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Photo by Sofia Sforza on Unsplash


by Ceara Hennessey

Chelsea is a shotgun person, you see. She goes off when her trigger is pulled. We were watching kids throw rocks at trees in Bryant Park when the mother of a nine year old building on fire demanded to know why were were there, two girls whispering, sitting too close together. We don’t talk about what happened next.

What we do talk about are the normal things - grocery shopping, lunch with our moms. When we go out to the bars late at night, we hide like children in trouble, huddled in the back corner. We know what’s coming to us eventually. We swap secrets, we swap more. The bathroom light is always dim, but she finds a way to glow in it.

Chelsea takes me camping. On the drive there, I list off all the ways we could die in the woods. She tells me dying with a friend is better than dying alone. “Friend” stings me like a bug. It’s salt in a wound I cut myself.

I watch her at work, one of many lovelorn observers. Unlike the men, I know to stay quiet. I watch her hand grip the taps, her knuckles turn white. An old balloon shaped man yells at her, begs for just one more drink, asks what time she gets off.

I hear the click of your pistol, Chelsea baby. I hear you.


Ceara Hennessey is a fiction writer based in Northern New Jersey. She holds a bachelor’s degree in creative writing from Seton Hall University. She currently works as a waitress. When she is not writing or working, she is either reading or watching movies. Her work appears in Pidgeonholes, Crepe & Penn, and Variant Literature Journal.