Cover Photo: Big Brat by emily morris

Big Brat

An ordinary day for a demented Amazon.

Big Brat rolls out of the divot of earth that she sleeps in and watches the dirt fall from the tops of her thighs.

“Good morning,” she says to herself.

Dog looks back at her expectantly.

She sits at her vanity, the ornate iron feet sunken into patchy grass. She picks up a dented bottle and douses her face with water. A stub of chocolate from the night before sits next to her powder brush. She gnaws on it with her two front teeth, twin curls of cocoa falling onto the counter.She pulls her stockings up over her calves and her hips.

On her way to the train, one man holds out his thumb and forefinger in a triangular motion to swipe between her legs. He doesn’t grasp anything but she feels an echo just the same.

“Have a nice day,” he says.

Tears spring to Big Brat’s eyes but she continues down the road. She hops on the train. Fat on her arm hangs ripe like a little whimper. An old grandpa looks at it.

“Shut up,” she says.

At work, she greets Boss.

“Hello,” Boss says.

Big Brat peels back her lips with both hands until white cracks form above and below.

“Producing product makes for good sales,” says Big Brat.

“Precisely.”

“We made a good product.”

“Great Job,” says Boss.

Big Brat leaves to the café next door for lunch. Mister Favorite is working. She orders a jar of coffee and a pot du crème. When Mister Favorite takes her money he brushes her thumb and her whole body stands alert. He looks like a bear and a puppy and a baby and a stone all at once.

Big Brat lingers at the counter.

“Do you care for me?” she asks.

“No,” says Mister Favorite. “I never even think of you.”

Big Brat begins to cry.

“Why are you crying?” Mister Favorite asks.

“Pain,” she says.“Pain I’ll never have you.”

Big Brat sniffles and looks over her shoulder at another customer. He is hunched over in a trench coat, shuffling cards with pictures of ladies on them. They have round noses and round asses and round eyes and round hair. Trench Coat looks up from his cards fearfully.

“Disgusting,” Big Brat says, turning swiftly. Her elbow knocks her coffee onto her legs.

“You don’t know anything,” she glowers at them both, the fine hairs around her lips catching the waning light.Mister Favorite can only look handsome when she leaves the café.

Back at her work desk, Big Brat grabs a fistful of pencils and wedges them into her keyboard. She lets her head free-fall onto their dulled points. They just miss her eyeball every time. On the last try, one pencil catches on the inside of her nose. Big Brat gasps and returns to her screen. The sun sets. Down her blouse smells like body and stale coffee.

Big Brat gets back on the train. There are mans everywhere. With one she would peel away his upper lip and lick his teeth. With another she would nibble delicately on the tip of his nose. Another she would suffocate. Her head bobs a little imagining it. Suddenly she feels the familiar suck of a stranger’s stare. She rolls her eyes around and around and around until it goes away.

Above ground, she is stuck walking behind a very old woman dragging a plastic bag filled with wisps of plastic. The old woman’s hump is so pronounced that Big Brat has the urge to place one hand on her lower back and one on her neck and straighten it out herself. This will only hurt for a moment, she would say.

Big Brat meets up with Feather.When they laugh together they form glitter in the air. “Friend,” Big Brat smiles, and they nuzzle for a moment. Making love should be the term for how they flutter their eyelashes at each other, the pink pleasure prickle in the atmosphere. They eat and drink until sauce coats their fingers and ale dribbles from their chins. Their bellies bubble up over their waistbands.

Drunky approaches their table.

“What a marvelous scarf you’ve got here,” he reaches for her. “What a pretty neck.”

Feather hisses.

“I don’t care,” Big Brat says flatly, and looks through his face.

Big Brat walks up the hill, home to the park. She feels slippery. “Pussy,” she says aloud to the trees. “Pussy pussy pussy.” She slaps the bottom of her flashlight to turn it on and pouts into the mirror. Her eyes are smeared with blue soot. Gorgeous, she thinks. Simply divine.

“But why not Mister Favorite like me?” she asks.

Dog licks her cheek thoughtfully.

“I know, I know.”

She lies down in her divot and pulls her white silk blanket over her head. A sprinkle of needles falls from the looming pines. Under the blanket she rubs her legs together, taking comfort in their long soft hairs. She closes her eyes and brings her hand under the sleeve of her nightgown to rest upon her breast.

“Goodnight to you,” she says to herself.

i identify as an ancient caryatid toppling down the outside staircase of a californian motel.