Rant

of his black shoe in the crotch of my jeans. As he stomped the jeans and panties down around my socks and ankles, in that instant, I remembered how many folks were sat down to Christmas dinner at my house. Too many for my mother to ever miss me.
    Echo Lawrence: The Easter egg that Rant left for me, he’d written on it with white wax, so that when I soaked it in dye I could read his hidden message.
    Irene Casey: Worse than Basin Carlyle fouling you, nailing you too hard, down there with a dodgeball in phys ed. Worse than the cramps. That punching, pushing, shoving inside, it hurts. Gritty and grinding with dirty water, the ice, melted under me. That thin part of ice, turned to mud puddled under me.
    I pictured fabric, stuck in one place, stabbed again and again in a big, slow sewing machine.
    My arms wrapped tight as a baby or a mummy, just-born or dead-helpless, the man moved on top of me, faster, until he stopped, and every muscle and joint of him turned hard as stone, froze.
    Then all of him went loose, relaxed, but he didn’t let go. His fingers kept a hold of me.
    His heart slowed, and he said, “It didn’t happen, not yet. To be safe,” the man said, “we’ll need to go again.”
    Echo Lawrence: Instead of dye, I dropped the egg in a cup of coffee. After I drank the coffee, the egg sat there in the bottom of the paper cup, Rant’s words telling me: “In three days, I’ll return from the dead.” Some kind of Easter quote.
    Irene Casey: While the man waited, he sniffed his hand and said, “You smell just like your mama and grandma and great-grandma smelled at your age…”
    Nothing moved. Nothing barked.
    “Have this baby,” he whispered, his mouth on top of my eyes, his lips on my shut-tight eyelids, “and you’ll be the most famous mother in all of history…”
    Down there, he was moving again, pressing me into the ice, through the ice into the river, and he said, “You don’t have this baby and I’ll come back to make you have another…”
    From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms: If you must know, the hidden message written on my egg was “Fuck You.”
    Irene Casey: “Yes,” he said, his chin grinding whiskers against the side of my neck. He said, “Yes. Yeah. Oh yeah.” He said, “Please.”
    His hips bucked against me so hard, one crack, two, three lightning-bolted through the ice underneath. Water lapped up from under. White cracks, zigzagging toward shore.
    Shot Dunyun: I didn’t know why, but my egg said, “Green Taylor Simms.”
    Irene Casey: When he lifted up on his elbows, the man looked down and said, “You’re bleeding.”
    He looked at my hand, how inside my fist, from holding the coin so tight, I made the gold cut open my palm skin. The edges carved a perfect round scar, deeper at the top and bottom of the circle. The man pried my fingers back, and inside them, the gold coin looked like Christmas in my bright-red blood. Weeks into the new year, I’d have a purple bruise dated 1884.
    And the man told me, “Keep it. To pay for cleaning your sweater.”
    From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms: Until now, Party Crashing hadn’t a face, and it seems imprudent to give it one. There is no such phenomenon as “flashbacks.” No immortal “Historians” exist. Which is more likely—all this time-travel rubbish, or the fact that one young man went insane?
    To profess otherwise would be extremely reckless and irresponsible.
    Irene Casey: The man pulled up his pants, his thing still steaming with pee and blood. Still dripping sperms. He pulled up the zipper and looked his head around. Looking down at me, he said, “Stay until I’m gone.”
    And he walked upriver on the water, all the way to over the most far-off horizon.
    Tina Something: No, the real lie, the real liars, are Echo Lawrence and Shot Dunyun, because they know the truth but won’t tell. You can flashback in time and tinker with events. And every night, they still try.
    Irene Casey: My legs, open to the blue Christmas sky. My sweater was froze, stitched into the ice a bunch of places. Half sleepy from not breathing, my eyes watched the water bubble up through the cracks around me. My ears heard the whine and moan of the river pulling apart the broke pieces.
    The living, alive blood and piss of me, freezing. The man’s sperms. The river ice shifting, breaking up. Coming to life.
    Tina Something: That’s how most of the people in power have anticipated and profited from current events. It could be,