JEREMY MAUSER is an MFA candidate in Creative Writing at the University of Alabama. His prose and poetry are featured or forthcoming in Sonora Review, Eggplant Emoji, and Does It Have Pockets, among other publications. He is an Assistant Fiction Editor at Black Warrior Review and a stand-up comic who can be found on Instagram @jeremymauserwrites and Bluesky @jeremymauser.bsky.social.
1. adjective
2. alcoholic beverage (plural)
3. body part (plural)
4. social media application that isn’t targeted toward your generation
5. name of the person you’re most likely to marry, even if it won’t happen for at least five more
years
6. something silly, like really, really silly
7. somewhere you could never afford to travel to during your childhood
8. U.S. state that villainizes queerness
9. another U.S. state that villainizes queerness
10. yet another U.S. state that villainizes queerness
11. adjective you used for 1.
12. color you associate with curiosity
13. name of a friend
14. adjective similar to 1. and 11., but a little more charged
15. same word as 1. and 11.—actually, no, the word that belongs here is “bisexual,” and if you
wrote something else for 1. and 11., you should change those to “bisexual”
16. or treat
17. past tense verb (but a verb with a negative connotation)
18. video game where you play guitar and feel like a hero
19. a movie where the black pearl is cursed and pirates are exploring the Caribbean
20. whole number between sixteen and eighteen
Today could be the day that I tell him I am (1) . It won’t be, but, sure, it could be, I guess. We meet at a bar—one where our parents always met in our youth, where he and I always joined and forged our own giggly conversations in the corner of the table—and here, as adults, we order two (2) , because we only talk intimately when liquor loosens our (3) . First, we talk about girls. He says he met someone on (4) , but it kinda fizzled out, y’know? I tell him that (5) and I are great, and I don’t elaborate. I could mention our recent argument about (6) , but I don’t feel like drawing more attention to it; I don’t want to say too much about the recent trip she and I took to (7) because he doesn’t travel much—or, no, actually, I don’t think he travels at all. Does he travel at all? I ask, and he lists the places where he wants to go: (8) , (9) , (10) . We sip our drinks as I wonder whether he’ll still want me to be his best man someday. We sip our drinks as I remind myself that something I wrote will be published soon, but I won’t advertise it online, in part because I don’t want him to read it. I tell myself that I need a couple more drinks in my system, then I’ll be ready to tell him I am (11) . Even though it’ll recontextualize the time I stared at him a little too long as he stood in his (12) underwear. Even though it’ll remind me of when he said we needed to confront (13) and ask whether he is (14) because we, in his words, “have the right to know.” I down those couple more drinks—believe me, I do—but they don’t make me want to tell him that I am (15) . No, they make me want to wrap my arm around his shoulder, bring the sides of our heads together, synchronize our laughter, and (16) myself into thinking the texture of our friendship hasn’t changed, or shifted, or rotted, or eroded, or (17) in the slightest since those days when we played (18) and watched (19) on repeat. Oh, I’m not one to reminisce, and I don’t want to be any younger, but I wish he and I could unearth our past selves and reanimate our adult bodies with the spirits we gained and lost at (20) years old. We can’t, though, I know we can’t, of course we can’t, so instead, we look at each other, smile as men do, and wrap our lips around the touchy subjects, the ones that, if uttered, would jeopardize whether we play Mad Libs again.
1. adjective
2. alcoholic beverage (plural)
3. body part (plural)
4. social media application that isn’t targeted toward your generation
5. name of the person you’re most likely to marry, even if it won’t happen for at least five more
years
6. something silly, like really, really silly
7. somewhere you could never afford to travel to during your childhood
8. U.S. state that villainizes queerness
9. another U.S. state that villainizes queerness
10. yet another U.S. state that villainizes queerness
11. adjective you used for 1.
12. color you associate with curiosity
13. name of a friend
14. adjective similar to 1. and 11., but a little more charged
15. same word as 1. and 11.—actually, no, the word that belongs here is “bisexual,” and if you
wrote something else for 1. and 11., you should change those to “bisexual”
16. or treat
17. past tense verb (but make it a verb with a negative connotation)
18. video game where you play guitar and it makes you feel like a hero
19. a movie where the black pearl is cursed and pirates are exploring the Caribbean
20. whole number between sixteen and eighteen
Today could be the day that I tell him I am (1) . It won’t be, but, sure, it could be, I guess. We meet at a bar—one where our parents always met in our youth, where he and I always joined and forged our own giggly conversations in the corner of the table—and here, as adults, we order two (2) , because we only talk intimately when liquor loosens our (3) . First, we talk about girls. He says he met someone on (4) , but it kinda fizzled out, y’know? I tell him that (5) and I are great, and I don’t elaborate. I could mention our recent argument about (6) , but I don’t feel like drawing more attention to it; I don’t want to say too much about the recent trip she and I took to (7) because he doesn’t travel much—or, no, actually, I don’t think he travels at all. Does he travel at all? I ask, and he lists the places where he wants to go: (8) , (9) , (10) . We sip our drinks as I wonder whether he’ll still want me to be his best man someday. We sip our drinks as I remind myself that something I wrote will be published soon, but I won’t advertise it online, in part because I don’t want him to read it. I tell myself that I need
a couple more drinks in my system, then I’ll be ready to tell him I am (11) . Even though it’ll recontextualize the time I stared at him a little too long as he stood in his (12) underwear. Even though it’ll remind me of when he said we needed to confront (13) and ask whether he is (14) because we, in his words, “have the right to know.” I down those couple more drinks—believe me, I do—but they don’t make me want to tell him that I am (15) . No, they make me want to wrap my arm around his shoulder, bring the sides of our heads together, synchronize our laughter, and (16) myself into thinking the texture of our friendship hasn’t changed, or shifted, or rotted, or eroded, or (17) in the slightest since those days when we played (18) and watched (19) on repeat. Oh, I’m not one to reminisce, and I don’t want to be any younger, but I wish he and I could unearth our past selves and reanimate our adult bodies with the spirits we gained and lost at (20) years old. We can’t, though, I know we can’t, of course we can’t, so instead, we look at each other, smile as men do, and wrap our lips around the touchy subjects, the ones that, if uttered, would jeopardize whether we play Mad Libs again.
Volume 16.1, winter 26
Jeremy Mauser
