Treehouse

a brief encounter from Katy Gunn

He receives a welcome email from a department store at which his email address, home address, and phone number have been entered for a registry. Name your registry now, says the e-mail. The graphics appear equally themed between weddings and baby showers. There are a few graduation hats. So far, he is registered for twelve Bratz dolls, a machine to make rocket pops, a machine to make snow cones, and twenty-six twin-sized Disney bedding sets. The bedding sets cover twenty-six different movies, at least three with titles he has never heard.

He is looking up a trailer for The Black Cauldron when he receives another e-mail from the department store offering him twenty percent off any purchase that exceeds two hundred dollars. Above this, an email from his own address appears with Daddy my favorite movie is Fantasia in large green font. The first reply to this email says My Favorite Is The Fox And The Hound, and from that point the favorites proliferate. He moves back to his registry page, the margins of which read Best New Family Minivan 2013 and Free Séance Online Only $20. The latter speaks to him about spiritualism if he hovers his curser over it.

His inbox blinks with a new email from the department store offering thirty percent off any purchase that exceeds two hundred and fifty dollars. He receives the opinion that The Great Mouse Detective is the best movie of all lifes. He hesitates over his trackpad. He taps to reply all. Only his address appears in the address bar. How many of there are you? he sends, but any response gets lost in all of the favorites. Every time he tries to shift back through them for a hard number, another favorite appears and he gets knocked back to the bottom of the thread.

Katy Gunn (katygunn.blogspot.com) is an MFA candidate at the University of Alabama with writing forthcoming from Birkensnake, Jellyfish, H_NGM_N, and more.

a brief encounter by Casey Jordan Mills

The divorce split the household into a nasty atmosphere. My parents rummaged through DVDs, silverware, and picture frames; my brother and I watched as they tugged on the Panini press, staking claims, spitting slurs about money and betrayal. Each party signed and initialed eight or nine dotted lines after pretending to read the stack of legal papers before Dad and I drove off with cardboard boxes and a key to a new duplex. Mom didn’t stay for the wave-off, but my brother lingered in the driveway. My brother had a mind for math—he argued it would make him successful, a grown-up with a salary. He tweaked his jokes to blame everything on Dad (and me) boasting how numbers would make him a better man. We went five years without speaking. I tried multiple times to contact him, but he didn’t want anything to do with the other half of the family. I knew he would only apply to his dream school; I knew him well enough to know he had zero friends. I clicked through the pages on Craigslist until I found him, his post searching for a roommate in the area. His ad: Looking for a quiet roommate. 2 bedroom. 1 bathroom. 1.8 miles from campus. Rent and bills split evenly down the middle. I arranged a meeting, using a different name to deter suspicion. My brother answered the door of his cramped loft only after I knocked four times. We stood in silence, examining changes in our appearances and demeanors. He finally motioned for me to come in, still only a few words traded between us. He offered me a glass of water and handed me half of what he called his signature sandwich creation, made with our Panini press already plugged into the counter, his parting gift from Mom.