by Megan Carlson

The sea monkeys were dead. The ones Dad’s girlfriend bought. An accident, Grandma said. The vacuum cleaner bumped the plastic tank, which toppled over, soaking the shag carpet with filmy water and translucent tendrils. I didn’t believe the story; The monkeys were marked the moment I unwrapped the box. Grandma didn’t like clutter, didn’t like new girlfriends, didn’t want pets, thought 11 too old for a birthday party, and considered stuffed animals “baby toys”— so much so that one day the whole menagerie disappeared, just like the sea monkeys and, later, the girlfriend.