballcap I found in the clearance aisles a week ago worked just fine.As my friend picked me up, I flipped through my phone's screens until I found some music so tastelessly generic I could mute my thoughts. You know, the neverending radio “hits” that we used to make fun of before you would quickly switch the music off.I remember trying to shake memories of our trips to the boardwalk as I carefully stepped on, noticing the beauty of it instead. The sky that day was as if someone had taken the foamy ocean waves and quickly whisked them into meringues, blowing them gently into the baby blue sky above. The breeze was welcoming, like an old friend bringing you into their embrace after months. It felt like a serene escape.And I wish I hadn't decided to continue walking down the beach at that point. Sometimes I wish I had never even agreed to go out to the boardwalk that day.Because as my friend laughed with me over the seagulls stealing food, some strawberries and a crab cake from an abandoned picnic basket, my eyes fell on you. You, and someone else. You and my replacement.Two thoughts flashed through my mind at that moment: I'm happy for you and I hope your heart is torn just like mine.I knew you saw me at that moment too. We made eye contact, not the brief, shy type, but the type that you make when you're trying to recognize an old friend you haven't seen for 5 years, doubting if it's truly the same person. And we both realized, at the same time, we were who we thought we were. I saw your hand twitch for a moment, as if you were contemplating whether or not to wave “hi.” But I'm glad you didn't. I don't know how I would have reacted. Before you could make a split-second decision, the girl you were with tugged on your hand — right, you were holding hands — and focused your attention. She smiled so brightly at you, just like I used to. You grinned back at her, as if our shared moment never even happened. She kissed you on the cheek, pulling out her camera to snap a quick picture of the two of you. Adorable, really, from anyone else's view. Soon, you walked away. And I still felt left behind. It was almost as if the sand began pulling me in, cementing me in so I can never move on from this moment. But my friend quickly diverted my attention to the sunset. I have a feeling they knew what happened. I spent that night mulling over what we could have been if you had never left me alone in the cold sand a month ago.I dusted my shelf off again today – what has it been, four months? I tried not to think much of it, not to think of what was in our past oh so many months ago.I headed to the store, with plans of picking up cat food, eggs for the muffins I wanted to bake, and maybe a bouquet of flowers if there were any still left after Valentine's.And there you were.I hate that I can recognize you from a mile away. I hate that I fall victim to hearing your laughs that aren't shared with me. I hate that I can still see you, unaffected by what we were, if we were ever even something to you.You were picking up some eggs, and — who was that by your side? — you placed them in the gray grocery cart — who was laughing by your side? — before moving towards the next aisle.You didn't see me. I rushed out of the store, pushing the one carton of eggs  I had already picked up onto a random shelf, and headed back home before you could notice. Perhaps the cashier at the front noticed my abrupt departure, one mimicking yours that I still grieve to this day.Some days, I realize that I don't feel guilty for despising you anymore. Rather, I feel guilty for letting you be the reason I ruin the present for myself.I feel guilty for forgetting to pick up cat food that night, having to rush out at 8PM to the closing pet store to pick up food for Leo. I feel guilty for leaving eggs on a shelf in an aisle when I was supposed to purchase them for the muffins I planned on making for my friend's birthday.Maybe through a set of naive eyes, you are not the one to blame for your departure from my narrative. But forever, in my torn view, you will be.Today I glanced at my bookshelf, noticing the dust piling from the months passed. Before I could even move a finger, I realized — I can't give into you.I can't dust my bookshelf anymore.Coincidence was written and co-produced by Lindsay Liebro, produced by Daniel Folgado, co-produced by Natalie Bayne, mixed by Brian Eichelberger. Additional vocal recording by Lauren DeMichiei, mastered by Rachel Field with Mastering Production Assistant Annie Larkin.“Dust” was written by Kiana Kazemi and voiced by Sarah Holland.The Dance Cry Dance Break is written and produced by Natalie Bayne and recorded and edited by Moe Provencher. Theme music is Red Lines, by Dance Cry Dance Records artist Tiny Tiny. Dance Cry Dance is a collective record label in Seattle, WA. Paid subscriptions support our artists and writers. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit break.dancecrydance.com/subscribe

