Everything Is So Political by Sandra McIntyre Page A

behind the site playing ironic children’s songs on all the strings that support his life. In reality, he knows, the author is an opportunist who has finally managed a highly visited website that will soon be useless if the strike is over. Miles senses regret in the Caps-locked headline.
    Sure enough the link to Metro Transit’s website confirms that Ben Gilson will recommend that the ATU agree to the deal in a vote tomorrow afternoon. Council will then ratify on Tuesday evening. Busses and ferries could be back in service as soon as Thursday.
    Miles imagines Theodore Kelley and Ben Gilson parting ways at the Holiday Inn. Somehow the mayor’s meekness physically debilitates Ben Gilson as they shake hands. The union boss slumps against a wall as the satisfied politician turns to exit. Before stepping into the automatic revolving doorway, Kelley looks over his shoulder and smiles without opening his mouth. Then he winks at Ben Gilson, so subtly that the slouching, younger man thinks he may have imagined it.
    March 12
    Miles’ second alarm sounds at 8 am. Sun shines through the vertical blinds, casting black stripes on the hardwood floor. Dust floats around his window frame in the magnification of the sunlight. He would prefer to imagine that he is not a dust-ridden slob, and that he sees photons, warming him to the idea of a new week.
    Miles sits up and places his bare feet on the floor. He feels like a ladybug ready to fly, beleaguered by numerous breezes that amount to nothing but will ruin her day. His eyes are all but closed when he raises the blinds and is swarmed by the irony of sunlight on a cold morning when it is almost spring. A teased, tired ladybug, he decides to open the window. He lets it all go.

Elephant Air
    Fran Kimmel
    S arah doesn’t call me Dad any more. Now I’m just Ivan. I call her from wherever I can find a phone that works. I cram myself into the booth outside an arena or in some dingy lobby and think about where we’ve just landed. Then I study the clocks on the yellow pages map and work backwards through the time zones to make sure it’s a decent hour. I take off my baseball cap and tuck in my shirt and breathe in and out before I dial her number. Hi sweetie, I say if she picks up, which is hit and miss: lately more miss. Just checking in, seeing how you doing. I say this every time. Hundreds of phone booths. Years worth of just checking in, seeing how she’s doing. Hello Ivan , when she discovers it’s me. What she really means: I was hoping for someone…substantial .
    This time she’s telling me about some video. “You’re on YouTube. Again. It’s a forty-seven-second clip. You’re hacking away at the back of her legs. I can’t tell if it’s Sassy or Bliss.”
    When she talks like this, I feel like she’s holding a blowtorch to the phone, singeing my cheek hairs. “How are you, Sarah?”
    â€œShe’s got the speckled ears. That’s Bliss, right?”
    Sometimes, on the good days, she gives me a few crumbs.
    â€œHow’s school?” I ask. “Must be exam time.”
    â€œYou were trying to make her turn on the stupid little bucket.”
    I take more slow breaths, in and out, in and out. “We’re coming. In August. It’s a few months away but I was hoping …” What was it, exactly, I was hoping?
    â€œIvan the Terrible. That’s what they’re calling you now. Want the link?”
    I’ve forgotten the words I rehearsed. “Come on, Sarah. I don’t know nothing about —”
    â€œYouTube, Ivan. It’s called YouTube.”
    All’s I know, they got it wrong.
    â€œThey got it wrong,” I say to her. I would never hurt Bliss. I would never hurt any of my girls.
    â€œIt’s vi-dee-oo, so they could hardly get it wrong. Someone just turns on the camera and you do what you do. You’ll be on there forever. You’re very photogenic. You