BY WENDY OLESoN
My CNN friends talk to me from the TV. They host and anchor me each night in my
overstuffed chair, keep me from crawling out of my skin. My CNN friends evoke desire and fear
with voices that massage my temples and slap my face. They seem like all I have—are maybe
more than I deserve—and life’s much worse and fuller of beauty than I thought possible, I learn
from a commercial. When my friends return from the break, I call them pet names: Coopy, Lem,
and Tippy-Tapper. I chew chips. The popping of my jaw joint blends beautifully with the voices
of my friends, and I hear the call to action: Look.
There’s something you must do.
What?
Touch your sclera.
Why? Usually nothing is expected of me.
Why?! They can’t believe I would ask. People are dying this very second. And Wait,
pundits chime,
There’s more.
Rescue an animal. I have allergies. Sorry. I should not take things so literally, remember:
Lots of things need rescuing & they don’t all live in cages. Also, Prepare a baloney sandwich.
Breaking news: Don’t use baloney. Then, Climb a flight of stairs, and, Descend two flights—
okay—but after, Figure out who you are (i.e., Do I believe life is worthwhile, that I’m worthy
enough to stick around for a while?) Finally, Make sense—wait—there’s disagreement on that,
so I suds my hands in preparation for ocular palpitation.
My intestines percolate. I want to please my friends but also this is absurd. Too nervous
to touch my sclera, I orbit the couch, shaking wrists loose until I take a coffee table to the shin.
My yowl does not disturb the family next door eating cheesy-beef casserole. They are used to my
friends yelling. Still, the hero’s journey continues, and I rescue an animal: leftover salmon from
the back of the fridge. My CNN friends love salmon and perceive damage to the Gulf of Alaska
where my fish was caught. My CNN friends claim to know salmon canneries and eighteen-hour
shifts stuffing pink meat into tins. I peel back the Tupperware lid...a spirit escapes—not the
fish’s—it’s the spirit of a caper, nubby and mud green. No baloney, I consider the sandwich
made. I’m exhausted and settle back into the overstuffed chair. My CNN friends talk as I sit.
Everything’s fine. The best we can do. I’m afraid to look behind the curtain, and everything’s a
curtain. I’m going down and up flights of stairs in my head: I’m fleeing the building while sitting
still. Look at me rubbing my eyes until I see stars! Look at me with my CNN friends—Axe and
Wolf, Bash and Van—they talk and talk and talk, voices lapping and overlapping, bubbling on
my wounds like hydrogen peroxide, they fizz and whisper, growl and keen: You are here.
Wendy Oleson (she/they) is the author of two award-winning prose chapbooks. Her flash appears in Ninth Letter, Denver Quarterly, SmokeLong Quarterly: The Best of the First Ten Years, and elsewhere. Wendy's managing editor for Split Lip Magazine and associate prose editor for Fairy Tale Review. Wendy lives in Walla Walla, Washington, and online at wendyoleson.com, @weoleson, and @gr8winstoni.