Amelia Gray - AM/PM

“Got it,” he said.

“I don’t think you do,” she said, hanging up.

This funny-smelling couch is a symbol of my love for you.

This mechanical litterbox is a symbol of my love for you.

This interesting pen is a symbol of my love for you.

This wooden floor is a symbol of my love for you.

This year of loneliness is a symbol of my love for you.

This concert tee is a symbol of my love for you.

This glass of water is a symbol of my love for you.

Emily picked up the violin and played. Her back pained her, had pained her all day, and now Martha’s violin only made it worse. She felt the sweet strains of paranoia drifting back. They told her to look over her shoulder, and when she did, they told her to check the lock on the door, and when she did that, they told her that her fears had meaning and depth, and that she was right to feel them. Each shadow meant something different and strange, an unfamiliar animal or a line of weapons. These visions were terrifying, but after they went away, she felt a strange kind of peace that those things existed in the world, that her world was powerful enough to conjure them. My world , she thought.

Many thanks are owed to Sam Axelrod, Justin Boyle, Zach Dodson, Jonathan Messinger, Stacey Swann, Michael Wolfe, and my parents. Grateful acknowledgment is additionally made to the editors of the publications in which these stories first appeared: American Short Fiction, Jettison Quarterly, The M Review, Take The Handle , and Wigleaf .

Amelia Gray is a writer living in Austin, TX. Her writing has appeared in The Onion, American Short Fiction, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, DIAGRAM , and Caketrain , among others. Her work has been chosen as the finalist for McSweeney’s Amanda Davis Highwire Contest and the DIAGRAM Innovative Fiction Contest. She received an MFA from Texas State University in San Marcos.