On this episode of the Dance Cry Dance Break, we open with “Answer Inc.,” a story by Corey Farrenkopf followed by Inhuman, a track from the album Nothing Is by Nashville artist/producer Thomas Bryan Eaton.For Thomas Bryan Eaton, music is everything. Obsessed since childhood with sound and how you can make it, his musical journey has taken him all around this world. While often seen wandering around the fret boards of guitars & pedal steels with Miss Tess, Western Centuries, or JP Harris & the Tough Choices; Thomas also makes his own recordings reflecting his unique take on the music of America and beyond. Delving deep into the roots of music and searching for ways to push forward are at the core of his efforts & artistry.Bandcamp - Spotify - Instagram Corey Farrenkopf lives on Cape Cod with his wife, Gabrielle, and works as a librarian. His short stories have been published in Tiny Nightmares, The Southwest Review, Three-Lobed Burning Eye, Smokelong Quarterly, Catapult, Flash Fiction Online, Reckoning, Uncharted, Wigleaf, Bourbon Penn, and elsewhere. He is the Fiction Editor for The Cape Cod Poetry ReviewWebsite - Twitter - InstagramAnswer Inc. By Corey Farrenkopf Answer Inc. doesn't provide a company computer. For thirty-two fifty an hour, my old Mac does the job. The screen illuminates my face as I hunch over the keyboard. Every light is off in my basement apartment, the scent of microwaved Biryani filling the cramped space. I'm confined to the beanbag chair my parents let me take from my childhood bedroom, the faux leather slightly sticky beneath my back.  Once I log in, questions fill my ears. Is a Pomchi the right breed of dog for me? How far is too far to drive for a Tinder date before I look like a creep? If I can only afford to buy my father's diabetes medication or my brother's diabetes medication, whose should I buy? I'm not allowed a follow up question. I can't delve into which relative Asker C is closest with, which attended more of her high school drama performances, which calls on her birthday. No. They are paying for a one sentence reply, so one sentence is what they get. No, a cockapoo is the correct breed. Anything over fifty miles and you'll seem like an axe murderer. Strictly based on life expectancy, your brother. Sometimes I imagine my callers. Twenty-something with a perfect fade. Late thirties with a softening gym body. Early forties, grays coming in at the roots. It helps me answer, to humanize the anonymous caller numbers and blurred-out headshots. For fifty dollars, clients log on to have someone else make their decisions.  Should they get a face tattoo? How many cats is too many cats for their condo? Which is the best day of the week to bring up divorce to their blindsided spouse? I can see the allure. There are too many options these days, too many lives you can live, and none of them feel right. The vastness is crippling. If I had money, maybe I'd use the service. Employees get a twenty percent discount, but rent is steep.  My questions remain my own. *** I rarely get the same caller twice, except b582 that is.  Somehow, she's in my queue every day. I imagine she's in her thirties, short hair, eyes baggy from sleep. At least that's what her one sentence a day conveys. “Is the air in my apartment toxic?” she asked on her first call. I listened for the bleep of CO detectors. Finding none, I said “No, the air in your home is clean.” The next day she asked, “If my landlord is trying to poison me, how would I know?” After consulting a poison control Google search, I said, “You would feel light-headed and  nauseous.” Her daily questions morph from outward concerns to inner. “Is it crazy to believe your landlord is trying to kill you?” “Is it normal to fear the water coming from the tap?” “Is it normal to worry about what's coming for me?" To each question, given the times we live in, I say No it is completely normal to worry about X,Y, and Z as long as it doesn't rule your life.  *** After a month, I email my boss asking if I can get in touch with b582 to give her the number for a healthcare professional or therapist that may be better equipped for her questions than an ex-barista with a sociology degree. My supervisor writes back that of course there is no way to contact b582. Answer Inc. cares about customer privacy, and, if we were to pass b582 onto another service, we would be losing the fifty dollars per call, and that certainly isn't in the business plan.  We are a form of therapy, he says. The simplest form of therapy. *** On b582's hundredth call, I refuse to answer her question about fearing the inhuman silhouette standing on her street corner. Instead, I give her my cellphone number, rattling off the digits, hoping my supervisors aren't listening in. “There's got to be a better way of doing this. I can't give you the help you need. Call me and we'll figure something out.” b582 pauses.  “But what about the silhouette?” She asks after a minute. I swallow whatever response I thought I'd come up with and simply tell her, “If it's close to your house, yes, go lock your doors.”  