God, Two Girls by Adeena Reitberger art by Carrie Wells I'm in the bathtub and when I see the bat I scream and slam my head so hard against the porcelain rim I nearly knock myself out. In the yard, my sister sits in a lawn chair smoking pot and painting her nails. She nails her heel into the grass and yells through the open window, what, does the cat have your hoo-ha, what's the fucking racket in there? I'm trying not to look, but out of the corner of my eye, I see it. It's thrashing, I'm thrashing, thrashing and screaming, screaming for help until finally she appears in the doorway. I can barely see her because my eyes are opening and closing at the sight of it. You're bleeding, your head, she says. Why the hell are you flapping around like a mental patient? Patient is a word she is accustomed to. She's accustomed to doctors and psychiatrists and meds and diagnoses and stays in the hospital for overdoses, accidental or otherwise, and for this or for that. Kill it, I choke, bat, on the ceiling, get it, but I'm coughing and I can't make an intelligible sound. It sounds like an ocean. Sounds like the ocean waves pulling back and forth, throwing me. Once when she was six and I was nine we waded out into the Atlantic holding hands. It's gonna be okay, I said and then the waves came crashing down and swallowed her. And you think I'm crazy, she says and she laughs, you've lost your fucking mind. But then she sees it too and freezes and backs to the corner and starts screaming, kneeling on the floor, in the water that escaped the bathtub. My god, she says, oh my god. God, two girls, grown up, screaming bloody in the bathroom as this damn bat fights its way into the corner, getting tired, going nowhere. Read the interview. Adeena Reitberger was born in Baltimore and grew up on the outskirts of Washington, D.C. She received her MFA from Western Michigan University and currently teaches at Austin Community College. When she has time to let her mind wander she often wonders about how she ended up in Texas and why she prefers the company of animals. She has a story published in Nimrod International Journal and writes a weekly "Best of the Web" column for American Short Fiction. Carrie Wells is an artist working in the mediums of photography and sculpture. She earned her BFA in Studio Art from The University of Texas at Austin and continues to live and work in Austin, Texas. All content in SmokeLong Quarterly copyright 2003-2012 by its authors. Issue Thirty-One (March 28, 2011): Kapha by Joanne Avallon «» Wound Glue by Michael Cooper «» Natural by Julie Draper «» Everyday There is So Much about Elephants by Timothy Gager «» Renewables by Abe Gaustad «» We Walk Away, the Three of Us by Tracy Gonzalez «» Other Sons by Casey Hannan «» The Mystery of Water by Zin Kenter «» The Lives of Alligators by Robert Kloss «» A Turkey Baster Is Just Like a Penis by Rachel Levy «» Three Bodies by Mike Meginnis «» God, Two Girls by Adeena Reitberger «» Gestures by Megan Roberts «» Moons by Ethel Rohan «» The Man with the Ridiculously Huge Coupon by Rolli «» A Walk in the Woods by Robert Schladale «» The Way We Speak Now by Angi Becker Stevens «» Interviews: Joanne Avallon «» Michael Cooper «» Julie Draper «» Timothy Gager «» Abe Gaustad «» Tracy Gonzalez «» Casey Hannan «» Zin Kenter «» Robert Kloss «» Rachel Levy «» Mike Meginnis «» Adeena Reitberger «» Megan Roberts «» Ethel Rohan «» Rolli «» Robert Schladale «» Angi Becker Stevens «» Cover Art "Lady Gaga Dada" by Marty D. Ison «» Letter From the Editors Interested in subscribing to SmokeLong's weekly newsletter? Click here. An email should be created. Send it as is, and you'll be subscribed. If the link does not work for you, send an email to imailsrv@smokelong.com with Subscribe slq-info in the body of the email (no subject is necessary). You'll receive updates detailing the release of new issues, new reading periods, contests, etc. We do not make our mail list available to anyone else.