by Jennifer Falkner

It has nothing to do with the fact that I dried. Or maybe it has everything to do with it

A number of people came up afterwards, trying to reassure me with some variation of “a bad rehearsal means a good show.” Clara, our stage manager, said it twice. It wasn’t even a full dress, more like a line run after our unexpected break, with a few tech cues. But if Lear can’t remember his lines, is there even a play?

That was yesterday.

Now I’m caked in make-up, making my already wrinkled and sagging face ludicrously aged. […]

by Jennifer Falkner

This room is as airless as all the others upstairs. The window is missing its screen but I yank it open anyway. There are no houses or strip malls outside, only trees and the absence of traffic noise. At least the evening air dilutes the smell. Earthy, almost fetid, reminding me of the white, pudding-like feces of my brother’s boa constrictor, his high school pet. I can hear Gabe moving around downstairs; he’s whistling and it reassures me, knowing he’s there.

Every time I push open a door or pull open a new drawer, I expect the old […]