Then she hangs up and my next caller is on, asking me about haircare products and flammability around tiki-torches. *** I wait for an unknown number to light up my cellphone screen, but nothing happens. I continue to answer questions about organic sheets, dopamine deficiency, and the most successful ways to potty train a cat, with no interruptions. I end my shift at eight o'clock and move to the kitchen where I microwave instant cup noodles and continue to wait for her call. But the call doesn't come. I worry about how quick she locked the door.  *** The next morning, b582's ID pops up on my screen. She neglected my personal number, but I'm cool with that simply for the fact whatever she thought she saw beneath that streetlight didn't get her in the night. I click “accept” and wait for her voice. “How do you live in this world?” she asks, words coming quick, as if startled. I've given up on one sentence replies. If she isn't going to call my actual number, this is the only chance, the only way I might help “By following the truth. Listening to facts. Believing those you love. Not letting every fear swallow your day.” Each option sounds sensical as I say it, but there is a hesitancy in the back of my throat, an uncertainty clinging to my tongue. “But everyone possesses their own individual truth. You're seeing a different world than I'm seeing.” “Nope, there's one world and we're all sharing it.” I'm waiting for my supervisor to come on the line to end the call, but it's just the two of us, despite the fact we've far surpassed the time limit. My heart rate is up. I can smell my own sweat. “You tell yourself what you need to. Our worlds aren't the same, but they might be some day. You couldn't do your job if they were the same. You'd have too many questions and there'd never be enough answers. You'd always be too afraid of what's coming.” “What is coming? Is it that silhouette again?” I ask. “What's coming for me is also coming for you. It comes for all of us, eventually. Why do you think I'm so afraid?” “I assumed you had an anxiety disorder or a list of phobias, not this.”  “We all have anxieties,” she replies. In the background, footsteps fall on hardwood, boots approaching from down a long hallway. “But this is different. It has arrived and I never learned how to prepare.” “Prepare for what?” “You'll know it when it gets to you. All I can say is you need to be the one asking the questions, not the one giving…” Then the line goes dead. “No, wait,” I reply, leaning forward, my face close to the screen as I frantically search for some trace of b582. An account number. An email. Something I might have previously overlooked. There's no redial option, no number I can reconnect with. It's just me and the next question.  “What's the cheapest wine I can get away with on a first date?” I want to ask if he's aware of what's coming for him, whatever got b582, but I hold my tongue.  “Twenty-eight a bottle,” I reply, not ready to be the one asking the questions.  Not yet.The Dance Cry Dance Break is written and produced by Natalie Bayne and recorded and edited by Moe Provencher. Theme music is Red Lines, by Dance Cry Dance Records artist Tiny Tiny. Dance Cry Dance is a collective record label in Seattle, WA. Paid subscriptions support our artists and writers. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit break.dancecrydance.com/subscribe

On this episode of the Dance Cry Dance Break, we open with “Swim Deep,” a story by Eirinie Carson followed by the exclusive premiere of Outskirts, the new single (available July 1, 2022) by Argentinian artist/producer Elhel. Elhel is the stage name of Argentinian electro-pop artist/producer Yamil Eljel. Originally a Spanish-language performer, Elhel began writing and recording songs in English in 2019. His newest project is a nostalgic take on electronica inspired by the sounds and images from the films of the 1980's. He signed with Dance Cry Dance records at the end of 2021 and has begun production on an album set to release later this year.Instagram Eirinie Carson is a Black British Londoner and writer living in California. She is a mother of two children, Luka and Selah. She is a frequent contributor to Mother magazine, and her work has also appeared in Mother Muse and You Might Need To Hear This, with an upcoming piece in The Sonora Review's Fall edition. She is also the recipient of a fellowship from Craigardan Artists Residency, NY. Eirinie writes about motherhood, grief and relationships and is currently working on her first book about the loss of her best friend, Larissa, and what love looks like after death. Blog - Twitter - InstagramSwim DeepBy Eirinie CarsonCari was a full year older than Rosie, which to an adult might seem like nothing, but to a 19- and 20-year-old was vast. An ocean of knowledge stretched out between them, and although Rosie had done better at school, was getting good grades at college, she felt like an infant around Cari, a fresh born babe who knew nothing, had done nothing. The ocean they found themselves in seemed