Salena Casha
In the fall of 2020, they only fought at night in the park, and, because of that, Biz realized she was a light sleeper. It wasn’t like she didn’t try: earplugs, white noise, copious amounts of weed. All futile when they started hurling insults against the tree trunks and concrete benches. From them, she learned the neighborhood had bad acoustics and closed shelters. It’d go on until the cops came with their car doors that barked shut. The uneasy, muttered silence they brought was what she came to hate the most, her imagination clicking into black and white scenes of 60’s dogs and firehoses.
She should have moved as far from them as she could while staying indoors, but instead, she crept closer. First, the right side of her bed. Then, the kitchen chair. Next, the balcony door. The night she made it out onto the tiled veranda that overlooked the park, something had changed. During the in between of Biz’s waking and sleeping, the canopy of oak trees had been razed to the ground. The benches, removed.
The people, gone.
In the twilight, the twisted figure of a wolf, planted squarely on the remaining matted grass made her freeze. It did not howl, just stared out from oiled pupils and it took her minutes to realize it was plastic, the kind she’d seen on the Esplanade to ward off geese. Later, when she closed her eyes and chased sleep, all she could see was its snarling, silent face.
Author: Salena Casha’s work has appeared in over 100 publications in the last decade. Her most recent work can be found on HAD, Flash Frog, and Ghost Parachute. She survives New England winters on good beer and black coffee. Subscribe to her substack at salenacasha.substack.com