Jason Cahoon

Cautionary whispers slither through the sky. Speak to your healthcare provider if you get a lump or swelling in your neck, hoarseness, trouble swallowing, or shortness of breath. Despite the weather, I don’t feel any swelling, splitting, or leaking, nor do I see any discomfort in my wife. She looks pristine, rather; her brown curls drape over her purple sweater, her fun sweater, her favorite sweater. Here, at this tomato stand, amidst the seaside farmer’s market, waves crashing through the shimmer, the sweater is perfect. She cups a tomato between her hands, an arrest, a pledge, the heft of her plump faith in us, our unit, a strong family becoming. 

We were conceived as such at the marketing firm. Even then — long before we were animated, our many selves unraveled across a whiteboard — we heard our creators, felt the weight of their promises. Rejoice! Their voices rattle through us still, a chorus.  

We’re good people, my wife and I, guides toward a happier, healthier life, a life of Syn, an easy-use nicotine pouch that combats tobacco addiction in as little as two weeks.  We owe it all to Syn — two pulses beating through the vibrance. We carry them for a short while longer, until we cut to the next couple, the bearers of our truth, this breath, riding bikes. 

The Dissociation Lab

We’re photosynthesizing today — back to the basics, grounded in the earth and ninth-grade biology. I’m the deputy director of The Dissociation Lab. We work in a white walled studio, an office space stripped bare. It isn’t much at first glance, not until we get going at least. Right now, I’m wading through our garden, an inflated ball pit — the plastic tumbles and clacks with each step. I’m tending to my clients, watering some with my gooseneck can, canary yellow, whistling all the while. I stop only to slide the space heater closer to them (summer is fast approaching, can you believe it?). Personally, I prefer the winter, the long nights, our desk lamps lining the floorboards, the glow of many moons.  

Careful arrangement is critical in these affairs; we have some finicky plants among this bunch. I see this in Rick. He lies on his side, his left arm rooted deep into the soil, plastic spheres pressing into his jaw. That’s no place for Rick. I see that I’ve had it wrong all this time.  

I retreat to the utility closet and grab two ski poles. I plant the first pole beside Rick, thrusting it between the balls. When I plant the second pole, I puncture the air pocket at the base of our garden. Air sputters through the piercing. The plants stay rooted in the soil as it sinks; they descend at a glacial rate, offering ample time to adapt. I leave the pole in its place and work at uprooting Rick. He’s a big man and I feel the fullness of his weight as I pull him up. I keep at it though, and soon (just as I suspected) nature is on my side. He lightens more with each heave, his stubborn roots releasing from the soil. When I free Rick, I spread his limbs so that he stays buoyant, above the balls. Sure enough, his arms stretch toward the poles. He rises against the aluminum, curling around and between our new trellis. He’s a climber; how had I not seen it sooner?  

This is inspiring stuff, but our garden just became a whole lot more complex. And we aren’t done yet. I retrieve the synthetic Christmas tree from the back of the utility closet. At the garden, I kick the balls away with my legs and feet, making an opening to root the tree just behind the trellis. It casts a shadow over Rick; he slithers and twists further. Then, I fix a lamp to flood the shaded space — even shadow creatures need morning light on occasion. A few days pass; I flick the lights, the suns, the moons, on, off, on, off. A smirk breaks across Rick’s face — a blossoming, a real sight to see, a thought to think.