a bottomless blue, and Rosie was painfully aware of just how far out to sea they were. She didn't like to think of the depths in open water—it made her contemplate the unfathomable map beneath her as she trod water above it: mysterious currents and seismic changes, not to mention the creatures. Blind scaly monsters, impossibly electric with unseen teeth, and smooth beings, getting too close to her legs without her even knowing. Cari was buoyant with the ocean, casual, her Wayfarers swept up off her face, holding her wet, jet-black hair like a headband, like that song about the summer, widow's peak severe and mysterious. Rosie was a strong swimmer, but Cari was stronger, having spent so many summers at the beach as a lifeguard. By the end of each season her already enviable body would look as if it were still wearing a swimsuit when naked, stark and comparatively pale. Cari was one of those girls for whom stripping off was undaunting; she would step long lithe legs out of her sundress, revealing a wet but drying bikini bottom, a taut stomach with abs from days of swimming out past the buoys.Rosie did not have such a body, and although she was technically covered by the waves and water around her, and should have felt weightless and light like a stray piece of seaweed, she felt large and unwieldy, legs peddling desperately, brushing her stomach's puppy-fat with each stroke. They had the kind of friendship Rosie assumed people whispered about, wondering how such a vibrant, charismatic beauty as Cari could have found such a dumpy, quiet pal in Rosie. But it felt cosy in Cari's slipstream, cosy and slightly ominous, like stepping into a freshly peed bit of warm. Rosie would trail in her wake, waiting for something exciting to happen to her, if only vicariously through Cari.This was that heady type of friendship where often Rosie's stomach would do a big swoosh when she was anticipating seeing her, where even when Cari wasn't around, she was still the sole occupier of Rosie's thoughts. She didn't think about her boyfriend like that. Sometimes he would step into her dorm room, and she would blink several times as if trying to bring her eyes into focus, as if trying to remember who or what this person in front of her was. She always remembered--always remembered to hold his hand and close her eyes when they kissed and smile when he talked to her and try to maintain the roles they were performing. This boyfriend-slash-girlfriend game. It was her first time playing, and she suspected it was his too, although he spoke frequently of his “exes”, but only in vague ways that seemed more to coerce Rosie into a certain type of behaviour: “My ex always did this” “My ex didn't like rom coms” “My ex always wore matching underwear”. Rosie thought perhaps she might be more bothered by these quite transparent attempts at manipulation, but she couldn't bring herself to care enough. She would watch his films, coordinate her bras with her knickers, try to push away thoughts of Cari whilst they were talking. Cari made sure to hang out with Rosie only one on one; if they were ever in a crowd Rosie would find herself being led away to the outskirts of the party, with Cari's breath on her ear as she whispered her secrets. She hated Rosie's boyfriend and conjured up a variety of bland names to call him that were not his actual name. “Why do you bother with Darren anyway?” “What do you see in Fred?” “Where's Martin today, off buying some more cargo pants?” The digs thrilled Rosie, and whilst she never joined in with the ribbing, she loved that Cari was displaying something close to jealousy, some bright, vicious little stone, heavy in the hand and just for her. Cari seemed as if she wasn't moving, treading water as she looked back toward the shore coolly, even though Rosie felt out of breath from her effort. "Isn't this fun?" Cari smiled through the ocean which splashed against her white teeth as if she was merely part of the landscape. "I come out here every day.""Mmhmm,” Rosie spluttered, wondering again about the noiseless shapes beneath her feet. A cold current hit her ankles, and she brought her legs up higher, as if peddling on a tricycle. Rosie's father had always told her never to turn her back on the ocean, and so even now, all the way out here, she wouldn't, but she watched Cari bob, perfectly timed, as each and every wave rose behind her. She was like a mermaid, effortless, seeming to stand still amidst the rippling tide. Rosie on the other hand felt a panic to her paddles, and she kept her eyes peeled for suspicious activity, for blue-grey fins to begin to circle. "Just a little further," Cari called, not quite a question as she moved out to sea.     Rosie turned and looked back to shore, to her boring, predictable boyfriend who would probably propose when they graduated, to whom she would probably say yes. A life, safe and familiar, waiting to unfurl if she would only return to the sand. The beach looked further than Cari, who was bobbing confidently through a blue sea, towards a bluer sky."Coming!" Rosie shouted, her mouth filled with bitter saltwater making it difficult to keep breathing, arms combing the water, heavy legs moving her out, out, out of her depths, out of her league.The Dance Cry Dance Break is written and produced by Natalie Bayne and recorded and edited by Moe Provencher. Theme music is Red Lines, by Dance Cry Dance Records artist Tiny Tiny. Dance Cry Dance is a collective record label in Seattle, WA. Paid subscriptions support our artists and writers. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit break.dancecrydance.com/subscribe

