By Ben Starr

Not here at least. Not since last summer. Now everyone emerges fully formed, long ears of corn unfolding out the bottom halves of hospital beds. These latest citizens, moon-faced and hastily shaped, wander like ghosts, somehow knowing and not knowing everything at once. Each morning the town awakens to their cries, fresh confusion bathing streets like thick fog. The city council is at a loss. What do they do about school? Employment? Housing? New mothers drag themselves through quiet streets, chests heavy with unspilled milk. Some families have tried to recreate childhood by hosting playdates full of overgrown offspring milling about like tired oxen, trips to the amusement park met with nothing more than an irritated shrug. One small child remains, born before all this and now feted like royalty. People pay hefty sums just to hold her shrunken hand. Throw her into the sun, have her fall into their envious arms. A couple’s retirement savings wiped out, all spent on one last miraculous hug.  

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Ben is a reader for Dishsoap Quarterly and his work has been published or is forthcoming in Bending Genres, Bruiser Mag, HAD, Maudlin House, Gone Lawn, Scaffold and other journals. Find more of his work on X @benjaminstarr and at benstarrwrites.com