Next week, Friday, May 27, 2022—exclusively for subscribers of The Break—the world premiere of refuge, the new album from Seattle art-rock duo quand il pleut. This special release includes a story by Isaac Marion, author of the New York Times bestselling Warm Bodies series and the upcoming novel, The Overnoise, plus a bonus conversation between artists and writer, Subscribe below to hear the full album next week! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit break.dancecrydance.com/subscribe

On this episode of the Dance Cry Dance Break, we open with “Solace,” a story by Timaree Marston followed by the exclusive premiere of Garden of Eden, the new single written and performed by Provo, Utah singer-songwriter Cherish DeGraaf, engineered by Jordan Clark and Aaron Hendrix, and produced by Jordan Clark. SolaceBy Timaree MarstonI sit in my mother's living room, listening to my two-year-old daughter chattering on about “horsies” and owls. My anxiety and grief have me ready to flee, to escape my body and run for the oak trees I see shedding their leaves as I stare out the window. Instead, I sit, still, sipping my tea made with lemon balm and lavender and chamomile from the herb garden here. I catch my mother in my periphery watching me, her brow furrowed, her mouth drawn. She wants to comfort me. She can't.I break my silence with a heavy sigh. I sigh a lot right now. When my son died, the funeral home gave me absurd pamphlets on grief, how to do it. I remember reading, relieved, that sighing was a physical function of mourning, some way for the body to process all that anguish. I took the sighing on as a full-time job. Somehow it helped. Even now, I welcome the sighs; they are some of the few full breaths I take. I can't imagine breathing normally again. But then, there is so much I cannot imagine in these days following the death of my marriage. I have to leave those thoughts behind. Spending too much time worrying any one piece of the larger pain puzzle is too much right now. My daughter wraps stuffed animals in blankets, whispers to them so earnestly in her tender toddler voice, “Oh, sweet bear, are you feeling sick? I will comfort you.” She has comforted me in recent days, taking my whole head in her chubby arms, crooning, “It's okay, Mommy. A hug will make it better. Mommy's sad. Mommy will feel better.” In those moments, I do, just briefly, feel better if only for her. I rarely cry in front of her but, a born empath, she feels my agony, spies my broken heart beneath the calm façade I keep trying to provide for her peace of mind.My own mother witnesses my daughter's attempts to soothe me. She must remember me doing the same as she cried and cried for my father, the man who left her with a three-year-old and a newborn to heal from birth and an affair and spilled dreams—all on her own, terrified. I am sure she sees in my daughter pieces of me. I am sure she sees in her daughter shards of herself.Here in her home, my mother feeds me meals I don't want to eat. Here in her home, she offers me tea, wine, chocolate. She takes my daughter for long walks so that I might rest, stop thinking. She gives me hugs, pats my leg, plays mindless home improvement shows. Here in her home, I let her nurture me the best I can, knowing this is all we have as mothers. It helps some, but the heartache still consumes me, even as I down another glass of Barbera while Debrah and Mark decide to love it, not list it. My mother knows how impossible it is to comfort me in grief. She has done this before, mothering me through the inconsolable aching for my son after he died, trying to draw me into her arms, trying to lessen the pain as she grieved for me. We have walked these paths and know too well that some sorrows are simply too great. But still we try. It's what we do.My daughter takes a little spill, trips over a stuffy and smacks her knuckles hard against the wood floor. She is stoic, won't cry, but I see her pouty lower lip—the one she got from me—protruding ever-so-much, her chin quivering as she holds her injured hand, and stares up at me, eyes wide and glistening. I lift her into my lap, pull her sweet-smelling head to my chest, stroke her wisps of hair, kiss her tiny hand where she hit it. She sniffles, curls into me. Her breathing calms as she touches home base. She sighs. I do too. For a moment, time is suspended in the stillness of comfort. But moments later, she is healed. She wiggles around ready to play again, squirming out of my arms to retrieve her bear. All better. I look to my own mother—tears in my eyes, tears in hers—both of us watching this freshly-soothed child. Both of us silently mourning the fading of a mother's healing touch for a daughter's wounded heart.The Dance Cry Dance Break is written and produced by Natalie Bayne and recorded and edited by Moe Provencher. Theme music is Red Lines, by Dance Cry Dance Records artist Tiny Tiny. Dance Cry Dance is a collective record label in Seattle, WA. Paid subscriptions support our artists and writers. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit break.dancecrydance.com/subscribe

Next week, Tuesday March 15, 2022—exclusively for subscribers of The Break—the world premiere of please don't let me be, the new album from 17-year-old producer/songwriter Sarabean. This special release includes a story by ¡Hola Papi!'s John Paul Brammer, an intimate conversation between artist and writer, and three bonus album tracks that will not be available to the public until March, 2023 . Hear the first single from the album below. And, subscribe to hear the full album next week!Dance Cry Dance is a collective record label in Seattle, WA. Paid subscriptions support our artists and writers. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit break.dancecrydance.com/subscribe

Hello! Welcome to the Dance Cry Dance Break, an audio magazine showcasing new music from the artists of Dance Cry Dance Records alongside stories and essays inspired by the songs, written by some of our favorite authors. Join us for our first episode, an exploration of solitude, community, and the places we live. Enjoy the Break!Today's show features Softly, to the Night, the new EP from Dance Cry Dance Records artist Tiny Tiny, written, produced and recorded by Boone Williams. Mastered by Austin Leeds. Before that, “Wait”, a short story inspired by the album, written and read by Natalie Bayne. The Dance Cry Dance Break is produced and recorded by Natalie Bayne and Moe Provencher. Our stories are edited by Timaree Marston. Theme music is Red Lines, also by Tiny Tiny. A transcript of today's story can be found below.Dance Cry Dance is a collective record label in Seattle, WA. Paid subscriptions support our artists and writers. Wait By Natalie BayneAt the beginning, when the weather was still cold, she never went outside. And, no one else really did either. Once or twice a week, she'd catch a glimpse of the mail carrier, sack slung heavy over one shoulder, trail of glittering dust floating and swirling in the air around him, drifting along behind him as he trudged up the hill. She'd watch him, through the window, as he stuffed handfuls of newsprint ads into the mailbox beside the front gate, hiked the sack up onto his shoulder again, and made his way further up the hill, stopping at each house as he went. She liked to count the seconds from his first step, the time it took for the glittering cloud he left in his wake to dissipate, sometimes carried away quickly by the wind, other times, on stormier days, brought to ground in an instant by the falling rain. Sometimes, on still days, the dust would linger for hours, billows of glistening specks, hovering midair, slowly turning in the icy sunlight. On those days, she didn't count, but turned away from the window, withdrawing further into her home.As the air grew warmer, neighbors began to reappear, one by one. And day by day, their sparkling clouds grew smaller and smaller until she rarely saw them anymore. And, one day, she decided it was time to come outside. Cautious at first, just a few steps at a time, she made her way into the yard. And then further back into the garden. She'd never had much luck with the flowers or vegetables but was fond of tending to the trees. And, there were several that needed tending. She fetched a rusted pair of lopping shears from the old shed at the back of the house and went to work on the overgrown camellia, pruning away the dead branches, shaking loose the rotting blossoms, and trimming the fresh growth into the tight, plump shape of a shrub. She examined a young ginkgo. It had been transplanted to a brighter corner of the garden last summer and had promptly dropped all of its leaves in protest. At the time she'd thought perhaps it would die. But ginkgos, she knew, were hardy trees. She looked closely and, sure enough, tiny green buds had begun to sprout along its spindly, gray branches. She smiled and thought how wonderful it would be to see that burst of sunshine gold again from her window when the leaves changed color in the fall. She had missed it so dearly, all those cold days inside last year. She moved around to the side of the house where a rock garden lay in the shade of the gnarled old pine tree. Hundreds of tiny weeds, encouraged by the spring rain, had peeked up between the jagged white shards of crushed granite that covered the ground alongside the fence separating her yard from her neighbor's. She knelt on a paving stone, gripped a tiny plant by the leaves, and plucked it from the ground. The leaves snapped off at the stem. She tossed them into a pail and brushed aside the rocks where the weed had been. A bit of green stem stuck out of the ground beneath. She picked at it with a fingernail but couldn't get a firm hold on it again. She sighed and swept the rocks back into place covering the little stub of stem. She grasped another plant, this time more gently, between her thumb and forefinger. She wiggled it lightly and felt the plant give, jiggled a bit more, slowly and carefully loosening the soil from the roots until the whole plant was free. She held it up, examining it with satisfaction, barely half an inch of green with a branching network of roots, ten times its length and fine as silk thread. She tossed the plant whole into the pail and went after the next with the same determined delicacy. She spent that afternoon and the following clearing the weeds. And at night, as she slept, she dreamt of the root still in the ground below the broken stem that she could never get hold of. By the third day, the weeds had all been plucked and the old pine stood in the center of a flawless field of white. The tree had been beautiful once, was still, beneath dry needles the color of rust that lay in heaps at its base and in clumps between criss-crossing branches, obscuring an elegant trunk painstakingly trained to grow in a spiral pattern, covering graceful branches that radiated from its center, each tipped with thick, tufted brushes of deep green. She cleared the dead needles from the ground and from the crooks of the branches, scooping them into the pail with gloved hands, humming to herself as she carried away load after load, admiring the shape of the tree as it came into focus. She noticed then the buds, slender, pale green fingers pointing skyward in clusters at the end of each branch. At the center of each cluster, one bud stood taller than the others: the terminal bud. If left alone, it would grow vertically into a full branch, distorting the pine's symmetry. But, if removed early enough, the other, smaller buds would grow, forming a soft pad, a tight cluster of branches, thick with bright new needles. She held a bud between gloved fingers, it's translucent skin, an intersecting pattern of scales, feathering and peeling at the tips. The bud was supple, flexible. She snapped it off at the base with little effort. A puff of yellow pollen burst from the cone buds below. She brushed it from her sleeve. She heard footsteps on the other side of the fence and then a voice.“Mornin',” the voice said. A neighbor stepped from behind a laurel bush and leaned over the fence. He had a handkerchief tied around his face and a shovel in one hand. “Beautiful day, isn't it?”It was, she agreed.“Working' on that old pine, huh?”She nodded and reached for another bud. “It's a little overgrown,” he said, “but solid. It'll shape up. Japanese black pine, right?”She nodded again. “Yeah, I thought so. You mind?”He didn't wait for a reply but leaned over the low wood fence and reached for the tree, breaking off a couple of the long, dark needles and crushing them between his fingers. He pulled the handkerchief down below his chin, held the broken needles to his nose, and took a deep breath. “Mmm, that smell,” he said. “Did you know that in Japanese the word for pine tree is the same as the word for “wait”? “Hmm,” she raised her eyebrows in feigned interest, aware he wasn't really asking if she knew, just talking in that absent way particular to neighbors, the common language of familiar strangers.  “Makes sense I suppose. Trees don't have much else to do but wait.” He laughed and a little puff of glitter burst from his mouth. He didn't notice it or lift the handkerchief over his face to contain it. She took a step back, her breath caught in her chest. “You know, you're gonna have a hard time reaching those buds up there at the top,” he said. “You got a ladder?”She shook her head “no,” still holding her breath. “Let me run and get mine. You can borrow it for a couple days.“She smiled and took another small step backward. He disappeared behind the laurel again, and she turned and walked quickly back to her house, holding her breath until she was behind the closed door. That evening, she typed the words “pine tree ” and “English to Japanese translation” into a browser window. Matsu, the result read. Noun: pine tree. Verb: to wait, to look forward to, to anticipate.She rubbed the inside of her wrists. Each had a thin band of red pinprick spots, skin swollen and sore where the pine needles had poked between the gloves and long sleeves she'd worn earlier that day. She stood and looked out her bedroom window. The neighbor had left the ladder there, leaning against the fence beside the pine tree. It would have to wait. The Break is a listener-supported publication. To receive new episodes and support independent music, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit break.dancecrydance.com/subscribe